Sevenstorm

[Therin]

Prologue

"Wh-Who are you?"

"You've got friends down below, don't you? Ask them."

Clouds gathered above, racing to the will of the one beneath. Shadows vanished as the sky faded to jet black, and the sun was blotted out by bloated cumuli as far as the eye could see.

A sword gracefully cleared its sheath.

The floodgates of the swollen clouds finally burst, and rain sheeted down, obscuring the vision of the multitudes. They scurried in the streets, heads down, those with magic frantically trying to ward away the deluge, those without holding as cover the closest things to hand. Newspapers, briefcases, duffel bags, and various sundries were raised like offerings to placate the angry sky. The occasional umbrella went up as well, but few had expected rain today. None had expected the flood which now came down.

A terrified whimper escaped doomed lips.

Water ran in rivers down the sides of skyscrapers, while wind howled through the tunnel-like streets of the city. Papers were ripped from hands, and hair stood out horizontally from bowed heads as citizens scrambled for shelter within whatever buildings were nearest. Within minutes, the street was clear, an empty river of water.

Footsteps splashed calmly along Main Street, the east-west dividing line through the center of New Thera. South Fifty-Fourth loomed to the left and right. The footsteps continued their path. South Fifty-third. The footsteps remained. South Fifty-Second. Onward.

Water which flowed past one doorway behind acquired a small river of red.

Lightning crackled through the clouds high above, and the footsteps stopped. Dark, functional leather shoes. Waterproof. Loose pants of a deep, forest green, held up by a dark brown leather belt. A black sheath, decorated with fanciful swirls and cloudlike circles, with a matching hilt. Black dress shirt, buttoned to the neck. A black cloak, held by a brooch in the shape of a stylized bolt of lightning. Upturned face. Fiery red hair, and bright, intelligent teal eyes.

The river of red slowed to a trickle, and finally vanished altogether as the city was cleansed from above.

Terry Sevenstorm stared into the clouds, unblinking. A fat drop of rain slammed into his eye, and passed through, coming out the back of his head with nary a loss of speed, to shatter water into more water upon the dark Main Street. He was dry. The storm was his, and he was as much a part of it as it was of him. His eyes brightened, and a huge, blinding pillar of lightning slammed into the lightning rod of the tallest tower in the city, throwing off stray sparks and ionizing the air around it. Suddenly, he was there. The lightning cut off suddenly, leaving Terry standing alone, looking out over the rooftops of Thera. His eyes brightened farther, their teal glow spreading through his whole body, brightning to consume his form before it faded to reveal a small dragon, long of wing and teal of hide. Terry launched himself into the air and flew straight up into the center of his storm. Moments later, the rain ceased. The sky brightened. The clouds fled. The street dried quickly as people once again began to mob the streets, always dashing from one place to the next, never enough time in the day, must hurry or they might be late.

One door failed to open again that day.

In the afternoon news two days later, a headline appeared. A murder had been discovered. A man had been cut down in his apartment off Main Street. Law Enforcement refused to comment. And autopsy was being performed, and no news station had any information about the fallen individual.

----------

He touched down on the roof platform atop the Tower of Malady, deep in the impassable Norwind Mountains. They were so named for the sheer, howling gale that blew ceaselessly among their bare, snowless peaks. The glow enveloped his body once again, and soon his hands grasped the handle of a thick trap door of solid iron that rested impenetrably in the center of the Tower's crest. His cloak whipped to a frenzy by the wind around him, he heaved, but the door would not budge.

Clouds gathered. The sky darkened again, and rain began to slash down as Terry stepped into the center of the iron portal and stared deep into the clouds above. His eyes shone teal in the dimming light, darting about, searching...

Suddenly, lightning blasted down from the sky, coursing through Terry's body and slamming into the huge iron disk upon which he stood. The portal took this assault impassively. In a large room deep under the tower, a light bulb exploded, to much general outcry.

Soon enough, the porthole was raised, almost effortlessly, and a dark-haired, dark-skinned head popped out to look around. It recognized Sevenstorm, who was now relaxing against the crenellated outer wall of the roof platform beneath skies which were once again clear. The head opened its mouth, but before it could speak, Terry overrode it.

"You're slower than usual, Gatz. Is there a girl your size on the premises?"

"You're late, T." Gatz' voice was booming, deep, and terse. Not a man of many words was Gatz Grommel. Plenty of sounds, grunts, whistles, cries of dismay at Terry's latest foolery and the like, but few actual words. Terry sighed with dissappointment and slipped nimbly past his old friend and into the Tower of Malady. Gatz sighed more loudly and lowered himself down again under the creaking bulk of the iron porthole.

The Tower of Malady, which had once been very aptly named, was now home to thirteen noble men and women. It was the perfect hide-out, because its true brilliance lay not in the hundreds of feet of skilled stone masonry that looked imposingly out over the rest of the land, as most were led to believe, but beneath the edifice. The mountain upon which the Tower sat had been practically swiss cheesed with caverns and grottoes long ago. These had recently (Three hundred years, give or take a few, but geological time sees this in a very different way from the human sort.) been linked together by a network of tunnels and smaller passageways, the center of which lay directly beneath the edifice of the Tower.

The thirteen souls who resided here had recently adopted the collective title, Centurions of Justice. Terry Sevenstorm was their leader. The name, of course, had been his idea, and he embraced it and broadcast it wholeheartedly, conveniently failing to notice the somewhat less than enthusiastic reactions of the other twelve. They humored him, because that was just what you did with Terry. He was too implacably cheery for anything else.

He dropped nimbly into the central grotto beneath the tower, and turned left to make his way to the meeting hall, from whence he could dispense his briefing and make his way to more amusing diversions. Jenna Silmner, for example. However, three turns into the maze of tunnels, he encountered a face that was decidedly far from friendly. He spoke first.

"Whoops! Looks like I made a wrong turn. I'll just go back and correct myself, then, shall I?"

"Terry Sevenstorm, how nice of you to return to us. Yet again, I see that your timekeeping skills have not improved."

"No, Jack, but if I was on time you'd all kill me for an impostor anyway, so I've quit trying to be."

Jack Dawkins stepped forward, finally breaking a smile and embracing his old friend.
"And your wit is as sly as ever. Welcome home, T."
"Glad to be back, Jack. I've missed the old place." Terry replied, returning the embrace. They had shared much together, Jack and Terry, survived many fights together. Jack was the best friend Terry had ever had, and Jack returned the sentiment completely.

"So, how was New Thera?"

"Rainy." Terry stated with a laugh, "They've got a bit of nice scenery, but I wouldn't build a summer home there."

Jack rolled his eyes, "The mission, T."

"...What mission?"

"...Ter..."

"Dear Mod, Jack, you mean I was actually supposed to do something while I was there? I thought you all had decided to give me an impromptu vacation!"

"A thought which would have been dispelled with but a moment's rational consideration. Hard for you, Terry, I know, but not impossible."

"Meh. Thought just complicates things."

In response, Jack simply whacked the back of his friend's head. Hard.

"Ow! Yes, I killed him! No need to start paddling me, jeez, Jack!" Terry exclaimed, rubbing his head and wincing. Then he stopped, and his hand dropped to his side as his eyes softened. "Poor bastard didn't stand a chance, though...It was like they left him for me. Are you sure they don't know what we're up to?"

"Leader of the 'Centurions of Justice'", Jack began, pronouncing the name in mocking tones of pompous bravado, "And you don't even believe what we tell you? You won't get far, saving the world like that, Ter."

"Well, yeah, but..."

The two continued, conversing lightheartedly as they strode beneath the arched ceiling of the connecting tunnel, and navigated to the meeting hall.

In the central grotto, Gatz' huge form dropped to the ground with a thump, and turned right, taking a different route to the meeting hall.

--------

Solid, natural stone walls soared from the concave floor of the cave which served as the meeting hall, converging to a domed ceiling ten meters above the heads of Sevenstorm and his friend. There was a huge circular table, built to seat thirty in an age long past, its surface shining from age and use. It was so old that it had a sense of finality to it as it sat there in the center of the cave, solid in defiance to time and weather. Dawkins sat quietly at a chair, whilst behind him, Terry twiddled a few knobs on a device that had been built into the wall of the cave.

"Fellow Centurions, I have returned! Gather now in the hall of war and we shall disclose and review new developments to our conquest!" Terry replaced the amplifying device in its cradle, pleased with himself.

"Conquest?"

"Yes, Jack, conquest."

"Conquest?"

Terry sighed. "Jack, you're ruining my flow, here. How'm I supposed to sound bold and impressive when everyone else gets here if you ruin my flow?"

A new voice entered the room, "Bold and impressive? You? I'd bow before a mosquito before I called you bold and impressive." The person to whom the voice belonged had shoulder-length, raven black hair and deep brown eyes, which shone aggressively from a light-skinned face which was only just beginning to develop crow's feet at the corners of the eyes. Common traits, all; her uniqueness resided in the rest of her body, which was taut and hardened like that of a leopard. Her hands were hard and calloused, worn from the use of the weapons with which she trained. The voice itself was soft, lilting of tone and pitched in the mid-range. Terry Sevenstorm loved it. He had yet to find something he did not love about Jenna Silmner.

"What if I was a mosquito? Would you bow then, Ms. Silmner?" Terry spoke without turning.

"If you were a mosquito, you'd rule them all."

"And why is that, Jen?"

"Because you're more annoying than any mosquito could hope to be."

He turned, mimicking the impish smile that was on her face. "So maybe I can get under your skin in more ways than one, hmm?"

"I...what?"

"I win again! You'll figure it out eventually...Or maybe I'll have to show you later tonight. Aren't you even going to welcome me back?"

Realization dawned on Jenna's face, and she punched him hard in the ribs, smiling. "After that comment, no. And I'm not so sure I missed you anymore either. Prick." As Terry doubled over, wheezing, she turned around to the large form which had entered the room behind her and taken up silent residence leaning against the wall. "Gatz, would you be a dear and make an announcement that someone in this dump will actually listen to, please?"

Gatz nodded with an expression of martyrdom on his face and crossed the room to retrieve the amplifyer.

"Terry's back. Briefing in the meeting hall."

So I gathered. Only you have the unique ability to stir this much chaos amid the thoughts of our small group, and from that I deduced that you must, in fact, have returned. Shall I attend in body as well as mind?

Jack answered, as their leader was busy leaning against the wall, wheezing and clutching at his middle. He spoke to no one in particular, knowing that the watcher of minds would recieve his words. "Don't be lazy, Kite. You need the excercise."

And you force me to suffer to remain part of this crusade. A mental sigh, then, Very well. I shall be there shortly.

"As will I." Alerith Bluestar spoke with calm authority as she glided with stately grace across the threshold and into the room. She took a place at the huge table near the door, and proceeded to stare at, or rather, through, the wall. Jack hesitated. The twilight elemental had always unnerved him, with her quiet serenity and queenly self-assurance. That and the fact that she was barely visible under the artificial lighting fixtures that were embedded in the ceiling. Pale, icy blond hair framed a face as black as night, around eyes which matched her hair. Tonight she wore a gown of sky blue, complimenting the light color of her hair and eyes. The gown was perfectly solid, of course, but the woman beneath was nearly transparent in anything other than direct sun- or moon-light. Jack Dawkins was entranced by her ethereal beauty.

Terry, having finally regained his wind, took the chair opposite the door to the room, his old friend at his right, surveying his domain, so to speak, as he waited for the other eight to arrive.

Only two did.

One was Yoshi Hiromatsu, who strode in clad all in black, with the catlike grace of an assasin. He was Forcrad, a race of cat-featured humanoids who kept mostly to themselves in the depths of the Wilds. Not much was known about the Forcrad, aside from the fact that they were secretive, and deadly. Hiro himself knew as little as the rest of the world; he had been born mute. The Forcrad banished defective cubs, left them to die on the edges of the Wilds, where they were preyed upon by caninites and other scavengers.

However, he was not totally disabled. He had been extensively trained as an assassin, including the hand-gestures that were sometimes used as communication. Though silent, Hiromatsu could say what needed to be said, as long as there was someone around who could understand handtalk.

As he entered, his eyes quickly scanned the room, as they always did, for threats. His hands flashed quickly infront of his chest, indicating...

Terry looked at Hiromatsu with blank incomprehension. "Er...Jen, do you understand handtalk?"

She shrugged. "Sorry."

Terry looked about the room, recieving only blank looks from all who were there. No one knew handtalk. Hiro stopped gesticulating, dropped his hands, rolled his yellow eyes, and leaned against the wall to wait.

The other was Kite Marshall, whose emaciated neck was met by a steady sword as he started into the room.

Er... He looked to the side, along the blade, into gleaming, feral eyes, and turned quickly back to the rest of the room. I have been...asked...to relay the message that there are only the seven of us currently in residence. The other six are temporarily absent, gallavanting across the country on some emergency mission or other. I...did wonder...why it was so quiet.

The blade whipped to the side, and slid firmly into its sheath. Hiromatsu glided to a chair beside Alerith, while Kite made his way more slowly across the room. Only to be halted by a huge man. Kite only came to Gatz' waist as he stared upward.

"Food?"

Er...Haven't thought about it that much, really, been busy, you know, scouting the perimeter for hostile minds, that sort of thing. You know.

Gatz strode purposefully out of the room.

"He's right, you know, Kite. You don't start eating, you'll waste away to the point where a gust of wind will blow you through the air. Dah! Jen! What was that for!?"

Silmner spoke as she circled the table to retrieve the throwing knife which had mysteriously embedded itself an inch to the right of Terry's ear. "That was for a bad pun. One would think you would learn better, being around us so much."

Gatz returned, bearing a huge tray laden with all manner of edible flora, and laid it down before Marshall, who had seated himself across the table from Hiro, directly to Jack's right. Jenna, having retrieved her knife, sat two seats to Terry's left, and Gatz, as always, opted instead to lean silently against the wall beside the door.

"So, we're all here that are going to be here, then? Good. I hereby call to order this partial meeting of the Centurions of Justice! Don't look at me like that, Gatz, it makes me feel dirty. It's a good name, and you know it.

First order of business: Yoshi Hiromatsu, please tell me, using Kite as a translating interface, where the others have gone, and why."

----------

Lightning coursed across a cloudy night, revealing the world below for all to see. The doorguard jumped, then relaxed. There was no one there. He went back to his perusing of a local mag.

A flash, and thunder blasted directly overhead, jerking the doorguard violently out of his seat, directly into the low ceiling with a loud thump. The doorguard yelled his dismay, then froze, his hand halted in the act of rubbing the offended patch of head, his eyes riveted to something outside his hut, something he had seen, stalking through the blackness, illuminated in the burst of light. Lightning came again, revealing the form for sure now. A hood, pulled low to ward off the downpour. Or perhaps to obscure the face that was inside it. Cloak of indeterminate color, held tightly shut against the gale, the bottom flapping frenziedly about the legs.

The guard lowered the mask of his helmet, and stepped out into the night to confront the new visitor, tapping a red button on his way out.

"Halt, in the name of Lord Ambrosius, beknighted of the realm of King Trodivan, sworn to destroy all enemies thereof!"

"I have. I wish to speak with Lord Ambrosius." The voice was low, and had an aristocratic silkiness to its speech, like someone who spends his days crafting flowery prose, and his nights striving to recite said prose with just the right inflection. It was a voice that belied its owner's appearance: that of a vagrant, a penniless wanderer.

"Then I'm sorry,...uhhh..."

"Sir will do."

"-Sir, I'm sorry, but Lord Ambrosius is taking recline at this hour. Might I bother you to elaborate upon what purose brought you here at this time of night, while I send a member of the watch to beg permission of his lordship?" Asked the guard, tapping lightly on the side of his helmet to send the signal.

"You may not."

"Then I fear I shall have to examine you for weaponry, sir. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience."

"Very well."

The guardsman stepped forward, and his hands patted down the arms, sides, and legs of the visitor with practiced ease before moving up to cover the lower back and belly, finally moving up to the chest and shoulder blades. Clean. The guard let out a relieved breath. "You carry no weapon, sir."

"Obviously. Have you recieved word from his lordship yet?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I-...Yes I have."

"And?" Came the question from beneath the hood.

"I-I apologize, but I am instructed not to allow you entrance."

The visitor's right hand lifted reflexively, then dropped. It was not time yet. "I will see Lord Ambrosius tonight, be it by or without your leave. Step back, and have someone open the gate. Now."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, sir." The guard tapped his helmet again, and light sprang up, blasting the shadows away. A mage stood atop the wall at each side of the portcullis, hands outstretched and eminating blinding beams of light. The hood remained lowered, the face beneath lost even more in shadow than before. Between the guardmages, a score of archers stepped up, hidden in the backwash of their spotlights, and took aim at the visitor. The guardsman on the ground stepped forward bravely and reached up to throw back the opaque hood. His hand never made it halfway up.

In a burst of speed that came as a surprise following his unmoving posture through the entire conversation, the newcomer whipped his right hand up over his shoulder and gritted his teeth. A smooth stick of bone broke skin and thrust up behind his right shoulder. The archers finally let loose, sending twenty bolts streaking down at the hood-and-cloak. He grabbed the stick, and yanked it out and down while diving to the side. The guard screamed and staggered forward, clutching the bleeding stump that had once ended in a hand. Then his screams were silenced as his back was pincushioned with arrows, and he fell forward, eyes staring blankly at the rocky ground. The archers had almost reloaded when the lights went out and the two mages were hurled screaming, one after the other, off the outer wall. Then a short, high, mosquito-like whining was heard, before the archers tumbled from the wall in a wave, left to right. A single arrow was affixed to the chest of each.

Kane Kuneda sat in the hutch that had once been occupied by the pin-cushion guard. A small, hand-rolled cigarrette rested between his fingers. The storm, though violent, had almost passed, and now a mere drizzle fell from the sky. Stars were beginning to show through the clouds, and they dimly lit the weapon-encrusted cloak of the man who now walked up the path that had been trod by Kuneda not long before. Kane stood, and emerged from the hutch, flicking the smoldering butt of the cigarrette onto the body of one of the archers. The bone sword that he had pulled from his back now jutted from the ground before the twenty fallen bodies, a symbol of conquest. He would remove it on the way out, he knew it could not stay, but it would provide a nice touch while it was there. His eyes fixed on the other man.

"Taking your time, as usual, Jarreth," he said lightly.

"You can't rush the hunt, Kane," came the gruff reply as Jarreth LeGorne came to a stop before his friend and partner. "I believe that's twenty for me, and one for you."

Kane gave a wry smile. "Only because I let you do the planning."

Jarreth shrugged. The two kept up a friendly competition during each mission.

Though their means differed, Jarreth LeGorne and Kane Kuneda were very similar of mind. The only differences between the two, really, other than the physical differences that lie between any two men, were their weapons of choice, and their strategies at chess. Where Jarreth would sit for hours, planning fifteen or even twenty possible moves ahead, examining the game from all angles and possibilities before he reached out and made a move, Kane preferred to rush for the kill as quickly as possible, and take changes as they came. In the game, they were evenly matched, and their styles carried over into life. While Jarreth came festooned, weighted down till it was hard to move with a crossbow for any eventuality, Kane brought no weapons at all, save for the adaptable blades that were biologically produced by the line of glands that ran down his back.

"Well, shall we continue then?"

Jarreth nodded, and retrived a crossbow from beneath his cloak. Aiming high, he pulled the trigger, and a heavy, hooked bolt zipped up over the battlements of the wall, trailing a long section of woven cord. When the grapple found a solid perch, the cord hung limply just a foot above the ground. Kane went up first, quickly and recklessly hauling himself up the line. When he was up, Jarreth followed more circumspectly, pausing now and then to coil the line as he went. Then he reached the top and was hauled forcefully over the wall by his ally.

They were in.

-------------------

"They did WHAT!?"

-------------------

North and east, the storm was still in full force. Rain sluiced down out of the sky, obliterating a dirt road which ran over the Nen Highlands. Darren stood atop an outcropping, and surveyed his target beneath the strobe of lightning. The Great Nennan Wall snaked six thousand miles around the Highlands, currently the largest single structure ever to have been built. It shut the empire of Nen in, away from the influence of the outside world, kept Nennites in and most others out. It was claimed to be invincible, an everlasting testament to the ingenuity of man and to Nennan paranoia. It was said that this wall was impossible to bring down. That Nen would never see an outside army ever again. Darren didn't need to bring the whole thing down, though. He just had to cross it.

However, that would prove to be hard enough in itself for a lone man. For the wall was not just the stone structure. The stones in and of themselves were inconsequential in comparison to the real nature of the wall: A shield dome, a perfect hemisphere, six-thousand miles in circumference. It was said that not even air could penetrate the staggeringly huge construct. But there was a reason Darren had been chosen for this particular phase of the impromptu mission. Darrendorn did strange things with magic. Staring unblinkingly through the deluge, his eyes gleamed, the solid, perfect, unmarred orbs of the Deepenkind.

----------

"Grend."

----------

Rondia's twin castles, Nord and Sud Lufaydre, stood back to back, each glowering upon their respective domains. They had been built by the long-dead warrior king, Alanor The Dreadnaught, at the height of his power. He had split his still-growing domain right down the middle, from east to west, the North half to be ruled from Nord Lufaydre, and the South from Sud Lufaydre, by his twin sons, whose names are now forgotten, and who were killed in their early childhood, not many years later, along with their father, the Dreadnaught, and the rest of his family. The twin castles had become little more than a regional curiosity since then, until a politician, renowned as the first and only politician to posess a true sense of humor, had put a decree through the Rondian parliament to divide the region into two independent nationalities, due to the immense racial tension which had ravaged Rondia in those years. No one else noticed until the motion was already in effect that the line passed directly between Nord and Sud. Once the tensions had eased between North and South Rondia, the reunified parliament had abolished the dividing line, only to put it back again when the country was instantly flooded with protests. The Rondians loved their pointless little piece of humor. And so North and South Rondia remained, a glowing reminder of the little, and sometimes not-so-little things which make life bearable.

Directly beneath the castles, alarms blared, and soldiers flooded from their barracks and into the two dark courtyards. The night was cloudy and close, an unseasonably warm night for swampy Rondia. The outer gate guards were dead, on both sides of the single outer wall that emcompassed both castles. Nord's gate had been opened by the now-dead guards, while Sud's had died beforehand, and it's gate was shuddering under massive blows. Linden Falmen danced forward on light feet, his long staff a blur in expert hands. He whirled within a circle of soldiers, stepping aside from one blow, knocking the next away, bashing a few heads before they could even begin. And every time one of his feet touched the ground, they took him closer and closer to his destination. He could dodge guards and soldiers all night long, but he had a job to do, and he intended to do it.

Three hundred yards south, Sud Lufaydre's gate finally crashed to the ground, and promptly splintered. Across the wreckage pounded a large pair of boots, racing straight toward the castle doors. Soldiers who saw it coming milled frantically to get out of the way. Some managed it, some didn't. They weren't getting out of the way of the man, however, they were getting away from his sword. The man was almost secondary compared to the massive sword. Easily six or seven feet long, the thing looked like it had been carved, rather than forged, out of a solid plank of steel. The edge began at a sixty-degree angle at the very tip of the blade, which widened to probably a foot in width, before angling parallel and continuing the other four feet or so before coming to an abrupt halt, as though it had been longer and had been cut short to let the hilt continue alone for another foot or so. What made this blade unique, aside from its sheer size, was its hilt. By normal reckoning, the hilt for a blade of this size and style would have been about a foot long, but this particular hilt took it's given foot, and continued straight up the rear of the blade almost to the hilt, in the form of a grab-bar, which completely changed the way the blade would be wielded. One way to wield it was being shown now, as Marcus Delinius held it like a quarterstaff and charged forward, letting the blade's razor edge mow down everything in its path.

----------

"Jack, pull up a diagram on Job and then go prepare the Bird."

In times like these, Jack Dawkins was all business. He snapped off a salute, a crisp "Yes, sir.", and strode quickly over and began tapping keys on the control console that sat next to where Gatz had recently replaced the amplifying device. A three-dimensional map of the continent of Killika, which was home to Nen, The Wilds, and the Civilised Provinces, sprang into being in the air over the huge table of the meeting hall. It zeroed in on the Nennan Highlands, and Terrance Sevenstorm began to outline his rescue mission...

[Therin]

Edited it so it doesn't suck so badly anymore. Still unfinished, but comments are welcome.


Edit: And another slight update. I'm really looking for criticism on the dialogue in that last bit, because I'm never sure with dialogue. And other comments, too, of course, but mainly on the dialogue.

[Therin]

...And updated. Yet again. Comments? Anyone? Please? Is anyone even reading?

[Tobias]

dude, yo is impressed! Keep it up man! And i cant wait till hte next installment!!!!!

*Explodes*

That is all

[Nacht]

[Daijaga]

Man, the first part really sets you up to think SS is some kinda mysertious bad ass all the time. I really liked seeing the contrast afterward with his super friends.

I was impressed by the FMV like opening intro which was very capturing. The way you use analogies to describe things like the river-streets below sevenstorm, but then you concrete it with a something real, the people getting out their umbrellas and/or running for cover. It briefly sets up a simple back ground, but you dont spend too much time on it, a perfect mix.

All of those qualities are typical of your advanced style, though. What really captured me here was your use of dialogue, which you said you were concerned about. The pace was great and the chracters charming and quip. I really cant put a direct finger on it....but as an example, above Nacht quoted that her favorite part was in the dialogue too. It just seems appropriatly timed that she would say and and SS would get the rib jab. The chemistry is just there, I cant finger it. I was only briefly confused at the first excahnge between Slimner and Terry, but I think that was my own lapse, and not the writer's error. The set up for the "under the skin" joke was fun though.

"I win again! You'll figure it out eventually"

priceless ^_^

P.S. sorry, I couldnt find any bad parts to critisice just yet, >_<

[Therin]

Thanx, guys! I'm glad you like it ^_^

Anyway, uppendatten: I went back and gave Jenna Silmner a description, and then I introduced three new characters. We're up to seven out of thirteen, although I haven't properly introduced Jack Dawkins yet. But don't worry. You'll find out about him when it's time.

[Daijaga]

Yeah, I noticed that just after my review >_<. clever of you to just revise the original post in stead of tack on later.

Ill play your game, you rogue! *goes back to read the revised edition*

[starlitdancer]

I am impressed with how quickly you are able to capture the reader's attention. I really like your description of the "multitudes" in the fifth paragraph. Hopefully I can post more commentary soon.

Keep it up.

[Therin]

Update: Added a description for the meeting hall which I am only lukewarm about, but my inspiration is running on average instead of brilliant today. Got to the point where I was going to start Terry's debriefing, and realized I don't really have any idea yet what he actually did in New Thera. I'll figure that out later. Right now, I'm too tired from work. Enjoy!