, wait for it... HEART BREAKERS! [Episode 14 - Don't be so Cold Hearted]

[The Warden]

Hello children of the stars, this is Broke. N starting up a new subsidary of, wait for it... HEART BREAKERS! After the talk show closed down the producers wanted me to try a new direction for, wait for it... HEART BREAKERS! So, since I noticed a severe lack of Fan-Fiction Reviews after the tragic loss of our dear Crab Helmet, and because Roxas probably got bored with the idea, I decided to step in.
 
You'll laugh, you'll laugh again, quite possibly you may cry. I'm Broke. N and this is, wait for it... HEART BREAKERS! Now, let's go break a few hearts.

 
[spoiler=Season 1]
[spoiler=Episode 1 - Metal Gear Camellia]
Hey hey now, I’m your host Broke. N, and for the first episode of, wait for it… HEART BREAKERS! I will be reviewing AixDivadis’ Plant-Metal Duelist. From base reading I have seen it’s obviously a Yugioh fic, but it has in the title that it’s PG-13 for swearing… oh boy, this can only end well.

(Because they’re so short, I will review both the Prologue and First Chapter)

It was a bright, sunny and nearly cloudless day in the marvelous city-state of Tarot, the present center of magic, replacing the old Citadel of Endymion. Citizens here lived happy lives, made easy by magic and the loot obtained by the Spellbook Legions’ campaigns across the continent. Many would argue that it was a happiness built on the tragedy and sadness of others, but few dared or bothered to argue, as who would, living such a contented life?

I already have a very good idea of what this is an analogy for.

Pedestrians down in the bustling streets looked up in surprise as a indiscernible shape in the distance was hurtling through the sky at a remarkable speed.

Superman? Batman? The Winged Dragon of Ra?

“It’s coming this way!” cried a stall keeper worriedly. Whatever it was, there was always the possibility of it stealing or damaging his merchandise. He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun to try to make out what it was and to gauge the threat it may present.

Oh yes, because your wares are unequivocally more valuable than your life? Also, because Mugen wanted it SO much and I guess it‘s obligatory: My Cabbages!

“It’s a bird!” exclaimed a civilian.

“It’s a plane!” argued another.

“Baka!” said a third civilian smacking previous on the head. “It’s Van Hohenheim!”
As they looked closer, they realized it was true. The Commander of the Spellbook Armies was flying, his brown and green cloak billowing behind him.

Oh… yay. Japanese in an English fic, yay… Granted, for all intents and purposes, I would’ve used It’s a Gusto, It’s a Phantom Beastplane. They’d be much more relevant.

Also, I had a quick peer through Prophecies, and nothing matches up, so I assume this is an Original the Character right? For those like that, it helps to provide better descriptions in order for the reader to better visualize. I know sometimes less is more, but that won’t stop me from making fun of it.

“Hey, Hohenheim!” cried a random civilian cheerily, greeting the Spellbook Legion’s hero. However, Hohenheim was in a hurry and promptly ignored him, zooming right past, towards the Great Spellbook Tower at the center of the city, the Spellbook Legions’ headquarters.

Man that guy’s got a great amount of lung power, or Hohen has very good hearing. I mean, La Maison is massive, and assumably he’s at that height. So, that’s like, what? A hundred story building? Maybe bigger, so, yeah, I don’t think he ignored it, just more than likely didn’t hear it outright.

Hohenheim landed dramatically in front of the magnificent tower with a burst of wind to cushion his fall, blowing up dust and debris that buffeted those standing nearby. He proceeded to storm through the massive double doors to the tower.

For a race that is capable of flight, you’d think La Maison would have a couple of landing pads, or balconies.

[hr]

Three powerful mages sat around a marble table in the library on the highest floor of the Spellbook Tower, looking intently down at the cards on the table and appeared to be completely ignoring each other.

What does the area look like in there? I assume maybe it’s nice, but details please. Is it maybe Star Hall, Crescent or Helios? If you are making references they COULD be better explained at least.

Sitting upon a bejeweled golden throne with his back to the wall was an old, but powerfully built man with blond hair. He did not have a name, but he was referred to by all as Father, or by Hohenheim: the Homunculus.

A slight tip here, if you have a word after a colon, it must be capitalised, since you’re technically starting a new sentence. Also, again, details, I know they’re boring to write/read, but it helps to visualize. So for this moment, I’m going to assume he’s Fortune of Prophecy.

To the old man’s right was a purple haired woman dressed in white and green robes with a great fan-shaped collar framing her face, she was the Empress of Prophecy, Tris.

Trisket, the Empress of Prophecy ladies and gentlemen. Do hold your applause. Alright alright, it was smart here to use the OCG name for the Prophecy, but we will end up expecting it for the rest of them.

To the old man’s left was the Empress’s spouse, a middle-aged man with a black and gold coat over his purple robes, the Emperor of Prophecy, Empereur.

Empereur… the Emperor. God, the jokes will just write themselves on that one.

Across from the old man was a black-haired man dressed in elaborate black robes trimmed with gold with dull emeralds as decoration upon it, upon his brow was a gold, five-pronged crown marking him as the Hierophant of Prophecy, Hairon.

See prior statement, though you misspelled Heiron… wait, you said there were three great mages, but there’s four in the room? Father, Trisket, Emperoreroror, and Heironpleasegivemeamoreinterestingname. So, one of them must not be a powerful magician. That’s a low blow.

Despite that they were all around the same table, they each kept to their own, playing Solitaire and none of them bothered looking up as Hohenheim burst into the room. “Homunculus,” Hohenheim said with an edge in his voice. He stood in the doorway with a fierce look in his eyes.

Now, that comma isn’t really necessary, since Hogan didn’t follow up on his statement. Also, a fierce look in his eyes? How does he do that when they’re a rather luminescent pink? Though but man, these guys must be REALLY indifferent, or Hobo must burst into the room on a regular basis… Wait… solitaire?

After a moment, Father looked up from his game. “What is it?” he said innocently, though the look in his eyes revealed that he knew fully well what the cause was for Hohenheim’s rage.

Hmm, either the Father is going to be the greatest troll ever, or he’s just trying to be Dumbledore. Which means Hokeypokey is going to end up killing him. Also, said, really? There are more words you can use; inquired is very good here.

“You said that you would not march upon the Forest,” said Hohenheim. “And yet, you sent me off to fight the Dragon Kings so that in my absence you would do what you promised not to! Withdraw your forces at once!”

For what seems like a real outrage, Hoho is certainly taking it incredibly calmly. And, I assume the Dragon Kings are the E.Dragons right? So, for a Hero of their nation, he certainly seems more like a stick you point at people and beat them to death with.

“I will not,” said Father. His tone made it clear that there was no room for argument. “You know fully well that it is essential to unify all of clans.” Hohenheim’s fierce expression did not go away. “What is there? Ah, I remember, your whelp.” Father paused to think and looked down at his game.

Completely impassive is a tone now? Also, I am amazed that Hochey can actually display such raw emotion when he doesn’t have eyebrows… or a personality for that matter. Whelp? Honkytonk has a dragon? Why not keep it in La Maison?

Unify all the clans? Why the hell would the Spellbook Legion wanna do that? They seem more like the kind of people to sit around with their books and not be bothered doing anything else. To quote a wise man, they’re just “NEEEEEEEEEERRRRDDDDSSSSS!”

“Very well, I will give the order to keep your son safe at all costs... is that sufficient?” He looked at Hohenheim again. “What is this forest to you? It is only one amongst many. You’ve travelled the world, lived parts of your life over all sorts of places... is it that that is where you met your wife?”

Oh, it’s son of Original the Character; very well, I shall call him Semi-Original. I understand why Hochemein wouldn’t want to lose the forest, since there would be a lot of meaning to the place where he popped his Naturia Cherries.

Hohenheim did not respond.

“Trisha Elric... I thought she was merely a placeholder...” said Father. Hohenheim began to respond but Father cut him off. “What will you do, when you bring them both back?” Hohenheim’s eyes widened in rage, but before he would reply, Father continued. “What is a forest, a mere place, compared to those you love? Even if it is your son's home, is it so important?” asked Father. “We have already come so far, there is no backing down. For it to work, we must conquer everything.”

Elric, that sounds rather familiar, I wonder if she practised alchemy?

Why does the Father want this forest so damn much? He already said it’s one of many, so why is it so important to him? Plus, best pretense ever. We want to unify the world, by conquering it and pillaging everything. Don’t worry, everything will be better when you’re conquered, we’ll be unified, with us on top of course.

Hohenheim remained tense as he thought it through, he clenched and unclenched his fist, and then he closed his eyes to calm himself down. When he opened them again, he gave the Homunculus a contemptuous glare before departing the room, leaving the mages to their games of Solitaire.

Okay, so, Prologue done, and what do we know exactly? Well, we know the Spellbook Legions are complete asshats, Hohenheim has the personality of rice pudding, and their plans of unity involves conquering everything. In summation, Spellcasters are selfish jerks.
 
[hr]

Deep within the forest is a large clearing where magical Plants, Beasts and Winged Beasts of all shapes and sizes gather. Here is the forest’s legislature and here they decide the fate of the country, the forest’s next course of action as a whole. It is the heart of the forest’s activity and where the rulers of the forest dwelled.

Winged-Beasts? In the Forest? Well, small birds, but the Harpies and the Gustos, no, just, no. Also, where the hell are the Insects and the Beast-Warriors? Especially Insects, since they’re downright symbiotic with Plants. I should think that if there were a legislature, Insect Queen and Insect Princess would probably want it.

“I will not allow such a foolish expedition.” Sprouting from the center of a brilliant red giant camellia was a fierce but serene-looking woman, clad in a form-fitting gown of petals and leaves. With a perfectly chiselled face, she was considered a great beauty by many and even Sora admits that she's not too bad. Atop her head was a green and red crown which marked her as Princess Tytannial, the supreme ruler of the plants.

Sora? Oh boy, guess I’ll have to redact Semi-Original and just go with Gary-Stu the Write-in.

I don’t get how being a princess and having a crown makes you supreme ruler. Sure, she has the most ATK, but, she’s a princess, not a queen. Queen Nereia of SIlvercrown would be a more suitable supreme ruler. Plus, if it were Nereia, the attempt at a joke later on would’ve been improved with the subtle wit behind her.

The Princess wore an expression of slight disdain as she looked down upon the black-haired boy and his diminutive companions standing before her. There was a small hybrid plant that seemed to be part flower and part lion and stood defiantly with his armed crossed, and then there was a little weed that seemed to have a bomb for a head and there was a little greenish white puffball. This ragtag group were requesting her permission and aid for perhaps the most impossible mission she had ever heard.

I think slight disdain isn’t quite the right word to describe the look someone gives at someone who is completely wasting their time. Also, I find it hilarious how the Plant Engine appears to be the supporting cast.

The courtiers, a dazzling array of wondrous humanoid flora and strange beasts, whispered amongst each other, scornful giggles occasionally escaping from their inhuman mouths.

You know, again, wouldn’t some of the other royalty have a few things to say, rather than giggling like a gook? King of the Beasts might have a few things to sa- He doesn’t have lips, so let’s say jabber. Or Behemoth, or… I don’t think the W-B’s have much to say, since they wouldn’t have a supporting royal.

“Then, you are willing to submit to the Spellbook Legion’s tyranny?” asked Sora.

Legit question.

“You? The mighty Princess of Camellias? The ruler of plants? Are you relinquishing your hold over the forest to them? Are any of you?” The monarchs was unfazed. She glanced at him impassively before turning away, implying that he was beneath her notice and Sora pressed on. “Perhaps the rumors are true then. ‘Tytannial has gotten old’ they whisper. ‘Old... and cowardly. She hides, pissing herself in her glen, too scared to come out now.’” At this, the court went into an uproar, those in attendance spluttering to each other. Tytannial stared at him, eyes wide with outrage.

CAN she even come out? She lives in a flower, she can’t move unless her flower can move, so, it seems she’s stuck there not by choice. Now, a few wimpy curse words and THAT causes everyone to go ape, no pun intended Beasts. This court isn’t very flippant, it’s downright capricious.

“You shouldn’t remind a lady of her age,” whispered Dandylion to Sora.

Well, if he’s anything like his namesake, then his ability to deal with women is even less than his dueling skill.

“I don’t think that was the only, or bigger, problem there,” said Sora out of the corner of his mouth. He kept his gaze warily on the plant sovereign, who was still frozen with shock.

Oh come on, does everyone kiss her fragrant ass so much that she is completely incapable of handling an insult?

“Nah, you don’t understand. Woman are sensitive about their age, man. I bet the Princess looks in her mirror every morning for wrinkles,” replied the little flower. He wiggled his whiskers distastefully. “Pah, women. Is that why you go for the guys?”

Mirror? Wouldn’t she use a magic pool or something? Narrative causality demands that every forest always must contain at least one magic pool. Also, is Dandy bi-polar or something? Or was it Sora who said it?

Before Sora could refute the his friend’s words, one of Tytannial’s attendants finally spoke up. Lord Poison walked forwards, his claws bristling threateningly. “You dare insult Her Perennial Majesty? You are naught but a mere child, you are the child of the traitor, the very man who leads the Spellbook Legion!”

Lord Poison? That Lord Poison, the one who floats and has no legs? Also, since he’s a Plant, wouldn’t he have thorns, rather than claws? Also also, Hohenheim leads the Spellbook Legion? PA HA HA HA! The guy’s even more wooden THAN Lord Poison.

“‘Perennial’, huh? See? Lord Poison knows that--” Sora cut Dandylion off with a gesture. He straightened himself up, crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. “The truth can hurt like a b****, but it’s still the truth,” said Sora, coolly. “You can't judge someone just because their father was an a******, and doing so is, for lack of a better word, stupid. I'm not dad, I'm me."

Awww, he’s trying to sound tough by cursing, isn’t that precious? No, just no. You CANNOT force humour by using swear words, it’s bad humour that only really works if you can hear it verbally, rather than reading it. It’s all about the tone you need to hear.

Heh, ‘I’m me’. Yeah, maybe our little Gary-Stu might grow into an Original the Character… BA HA HA HA! No.

The Princess seemed to have regained her composure. “We know fully well that you seek the Spellbook Legion to find Hohenheim. This nonsense about taking them down is just a ruse, you seek support as the journey will be long and dangerous,” she said and as an afterthought, she added. “And perhaps you also seek to present him with a gift? A glorious sacrifice of plants.” The plants gasped at this shocking accusation and began to whisper again.

Well DURR, of course they’d want support for a dangerous undertaking. You don’t ally with a Dandylion, Spore and Lonefire for their ability to fight back. Of course, when I think about it, I already suspect later on Dandylion will get killed in a noble sacrifice, everyone cries, oh wait, the Fluff Tokens appear, being his happiness and anger/courage some crap like that, oh wait, they snuff it too. Oh wait, they find a Monster Reborn ankh so on and so forth.

“Well, s***, did she just hit the nail on the head or what?” commented Dandylion, dismayed.

Dandylion is suicidal, good for him.

“No, what the hell? Aren’t you on my side?” demanded Sora. “And, no! I’m not going to sacrifice you guys as a gift to my dad. I told you already, I am going to find out why he left us and I will force it out of him if I have to.”

I would, everyone seems just generally unlikeable in this world.

The court was still chattering on. Finally, Tytannial spoke, “Silence!” and everyone shut up. “My final answer is, and will remain, ‘No’.” At this, the onlookers smirked at Sora, taking this as if it were their personal triumph. They were fickle beings that enjoyed watching the suffering of others and were around solely because they could find entertainment here.

Sounds exactly like people who PLAYED the plant engine. About as unreasonable too.

Sora glared at Tytannial before swinging around dramatically and headed towards the exit. “C’mon, guys. Let’s go.” Dandylion, Lonefire and Spore looked at him, but remained on the spot.

Of course Lonefire would stay on the spot, they don‘t have legs.

“Where to?” asked Dandylion.

“We’re going without Tytannial’s help,” said Sora.

Let’s see, ragtag bunch of weaklings? Check. Doing it without help of the obvious unlikeable leader figure? Check. The hero is a hyperactive dumbass? Check. Okay, now we just need a heroic sacrifice and a villain turn-around/betrayal and I’ll win cliché bingo.

Dandylion stared at him. “Huh?”

“My friends, we are going to take down the Spellbook Legion on our own,” declared Sora. “Are you with me?”

The three little plants looked at each other and looked back. They replied unison. “Nah.”

Okay, so, as far as I can see, these three are the most intelligent beings on the planet.

[hr]

“C’mon guys! Yo! It’s going to be like, a grand adventure!” said Sora, walking after his friends as they proceeded on home. The trio walked on. “What the hell, guys?! Aren’t we friends?”

Friends is such a loose term, we prefer people who you won’t leave alone. Also, HOW, THE HELL, IS LONEFIRE MOVING?! I’m sorry, but it’s a plant eternally rooted to the ground, how is it up and moving about without dying?

“Friends?” Spore put on a contemplative expression and began thinking back, at this, Sora began to look rather worried, but before Spore said anything again, Sora hastily pulled them into a group hug.

“Don’t be silly, of course, we’re friends!” he said, putting on the most cheerful tone possible.

THE TOUCH, IT BURNS! Okay, I’ll stop that. Now Sora, please stop harassing the smartest people in this fic. They don’t want to commit suicide for your selfishness; let them go, please.

“Bromance, not romance, I hope...” said Dandylion.

Where did that come from?

“Uh, I liek b****es,” replied Sora.

“So he says...”

Was the 'liek' intentional, or just a mistype? Also, saying you like ‘b***hes’ is a very obvious sign of overcompensation, usually performed by homosexuals still in the closet, or stupid white rappers.

[hr]

“Are we really going to leave just like this?” asked Lonefire. They had already packed their stuff and were ready to go, but the little bomb/plant was having second thoughts. He, and Dandylion and Spore for that matter, had stayed in the forest all his life, this would be the first time he ventured out into the world.

When referring to multiple people, you have to express in the multiple, not singular. Their lives, not his life. Also, what kind of stuff would a bomb-plant even have? Fuse lengthener?

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you all,” said Sora. He pulled out his map. “See, I got this all planned out. I marked our path on the map. We’ll start heading in this direction and pass here hand--”

Take care of you all? And they STILL went along with his insanity? Sorry guys, I’m dropping you from smartest characters.

“But that’s...” interrupted Lonefire.

“Yeah, the Synchron Factory, but we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

I know Sora gets a hard-on for Quickdraw Synchros, but really Aix? Logically Tuners wouldn’t even exist in this world as Synchros are more or less their own living beings. I don’t see why Synchrons would be such a desperate ally since their Tuner status is revoked in a world like this.

Well, I suppose, if you think about it, Synchrons -> Warriors/Gardnas/Whatevers would make sense due to the non-generic nature, but it would be more of an evolution than Tuning. But I’d feel the generic ones that can’t be made sense of would be their own living beings.

[hr]
 
(Note: The green does not denote a new character, it's merely to prevent your eyes from melting.)

Okay, and with that, let’s analyse shall we? From the Prologue, we learn that the Spellbooks are the major villains, who are trying to unify the world by conquering it. An ambiguous figure is their leader, possibly the idealized version of the World Arcana, and they have a chunk of plywood as their hero. Said chunk of plywood has a son living in the forest currently being assaulted by his own legion because he went away to kill dragons. Which begs the question as to WHY the hell is his son there anyways? Any rational parent would want their children out of harms’ way, and what could be better than the hyper secure La Maison? Also, from what I also tell, the wife/mother appears to have suffered the usual case of death offscreen, unless proven otherwise.

Now, the hero character. He’s just a foul-mouthed little Gary Stu effectively. If no one really likes him, especially not the entire Court, why the hell did they keep him? Unless this Trisha is INCREDIBLY important to Tytannial, why the hell did she let this little anti-Christ run around and do whatever he wants? That’s not smart, at all. It’s idiocy brought on by what I assume is a strange combination of pity and malice. Actually, why don’t they imprison him? He’s the son of the hero of the greatest empire around! Hold him for ransom and watch Hohenheim squirm as he’s forced to choose between the empire and his spawn. It’d tear him apart and might actually force him to show an emotion.

The supporting cast, I pity them. They seem to have relatively high intelligence (for a while), moreso that they didn’t want to go along with the general insanity that is the anti-Christ. I still wonder how the hell Lonefire moves when he’s rooted to the ground. Dandylion is bi-polar, which will show after his heroic sacrifice and he spawns Fluff Tokens that each carry his only personality traits. Spore should’ve been a cute-mute, at least, I think he was. In all, I like them the most.

The High Court of La Maison, bland, bland bland. They sit around playing solitaire? Are you serious? They are the strongest magi around, and they sit around playing solitaire, instead of conquering stuff? How the hell are they winning when their high court is full of idiots? The Father is also trying to be wise, but really, he’s just a warmongering old tool.

The Plant Court… okay, I REALLY need to get this off my chest, TL;DR RANT INCOMING! Where, the HELL, ARE THE INSECTS!? They are literally the greatest force in the entire woods alongside the Plants, considering, if natural biology goes into accounts, they’re necessary for all of the Plants’ reproduction. Also, freaking seriously, you under supported the Royal Court. They have SO MANY beings that could be here, including two freaking Signer Dragons! Ancient Fairy Dragon and Black Rose Dragon are high supporters of the Forest, so, where are they? Also, Queen Angel of Roses, Rosaria and Gigaplant?! Gigaplant is one of the most prominent plants around.

Now, for the biggest turd. Insects have some of the strongest standing forces around, especially with the Inzektors. Their advanced weaponry and armour, plus superior numbers would allow them to overpower the Spellbook Legion, and let’s not forget that Insects have literal nukes hidden in their squalid little part of the forest. They have Perfectly-Ultimate Great Moths growing there daily. Send out like, fifty of them and see how the Legion enjoys being melted by a storm of acid spores, as well as the severe winds caused by their giant wings. Spellbooks of Power have got literally nothing on being crushed by giant Moths. So, seriously, aside from Hohenheim, there is NO ONE in the entire Spellbook Legion that should be able to even take on PUGMs.

Also, why weren’t the Naturias there? They have more than enough say for what they believe is right for the forest. I mean, Exterio is practically the god of Naturia. Also Leodrake, Beast, BARKION ARGH!

Okay, I’m done here.

Now, in my personal opinion, I feel the Prologue and First Chapter could be combined into one as a Prologue, as, I feel they’re too short otherwise. People like short reads, but a nice slab of meat is good for dinner.

*Sighs* Aside from some incredibly flimsy plot points and the fact that nearly everyone is unlikeable, I see potential. Wars are not uncommon, and I can clearly see it’s parodying the very nature of the Meta of now, that’s clever. I expect there will be the Merlantean combination some time later, no doubt resulting in the liberation of the Mermails from Poseidra.

Grammar is somewhat okay, with some minor mistakes that can cause confusion, or at times inflections. My biggest gripe is the continual use of ‘said’. Said is the most expressionless statement possible, and using it primarily causes your characters to have the emotional capacity of wood. Learn to increase your vocabulary in terms of speech expressions in order to round out your characters, or at least make them seem more like people than just cardboard cut-outs.

In all, I won’t give this a numerical score, it just annoys people. All I’ll say is that you can read it if you want, but don’t expect any kind of supreme wit, aside from maybe a little bit of subtle insight to the meta itself. This fic can either go terribly wrong, or horribly right though, but you might wanna start preparing the eulogies now.

I’m Broke. N, and this is, wait for it… HEART BREAKERS![/spoiler]
 
Episode 2 - Slim Dusty the Warrior
 
Episode 3 - Soul Bruthas
 
Episode 4 - Magic Is Gathering Hold Tight
 
Episode 5 - Wrist Cutting Imminent
 
Episode 6 - Portal Unto Negation
 
Episode 7 - The Offender
 
Episode 8 - Legend of the Tighty Whities
 
Episode 9 - 私はバカです糞人考えている私はとても素晴らしい使用することにより日本語タイトル
 
Episode 10 - Double the Freshness, Double the Fun!
 
Episode 11 - Dangerous 2x Heart Breaker Combo
 
Episode 12 - Count to 20 & DIE!
 
Episode 13 - Double impact![/spoiler]
 
 
[spoiler=Season 2]
Episode 14 - Don't be so Cold Hearted[/spoiler]

[Toffee.]

Absolutely beautiful, and as magical as the older interviews were, if not, more.
Wise man is obviously Homer, and I LOL'd@Gary growing into an original character.

[The Warden]

Well, I wouldn't say moreso, each of them had their own specific charms. Though, I am rather proud of a couple jokes.

[Thar]

I'm surprised that you haven't mentioned the fact that, time-wise, Sora was talking to plants when he said he liked "bitches." Wouldn't it have been more realistic if the plants questioned his sexual attraction to female dogs? Just a thought.

Good stuff, though. I don't often read fics or fic reviews, but it's a good pass time when there's nothing else to do.

[The Warden]

I've made it a point to not point out the obvious. Doing so is just fishing for jokes.

 

Though, to answer your question, I have no doubt the little s**t has been there for quite some time, so, Plants or not, they'd know what he was talking about.

[The Warden]

[spoiler=Episode 2 - Slim Dusty the Warrior]
Well, I know sometimes you can too early jump the shark, but hey, it’s better than jumping through hoops. I’m Broke. N, and today I decided to take a shot at a YCM favourite, Umbra, with his fic War in the Dustlands. Let’s dive right into the Prologue and see if it’s hip or hype. (I know Saber did a review, but screw him I’m doing one as well.)

If he had seen the man put his hand on his blade, Cripp might have been able to run away that night. He could have made it.

So, he saw the man, but didn’t see his arms move? I think the line should’ve been ‘If he had been to the Optometrists earlier that week, Cripp might have been able to run away that night”.

Now, he was lying in the doorway of the Laughing Calf Inn, trying his best to keep the wound in his gut closed while the stranger was... up there. He had heard screams coming from above for several hours now, almost all of which had turned into a gargle.

Inns are usually like, what, 20 rooms? So, if we assume that this Stranger doesn’t screw about and that each room has 1 or 2 people, that’s on average about 30 victims. So, if he’s quick, it would take about 40-50 minutes to kill them all, so either he’s a fan of torture, or Cripp has started to hallucinate from blood loss.

Speaking of which, Cripp has a gash in his abdomen, which, if we assume by how deadly this Stranger is, would be deep and long, as it was intended to be a killing blow. So, why didn’t Cripp bleed out 2 hours ago?

Cripp had thought of himself as a skilled swordfighter, one of the best in the village, but he had been no match for the pale-faced stranger that was working his way through their guests. As the blood started to soak his undershirt, memories were coming to him.

Not to be mean, but you’re dying dude; memories won’t mean jack once you’ve faded like the dim light bulb you are. (Village, so, yeah, small inn. It seriously wouldn’t take hours to cut through all the guests.) Wait a minute, you’ve been lying there, huge gash in your stomach for hours… and only NOW is it soaking your shirt? Is his blood thick like tar or something?

Old Man Barston, the innkeep, had taken Cripp in at the age of fourteen, when his mother died. His father had been a soldier, in service of King Malys the Just, and like many others he had perished in the War of the Snowdragon.

I guess they probably ran out of parchment when they were writing that kings’ name, considering a Just ruler wouldn’t really partake in war.

She used to say that he looked just like his father; the same brown hair and deep-set blue eyes.

Blue eyes, like limpid tears? (Low blow, I’m sorry. I just can’t resist that kind of thing.)

Cripp had been apprenticed to the town blacksmith then, a rough and hard-skinned man called Leonar. Without his mother to pay for the apprenticeship, Leonar had kicked him out. Barston took him in after that, and he had guarded the inn ever since.

Just so you know, you don’t pay for apprenticeships. Apprentices were aids and to some masters, servants to the people they were apprenticed to. And whilst they didn’t get payed as much, apprentices DID get payed for the work they put in. Not the other way around.

What a dick, seriously. ‘Oh sorry kid, your mom’s dead, so you’re fired.’

But not anymore. He coughed, his mouth tasting of blood. He had failed. Barston was dead, and all the serving girls were dead, too. Vellis the Wandering Bard had come down the Northroad and played for them that night, and now his lute lay on the floor, split in half much like its owner.

You really like that grotesque imagery, don’t you? Also… no, never mind. Must be my imagination on this one.

Lord Darle's son, Quentin, had come with a following of six men, all armed and armored. They had held out for a time, but not for long. The stranger had slain them all, with that wicked blade of his, and Cripp could do nothing but watch.

To quote Austin Powers: Why won’t you die?

Then, an idea struck him. It was madness, he knew that much, but if he was going to die either way, he might as well go down fighting. He dropped to one side, praying to Father Hathoryn that the stranger, in his killing, wouldn't hear him, and started to push himself across the floor.

No, seriously, why won’t you die? By now your stomach should be hanging past your knees and you could double dutch with your intestines.

Each burst of effort made his gut wrench, but he kept pushing forward. Every time the floorboards creaked, he paused, holding his breath, waiting for the stranger to come down the stairs and cut off his head like he'd done to poor Bessy, but there was nothing.

I know it’s a village, but would a Catherine hurt? Bessy is a name you give a cow… unless Bessy was a cow, then we have no problem.

With one hand on his chest, he reached out in front of him... and grabbed hold of something. The lute had been snapped in half, probably by the stranger's boot, right where the neck met the body, and the strings had been torn apart.

Wait wait wait, first you say the lute was split in half, now it was snapped in half? You gotta make up your mind on whether or not the Stranger cut or stomped it. Or was it another lute?

Careful not to make any noise, Cripp picked the neck up and held it by the head. It was no sword, but it would have to do. He had seen the Inquisitors kill a heretic in one stab with their stakes, and this was as close as he was going to get.

Inquisitors, no doubt in service of Mr. Just eh?

The broken side was very sharp indeed, and could serve as a weapon... if he had the chance to use it. He would only get one shot at killing the stranger, so he had to take him by surprise. With his new weapon in a firm grip, he started to crawl.

Grasp your stake tightly, for you are now Van Crippsen, the vampire slayer… yeah, that was lame. But seriously, for someone with a fatal injury this guy seems very immune to death.

He had tried not to look at the others, but he couldn't stop himself. The inn was usually full of guests on nights like these; not just locals, but travellers heading for the capital, traders from the Steppes, or the occasional nobleman. They had started to thin out after the Snowdragon died, but they would still come.

Once you built it… they will still come. Y’know, does this really warrant saying? Of course people would come, it’s a god damn inn, that’s the point. So, what kind of night is it? Do they get a stripper or something? Do the barmaids take a spin round the maypole?

For the best ale in the Dustlands or the smile of a pretty girl, the Laughing Calf was a sure stop for anyone coming down the road. Tonight had been no different. There'd been more than two dozen here tonight, that was for sure.

Two dozen people? Is that a record for the Laughing Calf? (Also, I highly doubt people come for the smile of a pretty girl, unless that’s innuendo.)

Cripp had never been much of a number person, but his mother had still told him to keep trying. Two dozen had seemed like a good place to stop, so he had, and that had been enough for him. He could make half a dozen swords in a week if he had the right materials, and he could make two dozen in a month. He had let more than two dozen people in here, and had thrown out more than two dozen people that had had a little too much to drink that night. Even then, there were still so many people here.

I just hope ‘keep trying’ wasn’t the last thing she said to him, granted, good last words. But he doesn’t seem like the best bouncer if he let that psycho Stranger in, surely the Laughing Calf has a door.

So, despite being an apprentice for a short while, and as a kid, he actually got the smarts to smith swords properly?

Two dozen on the floor that had been dancing, two dozen at the tables that had been drinking. Half a dozen at the bar, waiting for the old man to pour his finest tap, straight from the Greenward.

I think I’m not quite getting the scale of the inn, since it seems pretty capacious for a simple village inn.

Cripp had seen the old man's eyes shine when he talked about the breweries there, vast towers on mountainsides overlooking the lush forests. Cripp had never met a Lord Brewer, as the elven brewmasters called themselves, but to hear the old man tell the tale, they were legendary.

Elves really do have an obsession with nobility, but nice to see a human race that isn’t completely xenophobic.

Now, the old man was lying across the bar, his right arm cut clean off at the shoulder. When Cripp finally came to the stairs, his shirt was covered in blood and dirt. Most of it wasn't his own. He propped himself up against the wall, weapon in hand, and ready to leap. He cried, just a little, and waited.

My god, WHY WON’T YOU DIE?! Seriously, this guy is defying natural biology by continuing to live with such a dangerous wound. He’s probably lost so much blood vampires would look at him as Human Lite.

He wasn't sure how long it had been when the stairs started to creak. It had gotten cold already, that much he knew.

That’s the blood loss sweetie.

He'd managed to stop the bleeding from his guts by ripping his shirt apart, and the fireplace had died out a long time ago.

Ripping his shirt apart stops bleeding? And what the hell does the fireplace have to do with that?

Night had fallen, but it had already been late when the stranger arrived. It had been more than two dozen minutes since then, that was for sure, but beyond that it was hard to tell. The blood on his shirt had dried up, and his legs were sore, but he had to prepare himself. He would only get one chance.

Dozen seems to be a favourite word for Cripp, did Barston not teach him actual mathematics? For Gods sakes man, PICK AN ACTUAL NUMBER WILL YOU?!

Also, how is it stopped? He was bleeding for hours, he should be dead, that’s natural biology. You can’t just clot a large gash, that’s why stitches exist.

The stranger came down the stairs. He'd thrown away the brown leather coat he'd been wearing earlier, in favor of a rough-sewn white shirt. From where Cripp was, he could only see the man's right side, drenched entirely in blood. The blade in his hand was black as the night that surrounded them, dark enough to drain away what little starlight came in through the windows.

That character portrayal sounds very familiar.

Heartsteel, Cripp thought. His old master Leonar had talked about it once; many years ago, Lord Darle had asked for a blade for his son, who had just turned fifteen the day before.
“Had it been anyone else, I would've shoved him out the front door and turned 'im over to the Inquisitors. There's no stronger steel than heartsteel, son, and Lord Darle wanted the best of the best, but it can't be done. It's not blacksmithing, it's witchcraft, I say to you and hold me to it. Heartsteel is forged with the blood of unborn children, feasting on the very essence of their lives. Even a simple dagger needs one death.”
They had not talked about it ever again but his words had stuck in Cripp's mind. The stranger's blade was no dagger; it must have reached at least five feet from handle to point, and at least nine inches across. Cripp had seen larger men carry smaller blades in both hands, and yet the stranger carried his sword effortlessly in one hand, showing no effort or strain. Or remorse. Cripp could only see half of the stranger's face, but it seemed completely void of all expression or emotion.

Blood of unborn children? Well, better than souls or the tears of orphans I guess. Since abortion wouldn’t be too hard in a world with red hot pokers still around. (You know, it really bugs the crap outta me when people say things are forged from souls. How? Souls aren’t a natural resource they’re an idea. You‘d have an easier time forging things from leprechaun gold or fairy wings.)

Again, does it warrant saying that the Stranger has no remorse? To date he’s got a sword forged from about fifteen unborn babies, and a second floor full of dead people. It goes without saying.

Actually, while still on the subject, that Leonar is an idiot. Seriously, if even a Lord wanted a sword made from the blood of dead babies, I’d sure as hell hand him over to the Inquisitors.

The stranger reached the bottom of the stairs, and started heading for the door. Cripp readied himself as much as he could, with the broken lute in a firm grip in his right hand and his left at his gut. The familiar rattling of ringmail followed the stranger's every step, and the steel wristguards that poked out from his sleeves made it very clear that he was better protected than he seemed. Except for one place. Just where the shirt met the neck, the stranger's white hair parted to reveal an unprotected patch of skin.

Estuans interius, ira vehementi. Estuans interius, ira vehementi. Sephiroth! Sephiroth! Estuans interius, ira vehementi. Estuans interius, ira vehementi. Sephiroth! Sephiroth! *Turns off tape player* You know, for someone suffering major blood loss Cripp is certainly very lucid and aware.

That's where I have to strike. Cripp got onto his feet, and crouched in the shadow of the stairs.

Crouching uses the abdominal muscles Cripp.

He inched forward, lute in hand, ever getting closer to the stranger, who was standing perfectly still in the middle of the room with his back to him. For a second, Cripp thought the stranger had heard him, and that he'd turn around any second, with that black heartsteel blade of his ready to cut his head off, but so far he hadn't made a sound. They were less than two feet away from each other now. It's time. In a single movement, Cripp raised his weapon above his head and leaped.

You’d think a cold blooded killer would detect the scent of blood, and for someone who went on a rampage the floor is remarkably clean.

Other than the occasional fight at the bar, Cripp had never hurt anyone before, and even then he'd only used his fists. He knew how to swing a sword, and how to chop lumber with an axe, but he'd never used a weapon against someone else before.

First time for everything.

He didn't know what it was like to bury a blade in someone's throat, or a mace in their skull. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel when his fashioned stake made contact with the stranger's flesh, ever digging deeper. He didn't know if he should throw up when he heard the stranger's neck snap as the lute broke through it, but he felt like it. And when the wood broke through onto the other side, sending another spray of blood onto the floor, he wasn't sure if he could stand any longer.

Then kindly die like the amount of blood loss indicates you should.

He let go of his weapon and fell back, leaning against the stair's railings. He had done it. It was over. A relieved sigh slipped through his lips, and the sound of it – so simple, so safe – made him laugh. I don't have to hide, he thought. He could leave the inn now, and go away to wherever he wanted. Old Man Barston was dead and gone, and so was everyone else he'd ever known.

Oh, that’s a lovely sentiment. Yay! The man who very kindly took me in after my mother died and my douchebag master kicked me out is dead! I’M FREE! No, that’s a horrible sentiment and would you kindly die already.

Leonar, the blacksmith, had left town a few years back, and no one had heard from him ever since. Everyone else that mattered to him, or had mattered to him, was somewhere in this inn, drowning in a pool of their own blood. It was sad, yes, but in a way, he felt better than he ever had before. Until he heard the gargling, that was. He looked up, and instantly froze. Impossible.

Dude, you should be dead from blood loss right now and the inn floor is perfectly clean even after someone went on a killing spree. As it stands nothing is impossible.

The stranger was still standing. Perfectly upright, as if he didn't have a foot of lute right through his neck. The sword was still in his hand, and still at the ready. Cripp felt his fingers dig deeper and deeper into the railings. He didn't have his weapon anymore. Defenseless. Slowly but surely, the stranger turned his head, the bones cracking and breaking against the wood with every move. Cripp clearly heard it snap as it turned behind his shoulder, and it kept going. When it finally did come to a halt, the stranger's head was facing him, but the rest of his body wasn't.

We aren’t going to have an Exorcist moment are we?

The stranger raised his left hand to his throat, grabbed hold of the stake, and simply shoved. It flew out of his neck, arcing in the air, and landed on the floor behind him. Cripp could see straight through the hole it had left behind, and the flaps of flesh inside it that moved as the stranger breathed. Finally, he managed to speak.

Why did he shove? Wouldn’t it be a lot more comfortable to pull?

“What are you?”

 

Again, speaking requires a diaphragm to be functioning, and you have a gut gash. You should be in excruiating pain just trying to form an S.

The stranger smiled, an impossibly wide smile that unhinged his jaw. His voice came through the hole in his throat; the smile did not move.

“I am sorry, little Crippen, I truly am. But I do not speak with the dead, I only feast on them. Don't be mistaken, little sparrow. You are dead, and all of you Dustlanders are. The duke will soon march, and his shadows will come for you. War is coming, on the backs of death and destruction. A king will rise once more, from the depths of his grave.”

I am going to assume this guy is the personification of Death right? It would explain a large blade of heartsteel. But, if Cripp is already dead, then it explains why he’s still moving after so much blood loss.

And with two quick motions of the heartsteel blade, darkness fell upon Crippen, son of no one.

And he will not be missed, for all he loved… was gone.

[hr]

Analysis time. For off, the setting. Umbra has done quite well to slowy build up the world of Dustlands, with some various snippits of information. Such would of course include Heartsteel, the Elves and a little bit of history. Other than that, the Laughing Calf is clearly the place to be, and is mass-murderer approved.

I can’t do much of a character analysis, since the only surviving members are Leonar and the Stranger. Leonar is a bit of an asshat, I mean, seriously: My apprentices’ mother died, and he is now left with no home, no parents and no real life. My first option is to fire him of course. Because clearly that’s how a job works. The Stranger is, well, my little inserts explains entirely my feelings about him. As for Cripp… he became irredeemable. I mean, he has a tragic backstory, yeah, but then it crashed around him with that completely soulless ‘I’m free’ moment. I mean, who, the hell, thinks like that? ‘Oh, everyone I know and loved is dead, including the man who took me in, gave me a home and job when no one else would? AWESOME! I’m free now to do whatever the hell I want! Screw you guys, I’m going home.’ Frankly, I’m glad he’s dead and gone.

I am thinking a little about some of the build-up Umbra has made, but it’s made me question something: When will they become relevant? I understand no doubt the war in the Strangers’ Apotheosis will become relevant by Chapter 1, but things like Heartsteel, the Elves and the Strangers’ identity will probably only become relevant much further on. It makes me wonder if all the effort that went into them was really worth it.

Honestly, there’s not much else I can go on really, so here’s my final address: I don’t hate it. Umbra has put immense effort into it, which I congratulate him for. Granted, I do feel he was trying a bit to hard to gross the reader out with all that disturbing imagery, but I guess because I’m completely demented it breezed past me. Aside from a few typical clichés, (none of which really detracted from the story,) I can forsee a good deal of good things from the author, because it’s clear to me that he’s really putting his heart into this. Although personally, despite all that was going on; I just found it, well, boring.

In closing, read it if you want, or don’t. I’m Broke. N, and I have absolutely nothing amusing to say right now. Just like this prologue.[/spoiler]

[Umbra]

...you actually picked up on that, nice. Suffice to say that Cripp's wound isn't as fatal as it is made out to be, and for good reason. (Also, I just realized I've changed the king's name since writing the prologue; gonna have to fix that.)

 

Good criticism all around, and definitely things I can take to heart. I do have a tendency of drawing things out when I don't have to, it's a bad habit of mine and something I try to avoid. It is gory, yes, but I feel that it is necessary to portray the state of the country. I do expand on this in future chapters - and will do so even further later down the road - but the country has basically been in a state of civil unrest for the last seventeen years or so, ever since the War of the Snowdragon and the official downfall of the kingdom itself.

[The Warden]

I assumed it was fatal considering the Stranger seemed like the type to ensure it was 'one shot, one kill'.

[Super Chaos Sonic]

XD Oh wonderful, another set of fic reviews!

 

I enjoyed these, just as I enjoyed Roxas'. Keep these up Broken!! ^^

[The Warden]

I've decided never to review after work, it makes me incredibly bitter and it murks my judgment a little.
 
[spoiler=Episode 3 - Soul Bruthas]Contrivances people, Broke. N in another sample of me making fun of people for no real reason other than because I can. Today, I’m making fun of Thar, because that’s a rare occurrence eh? Eh? Well, let’s find out what a Soul Mage is, and I will be very disappointed if they’re not black and don’t rap.

It was midday in the city of Minneapolis. Rush hour had reached its valley point, but there was only less traffic to be stopped by crosswalks flooding with pedestrians. This time of day, the time where activity in the city flourished, was the worst possible time to kill a man.

Minneapolis, umm, well, yeah, it’s time for a Lifelink.

 

Rush hour is the worst time to kill a man? What, is there a good time to kill someone? Well, I’d fancy some time like 3 am, when no one’s around to listen as you ever so subtly sneak in through that window foolishly left open.

While the sun heated the rims of every block that made the city, the shadows hid in the alleyways within these blocks, hiding whatever secrets would be revealed by the light and brought to justice.

Trust me, whatever goes on in an American alleyway MUST be kept a secret to spare all of us horrible mental harm.

One alleyway held a stench of death that only lingered in the guilty conscience of a scraggly man in a black, torn-up spring hoodie; it was a strange color to be wearing during this time of the year let alone at the peak of noon. The man had his hands in his pockets, looking around in slight paranoia as he scaled the labyrinth of streets through the sea of wandering citizens.

Black is a strange colour to be wearing in regards to seasons? Sorry Thar, but you fail fashion forever. And slight paranoia isn’t quite what I’d be feeling after I murdered someone honestly.

But kudos to the guy for offing someone in the literal middle of the day.

“What a price for a simple favor,” the man mumbled to himself as he looked down to watch each step come after another, “do these so-called ‘gifted’ people even care about how valuable a life can be?” He felt the small box that he held in his pocket, reading the engraved brand of the product through his fingers like a blind man: KAY.

Gifted people don’t even care for the value of a gum drop, why would they think human life mattered?

KAY? That’s an awesome product title, so apathetic, it could almost be real.

“Every kiss begins with-” he sighed while holding back a sob, “God damn it! This man was gonna propose!” His complaints were getting suspiciously loud. He looked around but found no one paying any attention to him, and he continued in a zig-zag through the city until he had reached his destination: The Foshay Hotel.

Oh, lovely. He offed a guy, then stole his engagement ring. Are we supposed to treat this guy with sympathy or something?

I know it’s an American city, but I’d think people would happen to notice someone shouting about a proposal.

Back in the early days of the city, this hotel used to be the tallest building in Minneapolis. In a way, it still felt like it. The man loosened his collar as he entered the front doors. At first he had thought to ask the secretaries, sitting at the desks several meters from the doors, where to go.

Because this was clearly important to the story, and was an absolutely vital fact to share with us all. Please, go on and tell us how many windows this building has, or at least tell us if the secretaries are hot. A bountiful bosom at least adds something.

“Excuse me,” he said, resting an elbow on the desk as one of the secretaries looked up at him, “could you tell me where-”

At that point, the secretary took out the pepper spray and maced the creepy hobo who was leaning on her desk.

“Well, it took you long enough.” A voice in his head rang like he was inside a bell that was struck. He twitched in response, and regained calmness before smiling at the secretary, “…nevermind. I know where to go.”

Hearing voices in his head, and he wasn’t maced. You SURE this is America?

He staggered off towards the lounging area just off to the right of the doors. He tried to focus his mind on the person speaking through it, trying to communicate, “Where are we meeting? This is a big hotel.”

“The observation floor; the thirtieth.” The voice seemed a bit vain from the hidden sigh beforehand, “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should be able to find me simply by following your common senses.”

Oh yes, because being only told the venue but not whether or not you’re in the Naval Room or the Country Room is clearly his fault.

Course, his common sense is in desperate need of being tested because he’s obeying a voice in his head.

“Well excuse me for having a guilty conscience for killing a future marriage!” the man was speaking through his mind, so he was not worried of people growing attentive to him, “the object that I confiscated to pay the price for a stupid favor…”

“A wedding ring; yes, I know,” the voice echoed, “I will explain more when we meet face to face. Until then, keep your thoughts hidden, Damien.” The ringing in Damien’s head ceased, but the weight of his guilt still lingered on his shoulders. “What is he not telling me?” he murmured, “this is bullshit.”

Oh now, NOW it’s bullshit? It wasn’t bullshit that he’s being talked down to in his own mind? Or that he ended a potential marriage and chance for happiness for his own selfish needs? YES! CLEARLY BEING DENIED SOME MINOR INFORMATION IS THE PINNACLE OF BULLSHIT!!

The lines to the elevators stretched down the hallways. Damien saw no point in waiting for such a lazy mode of transportation up a hotel building, so he took the stairs. Set by set, he walked up while suppressing any strenuous effort to hurry. At last he reached the thirtieth floor, entering a large room with large windows revealing a vast view of the city.

Strenuous or not, even runners would be bladdered after ascending 30 flights of stairs.

Along those windows sat a man whose eyes were glued to this view. He had dirty-blonde hair that hung in a bowl cut just touching his ears. He wore a leather jacket that was unzipped to reveal a bright-orange t-shirt with a sky-blue lightning bolt symbol on it.

Oh my god…

“Does it normally take this long for someone to climb a few sets of stairs,” the man turned his head to meet Damien’s subtle approach, jokingly grinning but serious in context.

That’s contradictory… in context.

“I’m only human,” Damien sighed, partly in exhaustion, “So what now?”

“Don’t be too hasty, Damien,” the man scoffed, “I am only doing you a ‘simple favor’, remember?”

Damien sighed in humiliation, “I was exaggerating. You had me kill a man, for Christ sake.”

‘So what now?’ is exaggeration? And I would be hasty as f**k. If I were in a room with a dangerously insane man, I’d get in and out without even a goodbye kiss and some cab faire.

“Keep your voice down.” The man was stern in his words to settle Damien’s rant, “I understand how you feel, but now is not the time to point fingers. The task I appointed to you was a fair price for what you ask of me. A life for a life. Do you understand?”
Damien sighed again and nodded, “I understand. All I ask is for my wife to be alive again.”

This can ONLY end well. Defying God itself can only, end, well.

The man smiled and held out his hand, “The diamond.”

Damien pulled out the small box with KAY engraved on the top and tossed it to the man. The man whipped the box open to reveal the five-karat diamond ring inside; a look of satisfaction showed in his eyes, “the payment has been made.”

“Great. Now bring my wife back.”

The man stood, “What did I say about being hasty? What you are about to witness is beyond your comprehension. In order to truly understand what you are about to witness, you will have to open your mind. Empty it of all impure thoughts. You are about to witness what no ordinary human like yourself is allowed to witness.”
Damien raised a brow, “You’re confusing me. What am I about to witness?”

He just said why Damien: He’s about to perform an abomination that humans shouldn’t see because it’ll fry their fragile eggshell brains.

The man raised his hands up towards the ceiling, bending his arms from the elbows inward so his hands touched his temples. He kept strong eye-contact with Damien, whom stood paralyzed in confusion, “Empty your mind, Damien. I cannot take you where you need to go if you do not do so.”

So Damien can kill a man with no issue, but confusion renders him paralysed? Riddles must cause an aneurism.

Damien felt embarrassed. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breathes. One by one, he blurred out his thoughts until he reached a meditative state. He imagined being in a spa and entered a mode of relaxation. At this point, no thoughts disturbed his conscience.

Until he wondered if he has left the oven on.

“Open your eyes.”

Damien did so, and felt his body jolt violently. The entire building was shaking around him. He felt the need to panic, but was locked in a motionless, thoughtless state where the urge to duck and cover felt locked inside of him, unable to escape. In front of him, the man stood with the same gesture, keeping eye-contact as Damien felt the floor lift beneath him, getting higher and higher until only the sky was visible. Soon Damien could feel his paralysis gradually wane. He gasped as if he’d been dead and brought back to life miraculously. The room ceased to shake, and the man broke his gesture but was as calm as a tree in a slight breeze.

“How do you feel?” the man kept the same gaze on Damien.

Like I was totally mindf**ked? That this was really an incredibly bad idea?

“I…” Damien had the urge to panic, but to his surprise, he didn’t feel that anything had changed, “…I don’t know. What happened? I couldn’t move! I couldn’t think! I couldn’t breathe! I couldn’t even panic!” Damien caught himself and looked back at the other people in the room, but they paid no attention to him. “…those people… they didn’t even notice the room shaking?”

“No one notices it,” the man responded, “only those who are mentally connected to me and other people like me can feel the shift. You just witnessed what us Channelers call a ‘parallel shift.’”

“‘Parallel shift’? The hell is that?”

Well, a parallel shift is where you’re driving along the road, and then move into the opposite lane. They had to give it an exciting name for a very unexciting movement.

“A shift in time and space that transports those who are connected to it to a different parallel universe. Right now you are standing in the same spot at the same time you travelled, but in a different alternate universe where the world was affected by a different past decision.”

So, guess we all know what Channelers channel now. Don’t know? It’s Damiens favourite word.

Damien’s head started to hurt, “Okay, that’s… cool and all. But I still don’t understand.” He pointed at the people in the same room, “How can I still see them?”
“You are in what is called a ‘perspective void’, which makes every outside influence completely oblivious to the happenings of a parallel shift. You can still see them. You are still in the same room at the same time, but those people don’t even remember you walking into this room. You do not exist to them.”

What does shifting to a parallel universes have to do with souls anyways?

Damien walked over to the people, waving his hand in their face and snapping right next to their ears. The people still showed no hint of attention. “This is unreal,” Damien muffled half-excitedly, “like in a dream. I must be dreaming.”

Real mature Damien.

“You have every right to call this a dream,” the man declared, “but I assure you it is real. You are on the same world, just in a different universe. But I’m done wasting time explaining everything to you. A full understanding of a Channeler’s perspective in a Nullie’s mind such as your own will crush you.” Damien cleared his thought and walked away from the people, nodding in clarification that he wished to carry on with the favor at hand. The man gestured to a door along one of the walls, “this way.”

I think this stranger is being a bit of a big-head. The concept doesn’t sound that hard to grasp. He can use his mind to shift across parallel worlds, by merely changing his universal perspective. I don’t see how hard it would be to get that.

Damien reached for the door handle, but the man cut him off, “Please, allow me,” the man turned the knob and pushed the door open. As they both walked through, Damien felt blinded by the bright light that was the clouded sky around the area they stood. It looked and felt like the rooftop of a skyscraper that towered up beyond the clouds, but Damien’s ears did not pop from the height pressure.

“Be honored, Damien, for you are on the top of a Channel Tower.”

“Channel what?” Damien asked.

Channel tower Damien, pay attention. It’s where TV channels get broadcasted from.

“I explained to you how us Channelers are gifted, so to speak. Channelers harness the power to channel spiritual energy from the Spirit Realm. This realm lingers in the void of the plane of infinite universes. We are ‘gifted’ with the ability to suppress the reality-imploding cracks in the universe that lies dormant in our bodies. With this crack, the energy from the spiritual void flows in our existence. Every second of our lives unfolds as a regular second, but feels like an eternity. This ‘gift’ is but a curse that makes us Channelers who we are.”

Oh my god, why does everyone whine about the shitty aspects of their gifts all the time? Oh no, I’m gifted with a different variant of immortality! I MUST CUT MYSELF! You aren’t going to go Peter Parker on us will you?

“Great,” Damien acknowledged the story with a thumbs-up, “but what exactly is a Channel Tower?”

“Channel Towers are what binds us Channelers together. With these towers standing in various locations on this world, he can use them to tap into the combined powers of every Channeler in every universe. Think of it as our own personal internet.”

I would consider it more of a hive mind, since we all know that’s how it’s going to end up once a Channeler goes bad, which of course is GOING to happen.

“Seems legit. Now what about my wife?”

“This way.”

The man led Damien past a large blue crystal that stood in the center of the rooftop. It glowed and sparked with energy as it gave off a humming sound that rattled Damien’s skin as he passed by it. Around the crystal, the man walked up to a flat area raised by a few steps leading up to it. There appeared to be nothing.

Rattled his, skin? Umm, what now? Wouldn’t it make his skin tingle, or rattle his bones? How do you rattle skin?

The man raised his hands to the same gesture that brought Damien here. The raised flat unveiled what appeared to be an altar of white marble with a granite surface. Engraved on the side was a scripture of an unfamiliar language, but Damien assumed it had something to do with bringing back a life.

Durrr, I be caveman, durr. Show some god damn initiative Damien, or, as the stranger DID tell you, use your common sense.

Damien watched as the man took the ring he had confiscated out of the box and bring it towards the crystal. Standing several feet from it, the man flicked the diamond into the crystal with his thumb, summoning an explosion of energy that knocked Damien off his feet. The energy was being suppressed by the man’s gesture and it gathered into his palms. As the energy settled, Damien looked up at the man who was now glowing with energy and walking up to the altar. The man raised his hands, plams-up and level with his chest, chanting the spell:

“I, Burtelga, channel the spirits into unison to call upon the revival of a fallen body.”

What’s a plam?

Pfft, Burtelga? You should’ve stayed Stranger Burty.

After speaking, the Channeler named Burtelga cast his palms onto the granite of the altar’s surface. The spell took several seconds to cast, and minutes to unfold, but Damien looked upon the altar to see the body of his fallen wife laid before him. Burtelga stepped back to watch Damien’s wife take the first, violent breath of life after days of death. Tears fell as the two saw each other and embraced.

For someone that just, well, came back from the freaking dead, she certainly is taking this defilement of nature quite well.

Burtelga let the reunion sink in before approaching the couple, “It’s time we got back.” Damien nodded, but his wife looked at him in confusion. Damien said there’s no time to explain and carried her through the doorway that led back into the observation room. Burtelga closed the door behind him and met Damien’s tearful gaze.

“Thank you,” Damien happily sobbed, “for everything.”

Thank you for mocking me. Thank you for demanding me to steal a life for my selfish desires. Thank you for mindf**king me. Burtelga is truly a saint amongst angels.

Burtelga nodded and gestured to shift back to reality. The room shook once more and dropped to where it originally stood. The city could be seen from the windows instead of endless sky and clouds, and Damien’s wife remained asleep in his arms.

“Take her home,” Burtelga said, “let her rest for a while. She should be fully conscious by next morning.” With that, Damien nodded and took the elevator back down to the ground floor.

And screaming, since that feels like that general reaction one should give after becoming an abomination.

Burtelga stood there, content with his work but not all that satisfied with using the tower for a simple favor. He hardly knew the man outside of learning his history through his mind. The thought made him skeptical that the Spirit Realm would not be pleased with his actions and he would be put in a mental purgatory to be tried. He could feel the tension, but looked out the window into the city, eying a run-down building in the outskirts of the metropolis. He gestured with one hand this time instead of both, passing through the window towards the building like a spirit in the same seated position he was in. When he phased into the building, several other Channelers sat in an oval, looking at him as they expected his arrival.

So, why risk everything for someone you don’t even know? You already have a godlier than thou attitude, so why the hell should you even feel pity for a little pissant with a dead wife?

“You used a Channel Tower for a revival?” spat one of the Channelers who sat directly across from where Burtelga sat, “and you didn’t even know who it was or the guy you were doing it for?”

Burtelga had his forehead rest on his hand, “Cut me some slack. Unlike you guys, I can still feel the moral ambiguity of human life.”

“Those Nullies wouldn’t know a soul from the soles of their feet!” A slight chuckle followed the crude humor.

Cut me some slack? You committed what I assume was a major crime, and all you say is ‘cut me some slack’. Dude, you should be careful not to tread on glass right now. Especially since, as you made apparent, you’re the only one with a sense of human morales. They aught to be burning you at the stake right now.

Burtelga’s face cringed slightly, “That is a stereotype amongst the Channelers. Jumping to such conclusions based on such an assumption is ignorant even for you, Dezigan.”

Dezigan, oh this just gets better and better. Tell me: Will we met a Scurtizan? Or maybe a Nephleit?

Dezigan scoffed, waving his bright-blonde hair back behind his shoulders, “You should know by now, Burtelga, that we hold any relationships with Nullies strictly limited to their own understanding. You, however, dared to explain to him how our lives worked. That is incredibly foolish of you.”

Bringing closure is foolish? Are these guys so detracted from reality that they can’t- Okay, technically speaking they ARE detracted form reality, but still.

“He needed to understand. Otherwise, he would’ve panicked to the point where the neuralyzation would not fully affect the trauma. I risked ‘exposing’ our existence to conceal it. In a couple of minutes, he will be living happily with his wife without any knowledge of what happened. We remain non-existent.”

Dezigan leaned back, putting a bent knuckle on his chin in acknowledgement of Burtelga’s claim, “Well, Burtelga, I must say I’m impressed. But it was a risky move nonetheless. However, I will give you slack regardless. Sometimes I underestimate you.”

Seriously? He puts incalculable risk on their greatest secret and, he just- Ugh, my brain hurts.

Another Channeler spoke out, “but what about the Oracle? What will she have to say about it?”

Dezigan frowned, “Good point, Flaome. The Oracle sees all. Any speck of imbalance in the plane of existence will cause karma to strike where the scale was tipped.” He stood up and walked towards the window, looking out at the flourishing city. “In the meantime, I want all of you to be cautious. I sense a storm coming, and it’s up to us to balance the damage out amongst this world. The Oracle is counting on us.”

There wouldn’t be karma. A life was taken for another life, scales balanced, karma prevented.

Burtelga and the rest of the Channelers could feel it too. A protest was taking place near the capital, and violence was about to break out. “Burtelga,” Dezigan announced, “you’re task is to account for all the deaths that will happen at the state capital. Report them to us and we will meet you there during the aftermath.”

Burtelga nodded, tapped his head with two fingers, and drifted through the wall towards the capital. Dezigan sighed, “Be careful.”

There’s a protest going on now? When was that commented on? When was that even referenced? It’s really not good to introduce an important plot point as merely a castaway comment.

[hr]

Okay, to analysis. Setting-wise, the real world isn’t really considered anything new. Though choosing it can be considered an attempt to make our drab little sphere actually important. Spirit Worlds aren’t anything really new either, except for Channel Towers, haven’t seen those before.

Characters, I don’t think we’ll see Damien again, so I won’t bother with him, so, it’s only up to the 3 Channelers. For the general Channelers, they seem like, what’s the word? Well, whatever the word is, they’re the type of people that ask Sheldon Cooper for advice on human relations; considering human relations are as alien to them as their bastard existences. A curse? What the hell are they whining about? They can bring dead people back to life and cross across multiple parallel worlds at will. How the f**k could that even be considered a curse? EVERYTHING has a general negative to it, what gives them the right to b***h about it? What makes their problems so god damn important they have the right to whine? Grow some human balls you little pussies.

Burtelga, in general, is just, an idiot really. He got way too much lee-way for his actions, seriously. He wasted valuable time and resources, including the life of a man who could have been the whole world to a woman (or a man, you never know), for someone he doesn’t know, just because he felt pity. Pity motivated him to break the rules, and that’s just so god damn stupid. Dezigqn, we got nothing from him other than the annoying official trope, who will more than likely either end up as: The Dragon, the Rival, the Asshole Boss or the Annoying Best Friend. Flaome is still a plank.

The story in general, well, we got nothing really on the Channelers. We learned absolutely nothing in regards to how or why they exist. All we got is that they’re a bunch of douches that think they’re better than everyone else. How or why such a race continues to exist without being burned like witches is a real mystery. All I found honestly cool were the Towers, that’s about it really.

Sighe, I dunno really. It has some general aspects of coolness, but the general fact that the major characters are again, unlikeable kinda kills it. Burt did what he did out of pity, that’s it. Other than that, why should we care for your story Thar? You really need to drop the idiot ball here, and justify why these assholes deserve to exist.

I’d say avoid this for a little while until it can actually step up. I’m Broke. N, and I’m DAMN grateful for being human.[/spoiler]

[Thar]

I won't deny that my stories are bland and floating to say the least. The idea came from a dream I had one night, and as much as I tried to develop roots for the channelers, their existence felt rather unicorn-esque to be considered idealistic in the real-world setting. Nonetheless, I expected a skin-peeling review and every point mentioned made perfect sense. Thanks!

[The Warden]

Eh, I was a little too vicious honestly. But the Channelers seem like the sort of people that chew scenery, just like Adam Sandler and Robin Williams.

[The Warden]

[spoiler=Episode 4 - Magic Is Gathering Hold Tight]Herp a derpa, derp deh derp, teh tiddly tum. Flerp tee terpy Might and Magic gerp a herp tum ti terpy.

Gerp da derp, de derp di derp di derp.

Chapter 1: Secrets as told by Timaeus
I sit in the creaky, wooden chair. My back is hunched over the desk as I pour over the book in front of me. The room is lit by a single, oil lamp. There are no windows and only 1 door. There is nothing in the room except the chair, desk, and a bookshelf on the opposite end. It isn’t much, but it is all I can have right now.

It’s been a hard winter, the crops wouldn’t grow, the cow wouldn’t provide milk. These are hard times, and they only get harder, as the rent’s due soon, I don‘t know how I’ll make ends meet.

If someone were to find out what I was doing, I would be sent to jail, at best, and be burned at the stake, at worst. Logic tells me to stop, but my heart drives me on. This is a part of who I am, it is a part of who I will always be. Unfortunately, most people will never understand this and that is why I must keep what I am a secret.

I- I know it’s wrong, but it just calls to me so. Sewing, it’s so beautiful. The true passion that lies within the art, it calls to me. The beauty of crochet, the orgasmic power of needlework. It’s so wrong, but, it’s just so right.

It is the dead of night, or so I assume. When I entered this room it was, but without away to see the outside, I can’t know for sure. I am forced to work at night, and put on a guise during the day. I must act as two different people, but it is a burden I am willing to bear.

Without away? Out away? Home & Away. I HATE that show.

What the hell is this guy on anyways? Why does he need to be two people? Is it so impossible for him to act as if he’s not doing his disgusting and depraved thing?

I close the large book in front of me, letting out a large yawn. I love what I do, but the hours are killer. Picking up the book, I place it on the bookshelf. I walk up the stairs, leading me to what seems to be a solid wall. I run my hand along the side until I find what I am looking for. There is a small button. I press it.

*Legend of Zelda Secret Room music* You could improve the diction a little, so it doesn’t feel like this is written by a five-year old. Consider something like “Retrieving the book, I returned it to its space.”

The sound of twirling gears and contraptions whine quietly as the false wall opens up. Stepping through the now empty space, I find myself in a cramped compartment. The false wall closes behind me. I take a deep breath. I must now ready myself to be someone I am not. Having steadied my nerves, I push forward, opening a door. Light from a lit fire place spills over me as I find myself in my bedroom. I turn around to inspect the closet I just came out of. I look at it closely; to make sure the false back has closed securely. It has.

It has closed, it has. Little heavy on the periods aren’t you? Consider a comma every so often, as well as using words that can join sentences together.

Also, I like the aptness of the secret room being through a closet.

I close the door of the closet and walk to the closed window in the bedroom. Peaking out the shutter, I can see that it is, as I suspected, still night. That is good. If I had been absorbed in my reading for that long, tomorrow would be indeed a challenging day. Letting out another yawn, I get ready for bed.

I just need to ‘cleanse’ a few things out first, for nobody must know what happens beyond that secret door.

I quickly undress down to my undergarments, and throw the dirtied clothes into a pile of clothes that need to be washed. Without further ado, I climb into my bed to catch a few hours of sleep.

Aren’t the above supposed to be what getting ready for bed means? Does it demand saying or are you just trying to pad this out?

[hr]

Sunlight strikes my skin and I happily take in the fresh morning air. The air is crisp, signaling that fall will soon turn into winter. I stand on the veranda of my house, watching the rest of Talonhold wake up for the day. Everything is so peaceful. Stall owners make their way out to their stalls, opening them for business. Shopkeepers open their doors, inviting potential customers in. A few early risers make their way through the cobbled streets.

Dear god does his inner monologue ever shut up? It seems to enjoy explaining every single detail of his miserable life. Can we get the ball rolling now, instead of just sitting on it for a few hours?

Among the normal residents of the city, there are also the guards keeping a watchful eye on the passer-by. Every time one passes me, I instantly tense up. Of course, there is no way they could know, but just the thought fills me with horror. I watch a guard pass, his round shield at his side and his sword sheathed at his hip.

So, he’s supposed to be two different people, but he’s still concerned about his sinful ways? Isn’t he supposed to be mentally blocking that sort of stuff if he wants to be two different people? Or is he just unable to understand the idea behind being two people and just holding onto a big fat dirty secret?

I shake my head, reassuring myself that today will be like every other. That nothing is going to happen. It is the same thing I tell myself every morning, but it doesn’t stop the worry and tension that knots up in my stomach.

Because no one must ever know that I made my outfit in the dead of night. The shame, it would kill me.

Stepping off my front porch, I make my way through the winding streets of Talonhold. Shop owners call out to me. Couriers run by, already on the job. Living on the main street of Talonhold has its advantages. Sure it is busy. But it is a quick walk to work each morning. I make my way up the numerous stairs that lead to the capitol building of Talonhold. The Castle of Baroness Ellis.

My point on commas and other symbols still apply here, since a colon would be more welcome before the last line. By the way, what’s a capitol?

Coming up to the huge double doors that lead into my office, I find myself in the presence of two guards, standing on either side of the entrance. I simply nod at them. Nodding back they allow me entrance to the castle. Having worked in the castle for the past 3 years, I am a common face.

He gets two guards for his own office? Luckeh.

The inside of the castle never ceases to amaze me. The main dining hall is huge, consisting of two long tables, always equipped with dozens of plates and forks, and steaming dishes of food. A few servants shuffle about the room, picking up the dirtied plates of the early breakfast goers that had already eaten and left.

Do they have communal meals, so the Baron just invite anyone? Will this guy’s inner monologue explain to us about the various types of cutlery that seem just so damn important?

Watching over the dining room is a large, stone throne. To either side of the throne is a guard, each equipped with several weapons and emblazoned with a symbol of a manticore, marking them as part of the Baroness’ elite warriors known as the Man-Eaters. The throne is empty. Which isn’t uncommon. Baroness Ellis likes to sleep in and will probably not be seen until noon. On both sides of the throne there are hallways leading to a room. On the left is a kitchen, bustling with people and noise. On the right is a library. My second home.

Manticore, not a half bad idea. Granted, my choice would be a chimera, seems more meaningful. Also, please tell me those guards are female, please tell me they are. The jokes would literally write themselves for as long as would be necessary.

I walk into the library, unlocking the doors. Seeing as I am the one and only librarian, I am expected to open and close the library. There are large windows in the library that let in light. Rows and rows of book shelves occupy the inside of the room. This is my life. I am Timaeus Allen. Librarian. But, I am also Timaeus Allen. Magician.

Windows, let, in, LIGHT?! NO WAY! I just, that is f**king amazing. Windows letting in light, that’s just damn unheard of. Also, that sounds like a pretty damn big library, why the hell would it only have one librarian? Is the Baron that stingy, or is everyone in Talonhold just a complete hick?

Magician? Seriously? That’s his dirty little secret? What a let down, seriously. For that matter, if you’re a magician, you could’ve subjugated the town long ago. Mere swords don’t exactly stand up to a fireball to the face.

[hr]

Okay, analysis time. Talonhold in general seems like a pretty backwards place, so I’m not going to expect much from it until it manages to squeeze out a Leonardo Da Vinci or someone of the like. Sounds like a pretty hick place, with the usual fair of shop keepers, more guards than civilians and a lazy-ass ruler. So, yeah, great world I guess.

Timaeus, does his inner monologue EVER shut up? It literally feels like it has to explain every single portion of the man’s miserable life. Also, I did feel let down by his little revelation. Magic being banned isn’t exactly a rarity and could be expressed practically at the start, who know, it might’ve built up sympathy for this twerp. I’m telling you this because for a bombshell, it was weaker than c4’s reviewing ability.

That’s effectively it for real analysis. The fic was there and gone so quickly that there isn’t anything else I can even say about it. I could do the next chapter as well, but I don’t feel like subjecting myself further to this fic. When you get down to it, I was never a big fan of first person storytelling. It’s annoying having to follow one person at a time and having to understand everything by only their viewpoint. It also gets pretty boring when they explain every single insignificant detail in their life.

I’m Broke. N, and derp de derp, teh teedly tum.[/spoiler]

[L0SS]

I'll stick up for him and say that as it goes on, we are actually told the story from the perspective of other characters as well. I can't tell how much of this is sarcastic, but you seem to have a thing against any kind of description regarding the setting. For me, the main part of a story is the atmosphere that is created; above all else. If you only told the detail you needed to tell, we'd have far less interesting stories. But again, that may be sarcasm.

[The Warden]

I was never a fan of first-person writing. It doesn't do it for me in since usually we're stuck in the perspective of a twerp or a plank.

 

It's not the setting itself I dislike, but the way he kept presenting it. Constant use of periods where they weren't necessary is pretty tiring at best, and a lack of different descriptive text only compiles it. I am sure it has potential, but he needs to improve his descriptive writing beyond basic in order to take full advantage of it.

 

I'm saying this because the average reader is exceptionally fickle; anything they dislike about it is remembered and adds to a pile. Eventually the pile gets so big they become tired of the text and won't read it further out of boredom. This is effectively the basis of the YCM readerbase, as most people don't read deeply into the text. To summate things, I suppose he should be glad he made Chapter 1 short, but, in contrast to what you said, a Prologue is your best bet for setting atmosphere and backstory. Failing to create one causes a few holes to appear and more than likely you'll just end up with a really boring first chapter, which in this case he did. Nothing was exciting, nothing was unexpected. It was dull dull dull all the way and even for a short chapter it becomes a journey to be interested unless the reader likes that sort of thing from the start.

[L0SS]

I don't deny that the format could have been improved. But I felt the actual layout of the text was fitting, and that the first person narrative was a fresh change. It didn't 'grab' me in that sense, but it was a fantasy setting with enough real world (if you will) detail to be interesting.

 

You can see the comments I wrote on the story to sum up my views. I will continue to read on, as I think it has something going for it. 

 

Don't take this the wrong way, I enjoy reading your Fan-fic reviews; I just thought I'd bring to your attention my interpretation. I also agree that a reader generally picks up and remembers the negative aspects of a narrative far more than they remember the positive points.

 

But as you're, I'd assume, above the fickle majority of readers; take a few minutes to look at the other chapters and see if you don't feel that the descriptive and informative nature improves the story line. 

[The Warden]

Heh, I'm not so high and mighty. If I don't care for the text, boom, gone from my mind. I was sincere when I said I didn't want to subject myself to this fic anymore than what was absolutely necessary.

[L0SS]

Heh, I'm not so high and mighty. If I don't care for the text, boom, gone from my mind. I was sincere when I said I didn't want to subject myself to this fic anymore than what was absolutely necessary.

Have you read a fic that you enjoyed or actually encouraged you to read on yet?

[Ren✧]

Ouch! That hurt a little, but I will have to agree with you. Not my best work...for sure. But, that's why I posted it. I want to improve my writing.

 

Your little spiel about sewing I found downright hilarious. What I get from yours and everyone elses comments, is that you want action to be kicked off right from the back, and I just haven't ever really done that. First person is also hard for me to write in, but thought I would try it. I agree it gets kinda boring sometimes, but in the later chapters I switch it up a bit. 

 

 

 

Heh, I'm not so high and mighty.

 

Maybe just a little bit ;)

[The Warden]

Hmmm, well, no, not really. I don't exactly have sophisticated tastes, but I'm not so easy to impress.

[The Warden]

[spoiler=Episode 5 - Wrist Cutting Imminent]
Well, being the type of person that I am, I will accept a challenge at almost any quarter, and this is no exception. Today I am reviewing [Review: See Brutalize] a newcomer of the Fan Fiction area, who has proudly boasted his fic will cause depression. So, I’ve got some goth clothing, some white make-up and of course razor blades with me. Now then, let’s see if this fic, will make, an emo, out of meeeeeee! (We apologize for the sudden breakout of song. However, the author has wanted us to note that there is enough want, he will write an emo version of Mulan’s Be a Man.)

Frozen Life

Frozen Life huh? I think that’s the kind of analogy you’d give for Sora’s sex life.

The pure, white snow was staring me in the face. I could feel its gentle, calming touch as I felt the intense burn residing inside me. I felt its cries when I transformed its precious white color into a devilish crimson one.

I think it’s time we had the talk sweetie. See, when a woman reaches a certain age, she’ll find that almost everyone is looking at her. She won’t know why, and it may make her feel uncomfortable, but it’s a cross all women must bear.

It slowly took on a bloodshot gown as it cloaked itself in the red pouring out of my chest. It subtly attempted to hide its fright when it saw the sharp, steel knife lying beside me. I had been stabbed.

Well, good to see you’re taking it so well. When I’m dying I usually apologize to the snow for getting its fancy white gown soaked as well. Courtesy matters, even when you’re dying.

As I lay on the snow, on that cold December night, sensing my heart weep its red tears unto the snow’s white dress, I turned the clock thirty years into the past. On that very same place, I saw myself as a mere child, not more than eight years of age. Standing in my comfortable blue jacket, wearing my new black gloves, stepping on my unusually green boots, I saw a piece of land heavily covered in snow.

You’re dying, so you’re remising of your childhood in practically the exact same location as where you’re in? What, are you trying to ignore the glare the snow happens to be giving you?

I was frightened. I stared for a long time at the snow; I sensed a certain blend of emotions coming from it: anger, sorrow, fear, and many more. In my mind, the snow was a pet for which I needed to care.

Dude, what the hell kind of childhood did you have? You felt anger, sorrow and fear… from snow? What, were you afraid the snow was going to bite you in a panic? Were you afraid it was going to talk behind your back and not invite you to its birthday party?

I slowly moved to the nearby tree, and with all the strength an eight year old could possess, I broke a small branch and took it with me. I slowly approached the snow, crouched as much as the winter cold allowed me, and slowly, I used the branch to draw on the snow. As my hand moved naturally, after a minute I stood up and looked at the snow once more. I had drawn a smile.

Well, hmm, how to rip on this? No, no… I don’t need to, frankly the line is laughable of its own accord.

*Checks wrists* Nope, this fic hasn’t made me want to cut myself, but fingers crossed LiteratureDude.

Now, as the blood was slowly dripping, I remembered that moment of happiness. I recalled that instance as one of the few when I was truly joyful. The eternal clock once more tampered with my emotions, and I now went back a few years after I had drawn the smile on my precious friend.

You were a really lonely child weren’t you? Your best friend was the snow? Please don’t tell me you tried to take your relationship further. Admitting you’re gay is one thing, but parents take a dull view when you introduce your girlfriend as the Snowwoman.

I had just awoken from my bed, and I was slowly preparing to go to school. As I went out of my house, tenderly warm from my mother’s greetings, I looked at my dear friend, the snow. I ran to it, and to my sweet relief, I saw that the smile had remained on its face. But, as I stared at it with joy, I sensed a brutal, agonizing coldness coming from behind me. As I turned to see, I noticed a few kids standing behind me. I could recognize them by the burning hatred deep confined in their eyes. It was the school bullies.

Oh Jesus Christ. Woobie fics ARE NOT depressing. Half the time, you actually get annoyed by how the woobie is just being an annoying little tool and not doing crap. Butt Monkies are there for our amusement and to occasionally do something badass. They are not there to provoke emotion except on a bromantic level.

Burning hatred? They’re f**king 8 or 9. Children have no god damn clue what burning hatred is until they reach puberty and are subjected to strange emotions they have no control over.

With a resentful tone, the kids yelled at me for what I had done to the snow, subtly snickering at me. I quickly supposed why they were laughing, slowly establishing that my reality was much different from theirs. I rejected all the insults and simply stood quiet.

Okay, seriously? They were, yelling at you, for drawing a smiley face, in the snow. My god, are you trying? Seriously are you? I’m not getting depressed I’m getting annoyed. This is the dumbest crap I’ve ever read, and I read a fic where Sora is the main character. It’s pretty damn difficult to go lower than that but Christ you succeeded.

Yet, that wasn’t enough. My silence provoked the kids, even threatened them somehow. They pushed me, and saw my tears as I fell into the snow, and saw me hiding my face from the shame. As I wiped the tears, I saw the kids sprint away, being chased by a voice coming from afar.

Are these kids Pro-Snow or something? You pushed another kid down for not saying anything as you insulted him about drawing a face in the f**king snow. You’re not a god damn Nazi you’re a freaking kid; ACT LIKE ONE!

I recall this voice like no other. It was a soft, tender, female voice. Like a majestic beast’s thunderous roar, I remember the voice as soft and mighty, as both strong and weak in its complex simplicity. As I wiped my tears, cleaning my face from all the snow that I had plunged my head into, I turned to see the source of the gently powerful voice. I was correct; it was a girl.

Oh god, can this get any more Woobiefied? Weak little boy getting saved by a girl. This is like reading directly from TV Tropes.

“Are you okay?” – She asked me with a kind of fragile conviction, she herself seemingly afraid of the school bullies, yet, not the type of fright that transfers to the voice.

Dude, you’re f**king 8, how the hell can you even tell any of that crap?

It was, after all, her thunderous yell that scared the menacing children. In an attempt for assistance, she offered her womanly, yet strangely strong hand. She pulled me from the snow, and offered me her name. “Oh what a lovely name”, I thought to myself, though I was rather unsure whether I had said the thought in my mind or before her slightly judgmental eyes. Luckily, it was in my mind.

We didn’t get her name, so to me she is Palmela Handerson.

So, is she a girl, or a woman? You aren’t exactly defining this piece of flesh kid. I mean, you can tell fragile conviction and tones at 8, but you can’t even give us a decent image on what she even looks like?

Maybe you shouldn’t reminisce in italics, then you would’ve been able to tell kid.

Several cold, winter days had passed, and I failed to remove the girl’s image from my mind. Perhaps it was because she was generally remarkable, or perhaps it was because I chose not to. I could still sense her trembling voice collapsing barriers around me, slowly awaking me with a tender spirit.

Trembling voice? I thought fear didn’t make it to her tone.

Suddenly, through the secluded walls of my house, I heard a rumbling yelp for assistance. I rushed to the window, stopping with slight shock as I arrived there. In my precious snow, I saw the girl from the previous days, simply laying there, her face covered in purity and coldness, just as mine had been. She…looked frightened.
 

Oh Jesus Christ, you woobied the woobie’s foil. You’re trying to force emotion and failing at it. I may be an unfeeling monstrosity 99% of the time, but even I know you just can’t force emotion like this. It’s just one f**king unfortunate event after another, there’s no substance.

I immediately put on my winter coat, and I rapidly ran outside to help her. As I stood before the snow, staring at her weeping face, I had come to know a great truth.

The snow was cheating on you for this girl, and she’s crying because the snow realized its mistake and broke it off with her.

I needn’t look at the girl as a savior from beyond, as an angel from the stars. She, much like me, was just frightened, weeping from her face what she felt in her heart. The thought was simplistic in its core; it meant that I could share the chains of my heart with another; meant that I was no longer alone. That idea, I must confess, was perfection. I couldn’t dare to miss out on perfection. As she wasted her final tear, and turned around, subtly cleansing her weeping face, she saw me, offering my hand.

Oh my god kid, you’re 8! Why the hell are you even thinking like this? Are you possessed by William Shakespeare or something?

“Oh what a marvelous thought”, I said to myself as I bled on the cold, shivering snow. “It has been an amazing life, has it not?” – I began to talk to myself, inevitably knowing that these were my last moments.

You just recently said your life was like, 95% shit. And now suddenly through one memory your life has been the best thing ever? At least delirium has set in for this bleeder, unlike another one I could name.

I then recalled a bit further from my childhood, to the year I graduated from high school. The memory is joy. It must be joy, for that was the only feeling present. Two people are standing in front of my precious friend, the piece of snow.

Oh my god just SHUT UP about the god damn snow already. It only invited you to like, one birthday party, and that was only because its mom made it. You’re not tight, you’re not homies. So shut up about it, PLEASE!

Bells are ringing, people are cheering, and above all, happiness is spread. The noise is intermittently began and finished, yet the greatest intermission came with the doubly repeated phrases: “I do”. I absolutely had to recall that day. I had to recall it because one of the two people was the girl with the softly thunderous voice; and even more significant for me, the second person was I.

You got married in winter? Where was this happy time listed in your earlier remark?

As I recalled that memory, I also recall how I spent my wedding on the snow, on my oldest friend. Many other things have happened on its watch as well. Much of what I am able to remember is the current day, before I had fallen on the snow, bleeding my soul out. I was happily married. I possessed love. Yet, she left. She was no angel, she was no priestess; she was but mortal. I became unsatisfactory. She took all I cared for: the anchors of the heart, the chains of the soul, and simply reinforced them with pain and illusion of a bright future. Who was to trust now? I could trust none, absolutely no one; except, perhaps, I could trust the snow.

She was certainly smarter than you though. Maybe it wasn’t that you were unsatisfactory; maybe it was just that you werEN’T SHUTTING UP ABOUT THE F**KING SNOW!

No one gives a flying f**k about your god damn crystallized water.

So, in that manner, I came outside on the December night, I stepped outside into the shivering sight of nothingness. All was white, I was certain. Yet, I knew precisely where I needed to go. I found my old friend. I stepped right above it. I courageously took out the knife.

Oh my god you f**king pussy!

In but a moment, the deed had been done. I felt the steel of the knife align with the pain of my heart and soul, bleeding out all they possessed over my friend’s frightened eyes. The snow was the only hope, the only friend. It was fragile, it was pure, and it was free. It had at times disappeared, and then it had come back. So, as it fully put on the crimson gown, and I was no longer, I must have asked myself “What now?” What comes after the steel has taken the love, the hate, the hope, and the fear? Am I to expect the love of Paradise? Am I to expect the cruelty of Hell? Or am I to expect the rewinding of the cycle into yet another treacherous dream? I am certain the cycle will rewind. After all, in a dream, cruelty and love are a blend, they are together, and furthermore, they are most stable. After all, you’ve just been fed the dream of a fellow dreamer, just told the truth of something that might happen, and told the lies of what has never become reality. See, you’ve been given the blend of golden attributes; just given the love of the creator and the cruelty of the dreamer.

When you commit suicide you get neither. Unless the life is taken by another or by nature, you get to spend eternity in Limbo. Have fun.

[hr]

Analysis time. Since the environment was the snow, I won’t say, a, god, damned, thing. This guy, my god this guy. He’s the freaking king of woobies. He’s just some annoying pissant who thinks his life is so god damn awful that he has the right to go on and on about it. No one gives a toaster fed crap about you or your f**king snow. Get, the f**k, over it. This guy, is a puppy, getting kicked over and over.

TL;DR IMMINENT!

My! F**king! God! What the hell were you thinking? Do you even HAVE the remotest idea of how to inspire emotion?…Beyond annoyance? Lemme tell you something right now: To inspire emotion, it cannot be forced, it cannot be subverted, it cannot be parodied. Inspiring a certain emotion must always be played straight. And what did you do? You forced it, time and again you kept forcing the square into the circle hole. All you did was take a character, then force inconvenience on him time and again, and then made him the most god damn annoying thing ever by having him go on and on about the f**king snow. It’s SNOW! It’s not important or anything god damn relevant. It’s frozen water, that’s it.

Bullies? Seriously? That’s the best option you took for inspiring pity? Having bullies pick on a kid for the dumbest reason ever: For drawing a smiley face in the snow. My god what sense does that even freaking make? How, actually, the question is WHY would you pick on someone for something like that? That is unreasonably stupid, even for an 8 year old.

I am going to stress this again: You were trying to force this fic so much that it didn’t cause depression, it just left me annoyed by how god damn stupid it really was. It might’ve worked had a few things be different, but you went with this? Didn’t you ever think that maybe a bombshell like ‘I’m dying’ would be most effective at the end? Had you done so, this would’ve been a sparkling introspective; instead, you made a dead man’s regrets. See, subtlety is necessary for something like this. If you had been smarter with this work, instead of just petulantly thinking that this would be so depressing right now, you might’ve seen the problems in this fic. Think about it: If you has started with him lying in the snow and reminiscing, the reader would’ve been unawares. Then, through his narrative, maybe make some mention to how cold he feels, despite having a jacket. Then, if you omit the divorce, instead ending on the happy wedding, the bombshell of his dying nature would’ve had so much more impact. One of the greatest ways of inspiring absolute sorrow and shock is to dash hopes and joys just as they reach their high. If you had him last introspect on his happy marriage, than regret how it’s ending because someone he did not know stabbed him on a winter stroll, THAT would’ve been a lot more groundbreaking.

In all, I am REALLY annoyed that I wasted 5 minutes reading little more than a woobie fic. It didn’t inspire pity, hatred for the bullies (in the way you intended) or deep sorrow at the end of it. All I got was an endlessly building annoyance because this dumbass wouldn’t shut up about snow and because, as I have stated time and again, he’s a woobie, a very poorly written one I’ll add. Next time you seek to write a depressing piece, think about it first, instead of just thinking ‘Nerr hurr, this is depressing. This’ll depress everyone!’ Until that time, your title is a lie. It doesn’t depress people, it just provokes them.

I’m Broke. N, and; I need to go kick some puppies.[/spoiler]

[The Warden]

[spoiler=Episode 6 - Portal Unto Negation]
Salutations, recently I’ve found that I’ve been a bit too vicious lately, though, that may be because I haven’t been so easily impressed, or just plain let down. So, after a request from Neph (who I intended to review anyways), I’ll be taking a look at his Imagination Nexus, which is currently written in comic format, which will most likely be drawn later. And, for a special treat, I brought a special friend with me to review. This friend has been with me for quite some time, and through it I have felt fear, anger and sorrow. Allow me to introduce, the Snow. *Stares intently at a snowball on the bench… Turns back* The Snow says hello. Now, with Snow in tow, let’s begin my meticulous machinations.

Imagination Nexus
Actual Logo Soon To Be Up~
This space for rent.

This is my first creative writing series I ever posted on YCM. The story is a fantasy-action which takes place on a different planet named Kismaea in a different universe.

Different universe eh? I guess that needed to be said, considering we also have a Kismaea, it’s just around the corner from Pluto. But be careful; if you reach the end of the universe you've gone too far.

First series too? Well then, I expect it will be eloquent, imaginative and able to produce some extremely well set up plot twists.

Kismaea is a planet where magic and wondrous creatures like dragons and more existed in every corner. It wasn't all good and happy though. There were dark secrets in its past. Only a select few ever knew a fabric of reality existed. The fabric of reality once lied almost everywhere, accessible by numerous portals.

Okay, only a select few were aware of reality? So, are all the other inhabitants just high on magic mushrooms or something? If so, best stoner planet ever; even if the dark secrets are just bad trips.

Also, I find the word should be ‘even’, not ‘ever’.

However, the fabric is irrevocably linked to the rest of everything else, almost like a voodoo doll to the actual world.

Well, one should think reality was linked to everything, considering, it’s, well, reality.

Seven wise people one might call wizards nowadays noticed that people were starting to grow greedy and lustful of the power of the Seros Plane - another name for the fabric of reality.

They were hungry for reality? Really? What, did they get the munchies after coming down?

For the good of everyone, they combined their massive powers to seal off the Plane from existence. However, with knowledge and perseverance, eventually, somebody will get through.

They sealed off reality? Is that a metaphor for saying they doped the inhabitants up to a super mega high?

To prevent this as well, they sealed off the memories of everyone alive at the time, and attached the memories to a massive tree which sheltered all of the Kismaeans. The top branches of the tree are much higher than anyone could ever climb, and so that's where the memories were stored forevermore.

They, stored the memories, in a tree? How does a tree even carry memories, except with memory fruit. And if this tree wasn’t fruit bearing, well, god help them.

Unfortunately, nothing can be an invincible barrier, and so the seven - called the Ancients - created a single, indestructible key forged from a metal that fell from the stars which could grant its owner passageway to the Seros Plane.

So, they wanted the Seros Plane to be protected from all the greedy mortals, so their way of protecting it is by creating a key that grants anyone access to it. *Thumbs up* Brilliant.

They enchanted the Skeleton Key - as it was called - so if one attempted to destroy it, it would vanish and reappear somewhere else. Also, the carrier of this key would suffer bad luck and the key would curse all the carrier held dear. The key had been hidden away though so none can find it again.

Except that you’d just have to locate the place where you got really shit luck. That would be a grifters best tool. I do like that name though. Better than a Star Key (hello super Mario).

Recently however, a secret group has risen, calling themselves simply 'Chaos'.

That last bit doesn’t sit right. Move ‘simply’ to after the comma instead, as it makes the sentence flow better.

They have secretly found out somehow about the Seros Plane again, and they wish to take advantage of it. If they succeed, they would become god-like. However, Kismaea's magic flows from the natural existence of kismet, and such a tainted influence on one of its core parts would ruin Kismaea, plunging it into a hell.

Okay, what’s the kismet and why wasn’t it mentioned before? Sounds kinda important if the Ancients wanted to protect it. Also, how did they find out about the Seros Plane when all memories were stored in the Giving Tree? Did one of the Ancients just get really wasted at a bar one night? I could imagine that, as it would go something like this:

“Oh, get this, ha ha ha, get this. We six, wait, no seven of us took everyone’s memories of reality, and put them IN A GIANT TREE! We put them right at the top, where no one would get at them. *Hic* Then, we locked up reality with a magic key, that was made from metal, THAT CAME FROM SPACE! AH HA HA HA! Also, then, then… we magicked the key so anyone who touched it got cursed, and they’d lose all that they held dear. Brilliant isn’t it?… Now, whose round is it? Mine? But I payed for the last round.

Kismaea is what you might call conscious in a sense though, and it shall call forth someone to help it from this surge of darkness. There has always been heirs of the Ancients though, and chosen helpers, which called themselves 'Imagination Nexus'.

Because imagination and reality are totally the same thing. Well, I guess in Kismaea’s case it is; considering everyone is on a 24/7 high.

Members of the Imagination Nexus are being assassinated in worrying amounts, and Kismaea is slowly crumbling, with Dark Kismet flowing out of the earth.

Oh yeah, Kismet, that stuff you barely mentioned that we know everything about eh? Ah yes, good ol Kismet. I remember Kismet so fondly, it was always so… kismety. Okay no, you can’t make vague references and expect people to get it. That’s like building a house with only one wall; it simply won’t stand.

An unlikely young boy with a demon mark is thrown into a fast-paced battle that had always been hidden from general Kismaeans, but now, the battle will be brought into a full tide upon Kismaea.

Kismaea has a tiny tiny population from what you’ve implied. By logic the entire population would be either Chaos or IN.

Demon mask? Huh… I assume during the length of this fic/comic that someone is going to ‘meet with a terrible fate’ right? Oh, mark... well, that's not as funny really.

Every last person's Kismet in their heart will rock the tables of balance as Kismaea is plunged into a full-war. Follow this race against both time and chaos itself as an epic onslaught ravages this wondrous utopia, while a young boy and his friends who will join him journey on a deadly crusade fights to save everything he holds dear…

So, Kismet is now in the heart? And in the ground? But it’s also reality? Bah, I can’t even follow this poorly led trail of crumbs.

[hr]

Well time to analyse, starting with the planet. It’s Hippieland basically. From information given, the planet is basically high all the time. I mean seriously, the people weren’t even aware reality existed. Then what the hell did they believe in? Something ridiculous like matter that exists as tiny particles of negative and positive energy that binds everything together? Because that’s just ridiculous. Also, why didn’t the remainder of the passage even mention the fantastic creatures like, I dunno, f**king dragons maybe? Cause, I’m pretty sure just flying lizards would probably be pretty relevant in a world where the inhabitants are doped up and ready for snaking on. Actually, why AREN’T these fantastic creatures even made relevant? As I said, the likes of dragons and magical creatures should be pretty freakin relevant in a world where magic exists and reality can be locked up. I mean, do members of Chaos ride Unicorns into battle? Do Wind Sprites amuse themselves by causing drafts to blow up skirts? For a place that seems pretty damn magical you did a hell of a job turning it mundane.

As for mundane, you made the MC a human whose only defining trait is a scary mark. Come on boy, you’re not taking advantage of your world. Humanity is pretty boring when you could have a freaking dragon/unicorn hybrid, or like, the offspring of an ogre that screwed a dwarf. You aren’t tapping the potential of your world when there aren’t Dwogres riding Dragicorns; In fact, I demand Dwogres riding Dragicorns. I DEMAND DWOGRES RIDING DRAGICORNS!

I’m not sure on the Ancient’s plan exactly. For starters, how exactly does one lock away reality? More to the point, where do you insert the key, since I’m pretty sure reality doesn’t actually have a physical place to put a lock. Also, the curse doesn’t exactly seem that bad, since Chaos could easily produce someone whose only goal is for Chaos. He could be raised to not care about family or belongings, and his only goal is to get the key, from there they just put him in a box and ship him to the lock, since the bad luck only applies to the holder anyways.

This idea is… cute, but fails in context because the ideas are stunted since growth. If you create a magical world you REALLY need to take advantage of everything in it, rather than just very small portions. You mentioned dragons like, once and then they took a train to obscurity. It’s just silly to even consider the humans when dwogres could be running about. Expand your world, expand your mind. And don’t come back till you’re… cosmic.

I’m Broke. N, and what the f**k is Kismet, seriously?[/spoiler]

[A Hollow Man]

"I literally stopped reading before the prologue began, but I think you need to spend more time developing your world."

[The Warden]

...Is that directed at me, or at Neph?

[A Hollow Man]

It's why when you're writing a review it's usually a good idea to read past the dustjacket blurb.

 

Why yes, the character that was only mentioned in one sentence doesn't have a lot of defining traits yet [i]because they've only been mentioned in one sentence[/i].