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A Promise to Keep PDF Print E-mail
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Written by Gisoreux de Ponthieu   
Monday, 30 October 2006
T

his story of love and hope took place in the heartlands of our fair Bretonnia, times ago when the land was still young and vulnerable.  

It was an awesome sight to behold: a deadly dance of fire and steel. An unstoppable army bent on destruction and chaos, destroying all that dared to stand in their way. Their first mark of their relentless assault was his small castle. They had come without warning from the sea in the morrow, by midnight all was almost over. A lonely tear left the corner of the eye of Lord Achard de Puisseux, once a respected and proud Knight in service of the Duke of Lyonesse, now fatigued by age and health, as he gazed down at what was left of his beloved castle. The tower of his keep was crumbling underneath a massive hail of fiery boulders and so was his spirit. The outer walls, protecting the keep, were all but lost: some brave lonely commoners and Knights alike, side by side, in their struggle for survival and duty tried to stop the tide yet the red sea was still pouring in. Their blood soon joined those of the dead and the dying, soiling and poisoning the sacred earth of our land. The castle gate was on the verge of collapsing as blow by blow the battering ram hammered his way through the reinforced wooden doors, rhythmic as a sinister drum.  

The grim but resolute Lord Achard turned around and said to the few surviving Knights of his bodyguard: “It is time, nothing left here but honourable death. Gather my warhorse.”  The Knights nodded and headed downstairs, shaken but anxious to get it over with and die alongside their Lord. Then Lord Achard turned his aged eyes towards the lone figure that still stood with him on the battlements of the tower of the keep, gazing down like he had just done. He had never noticed before how small and fragile his love and woman, Lady Monice, looked at this moment and it shook him, worse then the loss of his castle. All his heart wished he could shelter her in his arms, for the evil to go away and leave them alone in this breaking world, but he could not. Their eyes locked and what feeble gestures couldn’t prove, they said with their gaze. “My love will die with you but it will be forever yours,” she said in a loving and stern voice, void of hesitation or sorrow. He could only nod as no words were further needed. One last kiss that seems to pass into eternity and then he resolutely stepped down the stairs while she turned to gaze down at the sorrowful scene down below, unable to stop the tears from falling.  

Lord Archard patted the back of his old and trusted destrier a few times while he whispered to him: “A shame and a pain in my heart for not being able to save you from this last ride. You have ever served me with more then needed vigour and strength, forgive me that I could not return the favour at this hour.”Somehow the grey warhorse understood the caring words and gave him a few nods from the head as if to console and assure him that he wouldn’t have abandoned him now. As if walking in a dream, he smiled and mounted the warhorse; the reins making him remember some of his strength. “Vincent,” he called out to a young Knight some distance away: “come help and old man by giving his shield.” Instantly the youth reacted and ran towards him, a bright lad of seventeen summers, now slightly pale in light of the expected ending of his short tale. As he handed over the steel shield, bearing a proud lark rampart in yellow and blue, he gave him a last order: “Vincent, I’m giving you the gift of life and demand you not to join us, doomed men, on our last charge to destiny. Find my daughter; she deserves a better fate then to die at the hand of these barbarians. Protect her; for she holds all that is left of my noble name. Help her rebuild what we lost today. Love her like a brother for you shall be the last one she knows and trust. I will not accept otherwise: promise me!” Torn in twain, faintly he promised this heavy oath while unwillingly he bended his head to hide his shame and welling tears.

At that sudden moment hell broke loose as the gate collapsed with a might thunder and in came pouring the damned of chaos. Lord Archard nodded one last time and then he was gone to lead a charge that deserves a place in history. Realising that there wasn’t much time, the young Vincent ran back inside to find the Lord’s daughter, Loyse de Puissieux, the last to bear the name. He found her, pale and innocent, in her private room, she turned to face a threat, relieved to see a friend. Again for the umpteenth time was Vincent awestruck by the radiant beauty of the young creature by the grace of the Lady. A worried smile appeared on her beautiful face when she asked: “Vincent, where is my father? And mother?” Sadness smothered his reply and he could only answer: “Milady, your father has commanded me to bring you to safety.” This short reply held enough information to piece the fate together of both her parents and she hid her graceful face in her elegant hands and suppressed sobs reached the ears of the young but determined lad: “Milady, now is not the time to grieve. We must hurry!” Seeing that reality did not reach the hurt mind of this fair maiden, he sat aside his own grieves and carried her out of the room. The smell of fire and singed flesh assaulted his nostrils as he double paced through the halls. There was only one exit left: a hidden one, built into the foundations of the old keep. It would lead into the borders of a nearby forest and temporary safety. The fireplace moved aside by some ancient mechanism as the old Lord had once said so a winter night so long ago. 

Meanwhile at the windy top of the keep Lady Monice saw her world fall apart: the group of defiant Knights with her husband at the front that had so gallantly charged into the fray was now overwhelmed by the horde, one by one falling to their foes. Fate deemed that the last one was to be her love to die with his sword in his hand. The desperate refugees from the nearby villages were being cut down or worse in the courtyard without any hope of escape. Parts of the keep where she had lived ever since she was betrothed to her beloved Knight were now in flames, the southern tower collapsing by the pressure. Fighting died down as the defenders ceased to be. A gigantic roar of lust of blood and victory ran through the ranks of the barbaric horde. Hasted armoured steps on the stairs: Monice just closed her eyes one last time and said goodbye to the rapid closing earth, her last thoughts were with her daughter. 

She had recovered meanwhile in the dusty and mould corridors that would bring them survival and escape from the horrors above. Loyse was walking with her own strength but wavering as every step took her away from her family’s fate. Her thoughts were assaulted by the vivid images of her two brothers who died in a war some summers ago and her parents who died beyond her grasp: she would never see them again. Meanwhile the brave but mentally assailed Vincent led the way through the ruinous and wet corridors to safety and shame. There was no way to tell the passage of the time in the dark corridor under the ground. What seemed like days maybe were mere hours. Suddenly the corridor ended in rubble with no way out. While Vincent was cursing their luck, Loyse’s strength failed and she started to sob again as she dropped against the wall. Those smothered sounds seemed so unreal in this stone passage that it made Vincent turn towards as his compassion rose. Amongst the sobs she threw some smothered questions which made him shake with sadness and broke his last confidence: “Why did you come and take me away? Why didn’t you let me die, next to my family where I belong? Why am I the only one to bear the sadness?” As he sat alongside her, he took her gently into his youthful but strong arms. She didn’t resist and as if trying to console a little child, he replied in a soft voice: “Because I have a promise to keep. A promise to your father that I would protect you and guide you to safety.”

While his tunic became wet with her tears, Vincent shed silent tears for his lord, the castle and this young maiden. Sometimes luck wasn’t with the living. After what seemed like hours her sobbing ended and she breathed normal again. The emotional drain had been too much for the girl and she had fallen asleep in the dark corridor.  Vincent took the opportunity to investigate the place that was to be their tomb. Slowly he stood up and laid the fragile head of the young woman on a rolled up blanket. Hunger drove him to search extensively while desperation was trying to break his resilient mind. A small statue drew his attention: a gallantly sculpted Knight with the heraldry of de Puissieux: in his one hand the torch of hope and glory, the other held a book roll. The de Puissieux were ever the scholars, among the wisest of Bretonnia, respected for their wisdom and knowledge. Yet something felt wrong to the faithful and loyal errant Knight: though the tunic of the sculpture held all the four larks, there was one whose head was facing the wrong direction. As Vincent laid his finger on the error, a magical device came into working: up high a trapdoor opened to let the bright light of the glorious sun enter.

As the chains and bolts rattled loudly through the empty corridors, the maiden awoke to be thrown again into a nightmare. Her eyes held the same sadness as both had but now also a fire and a will to live. It was she who saw the subtle and concealed stairs, hacked into the walls; leading up to the fresh air and she began to mount them, leaving a baffled Vincent to stand there. Admiring her courage and new-found strength, he quickly scrambled to follow her upstairs.  A brilliant sun and a radiant small forest greeted them, oblivious to the tragedy that had befallen the castle not more then several miles further. The peace and tranquillity seemed so unreal in comparison to the fire and screams just a couple of hours ago. A large pillar of smoke darkened the sky to the west. Both youths averted their eyes to not be reminded of the cruel fate. The clearing held one distinctive feature: a small shack, barred and reinforced. It looked shabby and dangerous by all but the loyal of de Puissieux: the shield of the family was branded in one of the logs covering the door. Vincent quickly began to dismantle the blockade to clear the way into the hut. Inside they rejoiced as they found equipment for their journey: hunting gear, some weapons and other travelling gear. They decided to rest here until nightfall so they could escape any enemy raiding parties that scourged the land. However they did not know who to turn to: de Puissieux had few neighbours and almost all lay in the path of the army. At the other side there were some lords but many miles distant and had few relations with de Puissieux, it was even doubtful if they knew this once great lord. Would they even accept this young maiden as their own or make her a household lady, destined to disappear in obscurity? 

As Vincent searched the shack further he discovered an old journal between the other moulded and half-decayed volumes on the dusty shelves. It seemed to be a personal journal of Lord Archard in his errantry years before he had met his love and future lady Monice. Most pages were illegible because of the wear of water and time. Though he respected the privacy of his dead lord, Vincent could not control his interest and curiosity. The last few pages were written in his first year as a fully-pledged knight of the realm. Vincent discovered that his lord had a love affair with another woman, a daughter of a neighbouring noble called Lady Margotte Clemens. They had a short and bitter relation since she was promised to another neighbouring lord, the ruler of the fief of Duglan, Alavin de Ponthieu. Make no mistake: though she loved Lord Achard first, she soon fell in love with the charm all de Ponthieu have always had.

As Vincent put the book back on the shelf, an idea sprung to mind: maybe Lady Margotte would be willing to take care of Loyse because of her old love. Sighing because it was a long shot yet the only option they had now, he began to look for Loyse to tell her of his findings and decision. To his surprise he found that sun was standing at the horizon: he had spent hours reading the journals, oblivious to his surroundings. As he couldn’t find the young lady, his worries heightened for the danger and he started to search the forest for his protégée. Some minutes passed and Vincent’s worry started to turn into panic as he feared her to be taken away by plunderers right under his nose. Suddenly he heard the sounds of water nearby and hoping it to be her, he went to investigate. Moving silently through the undergrowth as not to alarm her, he moved closer to the louder noises of water splashing.

Vincent arrived at a small brook and in the middle there stood a naked Loyse, washing herself with the cool water. Ashamed and intrigued at the same time, he could not look away from the youthful yet beautiful body of hers. Her pale skin sparkled in the evening sun. She seemed oblivious to the surroundings as she slowly continued to wash herself while a young and unblooded Knight looked from the shrubs. Vincent followed every movement and gesture with his eyes as he seemed lost in time and concentration. Slowly it dawned to him that she was a young woman, a year younger then he was. Before that moment he had always looked upon her as a sister as tradition demanded of young Knights training in a strange castle. After a while Loyse seemed to be satisfied and went to the shore to go dress herself. Shame took control of Vincent and he silently retreated as not to alarm the fair maiden by his presence.  

After a few minutes she rejoined him at the shack, her evening bath seemed to have done her well as she was more cheerful. While Vincent told her the tale of the youth love of her father, he dared not look at her, ashamed of his own feelings. Loyse was moved by this unknown story of her father and started to read the journal in the hope of knowing more about her deceased and beloved dad. This seemed to change her mood yet she didn’t cry as she read the pages one by one. Vincent tried to remain as silent and to not look at her while he checked the travelling gear again. He had already checked the bags thrice but this gave him an opportunity to reflect his thoughts.

After a long and hurtful but honest consideration of his present feelings for her, his mind concluded that she was far beyond his reach as an unblooded and lordless Knight errant but this decision would scar his heart. He wondered from whence these emotions came from. He had ever loved Loyse as a sister ever since he got to know her during his training. As a sister not out of personal love. Since when did his feelings have changed, he asked himself.

Suddenly he was disturbed during his ponderings by a remark from Loyse that she was planning on going to sleep for tomorrow’s long walk. He bad her good night and went outside to cool off and grab some fresh air. Vincent knew that it would be a long night as he had to guard the shack for the danger that lurks nearby.  Slowly the night passed away while Vincent remained awake, alone with his haunting thoughts.

 They headed off at first light after a small breakfast that consisted out of a rabbit that Vincent had caught and some water from the brook. Vincent carried the brunt of the luggage to safe Loyse from exhaustion: she seemed headstrong yet he doubted her ability for the long march over the plains ahead. He tried to keep his distance as not to remind himself why. This did seem to worry Loyse and she clung to him even closer.  The voyage was luckily uneventful and after a week of long marching and bad weather –at which they both got to know the other one- they arrived at Duglan. It had been a painful and tormented week since with every step he took, he wished to hold her forever while she seemed content to stay good friends.

Duglan in those days was just a small river village with a large and new stone wall. On top of the overseeing motte there stood a small wooden entry hall and adjourning chambers. The guards looked suspiciously as the two arrived at the gate, filthy and weary from the long journey. At long last they recognised Vincent’s heraldry on his muddy tunic and let them in. Lord Alavin de Ponthieu granted them refuge of course –as the knightly code of honour demands- and invited them for dinner that night to explain their sudden appearance and their journey. Duglan at that time was a poor fief with little interest and comfort, rebuilding from the great greenskin invasion, yet Alavin tried his best to make his guests feel most welcome in the halls.

The dinner was lovely and joined only by his spouse, Margotte. While the servants were clearing the table, Lord Alavin addressed the young Knight: “Tell me, young one, what brings the two of you to my doorstep, alone and so travel worn? Is everything all right with Lord Archard?” “You haven’t heard yet, Milord?” said a baffled Vincent bluntly: “Lord Archard was killed by marauders from the sea seven days ago. They came out of the morrow mist without warning and by nightfall the castle was burnt down to the ground, resulting to the death of everyone inside, except his daughter and me.” This answer surprised Lord Alavin and he looked pale and shocked. Talk continued on the subject of the sudden assault and this seemed to have a negative effect on Loyse. The emotional strain became too much and she broke down to be comforted by a surprised Lady Margotte. The wise Alavin saw that the war was a too heavy discussion at this moment and postponed it for a while. Instead he asked: “I will of course offer you horses and supplies so that you can continue your journey. Will you need an escort? Where were you planning on going?”“We were hoping we could find refuge here.”“Here? Why? I have no ties to de Puissieux family. Is there no-one else?”“No, milord, all vassals to my deceased lord are dead and so is any relative of this young woman.”“And any bene…”“Alavin, stop!” Suddenly Margotte interrupted, angered by the attitude of her husband. He returned a confused look and looked questioningly to his spouse. She took a deep breath to calm down and continued: “Alavin, we cannot throw these two poor ill-fated out. They have nowhere else to go as they have said. Are we to turn our backs to fellow Bretonnians? A new order and code emerged from the ashes of the tribes, are we to be the first to ignore it and turn back to the old days?”“Of course not, my dear. But…”“There will be no but! This young maiden need a home and we will provide it. She is of the same age as Gui and Mardred. Isioeux will be glad to have a younger sister to mingle with.” Pointing at Vincent she said: “This young man is resourceful and valorous: he would be a fine addition to the household Knights. I’m sure that the other errants would glad to have more company and a training partner. Let them stay, I ask you, you know it is the right thing to do.”Lord Alavin sighed heavily against the obvious truth, hanging in the air: “Agreed. To turn my back to them, would be to turn away from my oath as Knight of Bretonnia. They stay and shall be treated as equals. Now, please pardon me, I have duties to attend to: neighbours need warning from the impending danger and an army needs to be raised.” 

Weeks passed and Vincent seemed to adapt to his new life style. He quickly discovered that Lord Alavin was a jovial and patient man, not blessed by great intelligence yet his natural charm made up for this minor inconvenience, even at his age. Vincent befriended many of the other Knights of the household and servants of the small palace. Meanwhile Loyse seemed to recover from the shock of the past month and the wound was beginning to heal. However she clung to Vincent as her last friend: she was shy in nature and didn’t adapt well with her new environment. Her closest relation was with the one-year old son, Baudoin, of the family which she took care of whenever she was able. Every spare time she had, she would spend it with Vincent, even during his training and lessons. He endured her presence in the hope her behaviour would improve and to support her in her mourning. But in the long end they grew closer and closer and Loyse seemed to consider Vincent as a good brother. One time she even tried to convince him to take the name of de Puissieux lineage so they could further the line as brother and sister. Vincent objected to the idea and his answer shocked Loyse that she avoided him for the remainder of the week. 

It was a decision she was going to rue: finally the armies of all neighbouring lords had gathered and were prepared to do battle with the hated enemy who now was beleaguering the sea port of Portus to the west of Duglan. They appointed Lord Alavin as the General of the Army and left the next day in the early morrow. When Loyse cheerfully woke up on the bright spring morning, she found that Vincent had ridden with the host of Duglan. How was she to know, they wouldn’t meet for more then six years? Time ticked away slowly as she eagerly awaited his return and a week passed until a messenger arrived to bring the good news that the vile intruders were defeated and driven back into the sea. According to his description, it had been a mighty battle with a glorious victory. Soon the army would return to Duglan for the victory feasts. Loyse was of course overjoyed with the news of the imminent return of her brother. But during those few days before the return of the victorious army, she began to question herself and Vincent. Why was she so anxious to see his face one more time? Why did she wander through the halls of the palace, thinking every second about him and his charming smile? Was she glad to see return of a brother or a springing love?

When the army came into sight at the horizon, she was confused yet happy. Worries for later, she said to herself. Slowly the army approached the city as now everyone was in the streets, decorating and singing the ancient hymns of the land. When the city gates opened to let the victors enter the festive city, she saw that Lord Alavin rode at the head of the column wearing the purple-white heraldry of the family. In his wake followed the different nobles who had joined swords to defeat the evil threat. Meanwhile a lot of flowers, banners and coronals obscured her sight of the following Knights but she was confident that her closest friend would be among them, back from wreaking vengeance upon the murderers of her father. From the top of the motte she saw the Knights dismount and starting to ascend the long stairs to the courtyard at its top.

Lord Alavin, now donned with a festive cloak and with his helmet in his arm was the first to reach the top and the rest of the Knights followed. Loyse stood with the household ladies behind Lady Margotte for the traditional welcome and greeting. As the Lady of the house approached her husband to welcome him back, she tried to recognise Vincent in the large crowd of nobles. She didn’t notice the end of the greeting and that most of the ladies began to mingle with the nobles and guide them into the hall for the great feast that was prepared. Still she kept on scanning the remaining groups but Vincent was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was late for a good reason, she thought to herself.  Suddenly she noticed that Lord Alavin with Lady Margotte at his arm approached her with a stern face: “I’m sorry to tell you this, Loyse, but Vincent has taken his own fate in his hands and started to explore the lands. He fought well and brave during the battle and the combined lords agreed to deem his errant to be over. We held a small knighting ceremony to instate him in his new rights and plights at the beach where we had destroyed the enemy. Afterwards he asked to be released from my service so that he could search his own fate and earn his own renown. I could not refuse such a brave and chivalrous Knight and he immediately left with only his armour, sword and warhorse.”

While Alavin narrated the events of Vincent’s departure, the corners of the diamond eyes of Loyse turned wet with tears. Her thoughts betrayed her as she felt abandoned by all and especially by her closest friend. No word of comfort or goodbye for her. She was just alone in this world. Vincent didn’t care about her and had left as soon as his duty was fulfilled. The last words of Alavin seem to pull her back to the cruel reality: “I’m sure we will hear many tales of his deeds. He is an honourable Knight with an unsurpassable sword fighting technique. He will win his renown and maybe one day we will see him again. Come, daughter, we must feast for the memories of the dead and to hail the victorious.”  

Late at night when the feast was over, she was still awake, torn by emotions of loneliness and desire. Hoping to see the return of Vincent, she watched over the sleeping village and to the endless night sky. Loyse wanted him to hold her and tell her it was joke of bad taste, that it was a dream, in which he would return to love her. A single tear fell from the corner of her eye upon the stone, unnoticed by all in a large and cold world. 

Six years passed and tales of heroic deeds and valour of the young Vincent reached indeed the city. Every now and then a travelling bard would tell the tale of the young Sir Vincent the Restless and his newest exploits in adventure and war. Loyse had learned to live with the painful tales of her lost friend. Time may heal many wounds yet some will always remain scars for the rest of her life. Loyse had her own place in the singing of tales of bard and minstrels: her beauty was widely renowned and equally her virtue. Her skin was supernaturally pale and beautiful, her deep, silver eyes were famed and praised far and wide and her long, blond hair looked like a golden waterfall. She kept any suitors far away with her ice-cold and haughty mannerism and sharp remarks, worthy of a damsel of high stature. It was rumoured throughout the land that she was the half-daughter of the ageless Elves. While the old Alivan could not be bothered with her constant refusals to be betrothed, it drove the heir, young sir Mardred, crazy.

It was after such a discussion that Loyse had rudely walked away from him, ignoring his threats and protests, took a horse from the stables and accompanied only by her loyal dog, Marketh, rode into the plains of Lyonesse. Deep within she knew she was unhappy and that she needed to find a solution yet her heart still held hope which made it a painful situation all together. She was too preoccupied to notice to where she was heading the young horse. But suddenly she found herself to be within familiar country: the lands of her father had been leaderless since the heir was unwedded and until the day of her marriage there would be only local law and order. Her mind forbade her to ride any further as old memories might upset her fragile balance yet her heart desired to see the castle once more.  

It took only a few minutes to cross the last remaining yards and the ruins would lie at the other end of a small hill. As she reached the top of the castle, she could not believe her eyes: where there should have been a burned and ruinous fortress, there stood a half-built castle with its walls in a wooden framework. Someone was rebuilding the old de Puissieux fortress back to its original state. Had Mardred ordered the rebuilding of the castle to make her more appealing to the nobles or had dear Alivan, who wished her to be happy, ordered the rebuilding? As she rode closer, she was amazed by the sheer size of the construction work. Even the detail on the wooden gates was perfectly done and it seemed as they greeted her from a previous life. The gates were standing invitingly open and she rode in, careless of any risks.

As she passed the wooden doors it seemed as she was walking in history. “I hoped it would be ready before you would see it,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “Allow me to help you dismount.” Vincent took her by the sides and lightly carried her off her horse. He had changed over the past years: his facial features were now manlier and a beard adorned his jaws. His smile was ever the more divine and made her stagger. He had grown a lot since she remembered and had become much more muscled then from her memories. She couldn’t help but smile as she saw her saviour in excellent health and spirit. Her sheer joy made that she then threw herself in his arms, glad as she finally saw her big brother and friend again. “I have missed you a lot during these years,” she started speaking softly: “and I only realise that now. Now I recognise what made my heart ache during all that time: my last tie to my history and family was missing from me.” As she looked up into his eyes, he saw the gratitude and overwhelming gladness that radiated in her silver eyes. “No matter how much it saddened my heart and mind, I had to go.”“Why? What made you leave me? I needed you to stand by me in those dark days.”“Because I made a promise, sister of the heart. A promise to keep: a promise to your father endeared. I would protect you as I did in those woeful time and then help you rebuild what we both lost that fateful day. For years I rode through Bretonnia to gain prestige and support to rebuild your ancestral keep back to its original proud state. Come! Let me guide you through your home.”  

Vincent guided the young Loyse through the rebuilt halls of the keep for quiet some time. She was amazed about the work of detail Vincent had remembered and ordered. It seemed like a misty nightmare, clearing up to show the bright sun and the bliss of that special moment of realisation that it had been only a bad dream. Loyse felt young again as she light-footedly stepped through the corridors, preceded by Vincent; as if she had single-handedly stopped the mighty wheel of time and turned it back six years. It seemed so real that the Norse that had invaded her world was like the haunting of a dream. Every moment she expected the strong yet calm voice of her father or the still and caring voice of her mother. A few tears ran over her cheeks as the clouded memories of the days before the assault began to lift. Loyse did no effort to wipe them away: sometimes it is right to shed tears for those that one lost. Suddenly she found herself standing on the nearly finished rooftop of the keep at the same place where her mother had stood those last minutes of her life.

She did not know that yet she remained awkwardly silent. Vincent turned towards her, worried. Time seemed to slow as he steadily walked towards her: he took her delicate round face in his big hands and with his thumbs began to wipe the tears from her eyes. Their mouths grew ever closer as an unstoppable force took over until both their lips touched. Then love and an unknown inner force took over as the embrace grew tighter and they stood there in their eternal embrace. As their lips disengaged but still at a tantalising distance, she asked one of the most difficult questions in her life: “Why do you love me?”“Because I made a promise. A promise to keep.”

Last Updated ( Tuesday, 21 November 2006 )
 
Discuss (5 posts)
A Promise to Keep Nov 21 2006 18:55
This thread discusses the Content article: A Promise to Keep

So tell me what you though about this tale, the second of my hand. Feel free to discuss, critise, suggest or destroy.

- Storyline: the whole of the tale or a part: was it over the top, too emotional, too dry or unbelievable, well written or written like a ten-year old?

- Atmosphere: did you feel any tension or was it all too predictable? Were the scenes well lain or was it hopeless to imagine the drama? What did you find beautiful or revolting imagery?

- Intrincate: what were your opinions of the deeper meanings of certain symbols or dualistic words, were they too easy or too far fetched?

- Grammar, spelling, etc...: had it been written in good English or did it lack certain sayings, etc...

I would implore those who like or disliked the story to give me some feedback as I am always trying to improve my writing, especially in English. Any comments will be used in my next tales, roleplays or posts.

Post edited by: Gisoreux de Ponthieu, at: 2006/11/21 12:57
Re:A Promise to Keep Nov 21 2006 19:21
How can one not like your writing Gisoreux?
But as a writer myself, i must point out some things.

Grammar: Your grammar and language is beautiful, amazing.

Atmosphere: Very nicely done here, you were really able to balance out when the reader was at peace and in constant tension, (i was always waiting for another attack ).

Storyline: More original than most Knight stories, but still definetely, a Knight's tale.

Intricate: Some of the meanings i had to go back to read them, and some where too easy, but overall very good

I would also say something, in some parts, you give really detailed reports of the surroundings and such, while in other parts of the story it seems that it is just action after action.

but i would say 8 minimum and 9 maximum in a 10 scale
Re:A Promise to Keep Nov 21 2006 21:15
I would also say something, in some parts, you give really detailed reports of the surroundings and such, while in other parts of the story it seems that it is just action after action.

Yes, I caught myself making that small error while writing this tale but on the other hand if I would always describe the surroundings into the tinniest detail it would be a geography novel more then a entertaining tale. I found it more balanced to only describe the surroundings if it would matter for the atmos of the story. But I will take your advice to the heart and keep it in mind writing the next ones.
Re:A Promise to Keep Mar 05 2009 20:20
A sweet story, a simple story, but none the worse for that! I am attracted to the Bretonnians for their virtues and nobility, which are wonderfully portrayed by the characters in this story. New takes on classic themes, in this case ' a young knight and a fair lady, they fell in love...' are always a joy to read. Thank you for another great tale!

---Gerard the Easterner
Re:A Promise to Keep Mar 05 2009 20:25
I'm glad you liked it.


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