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[Nighthawk]

This is a short story written by me, Nighthawk. I was inspired by Threetoe's stories, and decided to write one of my own. It is probably not as good. I have read his stories, and he is an amazing writer, but I do try, so I would appreciate some contructive criticism.

This story will not be as action-packed as some of his are, but please, stick with it if it shows promise.
(There may also be a few spelling/grammar errors, as I don't catch everything)
Thanks! 

There was once a man named Hill. He worked on a farm – his own private property, but he always fancied himself an adventurer. He was actually quite skilled with the blade, as he had practiced for years whenever he had the time. He would rather observe swordplay than rest after a long day’s work. One day, his daring side got the better of him and he set out on a journey, looking for adventure. He wandered for a few days, and then came upon a town named Dales. He thought of going to the bar to pick up a job, but it was late, so he headed to the town’s inn. He bought a room for one night, and went to sleep, satisfied.

He awoke early in the morning, long before dawn would creep into the sky. He heard whisperings thorough the wall. Curious, he slid out of bed and into the hall. He slithered up to the door adjacent his, and listened in.
“…Plan then. In a month’s time, we pillage this town. It’s sure to have a good bit of coin in its treasuries. We have explosives ready and a hundred men at the….”
Hill had heard enough. The town was going to be attacked! He had to do something. It would be unwise to face the people alone at night. If he was caught, he would be blamed for the murder of innocent civilians, as he had no proof of who they were. He had to wait until morning and follow them. He crept back into his room and tried to rest, but could not for several hours with what he had learned pestering his mind into unease. He sat for a good long while, then finally slept, his weariness overcoming his fear.

He woke up the next morning, but he was too late. The bandits had left the inn. He cursed himself for oversleeping. Now, all he could do was warn someone in charge. He went to the mayor.

   “I was sleeping at the inn, when I woke up and overheard men in the room next to mine, speaking of ransacking the village!” At this, the mayor gave Hill a confused look.
   “Who did you say you were again, Mr…?”
   “Hill.” Said Hill. “I am a farmer. My land lies a few days east of here.”
   “A farmer! And you just arrived here?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Hmmm….” The mayor sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hill. We can’t simply evacuate the town because a farmer comes and tells us we’re about to be attacked! You must have been weary from your travels, and… besides – This town is not unprotected. We have guards! We haven’t had to use them in years for something so serious. No one dares attack this village anyhow. It is one of the most well-known places in this kingdom! If it is attacked, it will be protected!”
If only I had listened in a bit more, thought Hill. I could have found out where they were camped. Then I could have convinced the mayor.
“Mr. Hill… perhaps it is wiser that you leave this place… we don’t need any more false news to put us on guard. It makes the villagers nervous.”
False news! Hill thought. But every word was true! Fine, then. He said to himself. I hope you’re destroyed. I’m sure this fool would listen to anyone as long as they didn’t bear such a title as farmer. Good riddance! I’ll leave them to the bandits, then!

So he left Dales. His heart was still heavy for that town. He knew that the guard was meager, and that the bandits had a hundred men, at least. He could only convince them if he was better known. If he was someone respected. He had plenty of skill with the sword, but what would that help? Would he march into the mayor’s office again and ask for a test of blades? Then he would surely look like a madman. What he needed was some reputation. He needed to be known. He needed a new persona.




So he made one. He changed his name. He chose something that sounded more courageous. Metus. He would go by that name from now on.

He outfitted himself as an adventurer. Over the course of the next two weeks, he took many a quest. His skill with blades brought him countless victories, and he became known by several names. Orc-Slayer, Demolisher, Vanquisher of Beasts. He wanted nothing more than to be just Hill. But he couldn’t. Metus became fond of his newfound fame and glory, and became caught up in it. After a while, he had pushed the thought of the doomed town to the back of his mind….

As all this was happening, he also met someone very interesting. He was out on his sixth quest, and was currently at another pub in another town. By this time, he had several fans, and everyone was interested in him. If he turned he would see countless heads twist away to look in the opposite direction of him. People seemed nervous around the mysterious new adventurer, Metus. But one girl simply sat, and never paid him any mind. He observed her. She had dusky black hair, yet bright and intelligent hazel eyes. She noticed him staring, and stared back for a moment, then went back to her reading. It bothered him for a bit, but his curiosity soon took over. He spoke to her.
   “Hello.” He greeted her simply.
   “Hello.” She returned. Then she continued reading. Metus was very perturbed, but Hill was interested.
   “Do you know who I am?” he questioned.
   “Not really.” She replied, her eyes never leaving the words on the page.
   “I’m Metus.” He said. He was used to referring to himself as his false avatar now.
   “Then I am Mirl.” She told him. Mirl. He kept talking.
   “What are you reading?” He continued to ask questions, and found himself talking to her for almost the rest of the day. Many other girls in the room looked over jealously, wondering what made Mirl so special. They only saw what she was on the outside. Normal. Many of them were considered beauties, but Mirl was chosen by the famous Metus? Ridiculous. They didn’t see what she did for him. She shot straight through Metus, and found Hill. No one else had ever done that.

26 days after Hill’s encounter with the town of Dale, Mirl told him that she had to go. She was moving to a new town further down south. He didn’t bother asking where. He simply asked why. He wanted to stay with her. She told him that she had family there, and was moving back for a while. He still had many things to do where he was, so he didn’t follow her. He said goodbye and stayed behind. That night, he dreamed badly.

He dreamt of destruction. A fiery blaze burned in his head. Buildings burning, people running, fleeing. Evil men, killing helpless villagers. He was finally freed from the prison of sleep by dawn’s first light. He immediately remembered something very important. He pulled out a map. Tracing his finger from where he was to the south, he found the name of a town. Dales. It was like a wrench had twisted in his gut. Mirl. She was going south. New town. Family. A doomed town.

He bought himself a horse, and raced off towards Dales…

but by the time he arrived, nothing was left but bloodied corpses and destroyed buildings. A ghost of a town. Nothing lived. No birds sung. No people walked the streets. A doomed town. He searched all of it. He searched the whole day, moving wood and bodies until his hands were splintered and his arms ached. He searched for the tiny bit of hope left inside him. But all he found was the recognition of his dread. He found the body of Mirl, buried under rubble. He mourned for the remained of the night, crying bitter tears, telling himself that he should have been there. That if he had remembered what he was supposed to do, he could’ve saved everyone. He could’ve saved Mirl. But he hadn’t.

The following morning, he woke up, and made a grave for her. He prayed over it, and over the town. When he was finished, he walked back through it all. He found something. A bomb. It must have belonged to the bandits. He cursed out loud, and threw it with all his might. It exploded in midair, showering the area in fire. When the smoke cleared, he saw a figure. It was a young boy. Must’ve been about 8 years old. The boy saw the sword in Hill’s hand, and ran. Hill yelled after him to stop. Yelled that he was a friend, but the boy kept running. Finally, Hill gave up, and sat upon a rock in the middle of the town. After a long while, when it was nearly nightfall, he saw shapes in the distance. Many shapes. And he heard marching. It was a group of soldiers. Hill got up and walked towards them. When they saw him, they sped up, and eventually they met him the middle of the field. One soldier spoke.
“That’s the one! He fits the description!” Then the soldier gasped. “Metus? Metus the Vanquisher?”
“No, my name’s-“ Hill was cut off.
“You! How could you! Seize him!” The guards attacked. Hill responded by instinct. Parry above, knock away spear, thrust to the chest. He killed the guard. No! He thought. I don’t want to kill anyone! No! But the guards kept coming. He cut them down, one by one. Block side, duck swing, slice legs, parry strike, overhead slash…. He couldn’t stop fighting. He had to keep fighting to survive. Eventually, he saw that he would be overwhelmed, and fled.

For seven days, he ran. He was a fugitive. He fought and killed those who tried to kill him. He survived. He wished dearly for the strength to give up, to stop the killing. But he didn’t have it. He wished that they would all just stop. He wished that he were Hill, the farmer. But he wasn’t anymore. He was Metus, the betrayer. He ran. He fought. He killed. Countless were the men he killed. On the eighth day, he was cornered, hungry, and fatigued. He was up against a battalion of more than twenty guards. He killed half of them before he had his sword knocked away, and was then stabbed in the heart. At his dying moment, he wished for the strength to speak. To tell them that he was Hill. That he was innocent. But he wasn’t. He died as Metus, pillager, murderer, disloyal champion. Metus was remembered – as one of the worst villains in history - as the legendary hero that went bad.

No one remembered Hill.

[Supermikhail]

Well, I read it, come up with some criticism. You might not like it, but I fear my peers who have dubbed me soft-hearted, and I can't live with this curse, so I've ventured to make my critique a bit entertaining.

But first. Cool story, some tense moments, especially towards the end.

Spoiler: Critique (click to show/hide)

There was once a man named Hill. He worked on a farm – his own private property possible anachronism, but he always fancied himself an adventurer. He was actually quite skilled with the blade, as he had practiced for years whenever he had the time. He would rather observe swordplay than rest after a long day’s work. I don't see how sitting on your ass watching people stab each other is much cooler than just sitting on your ass and smoking a pipe, for example; or you mean, resting like sleeping? In any case, just watching doesn't strike me as such a badassery. Maybe contrast isn't the right thing here? One day, his daring side got the better of him and he set out on a journey, looking for adventure. He wandered for a few days, and then came upon a town named Dales. He thought of going to the bar to pick up a job, but it was late, so he headed to the town’s inn. He bought a room for one night, and went to sleep, satisfied.

He awoke early in the morning, long before dawn would creep into the sky. He heard whisperings thorough the wall. Curious, he slid out of bed and into the hall. He slithered up humans usually can't slither, and you haven't set up the style beforehand to support such metaphors to the door adjacent his, and listened in.
“…Plan then. In a month’s time, we pillage this town. It’s sure to have a good bit of coin in its treasuries. We have explosives ready and a hundred men at the….” did he seriously drop out at "the"? I mean, it's not a word you put a long pause after. Normally, it would sort of fuse with the following word. And in any case it's a clunky way to do it in the text.
Hill had heard enough. The town was going to be attacked! He had to do something. It would be unwise to face the people alone at night. If he was caught, he would be blamed for the murder of innocent civilians, as he had no proof of who they were. He had to wait until morning and follow them. Hell, yeah! So, if he went in now, he would have no other choice but to kill every last one of the bastards, which, of course, wouldn't present any trouble to him? He couldn't, like, hold one of them at the sword tip, or wound some of them and take them to the authorities?He crept back into his room and tried to rest, but could not for several hours with what he had learned pestering his mind into unease. He sat for a good long while, then finally slept, his weariness overcoming his fear.

He woke up the next morning, but he was too late. Why did he go to sleep, at all? Did he expect the bandits would courteously wake him up upon leaving? Or did he think, "Well, they walk me up with their talking, they're sure going to wake me up packing their bags"? The life of an adventurer is bound to have some sleepless nights when you need to stalk some monster who's active only at night (or inactive), or some bandits The bandits had left the inn. He cursed himself for oversleeping. Now, all he could do was warn someone in charge. He went to the mayor.

   “I was sleeping at the inn, when I woke up and overheard men in the room next to mine, speaking of ransacking the village!” At this, the mayor gave Hill a confused look.
   “Who did you say you were again, Mr…?” anachronism. Or wrong style. In any case, people wouldn't address each other "Mr." or "Ms."
   “Hill.” Said Hill. “I am a farmer. My land lies a few days east of here.”
   “A farmer! And you just arrived here?”
   “Yes, sir.” possible anachronism. In fantasy times, "sir" wouldn't be used as just a polite address, but would require some sort of noble status. Of course, the mayor might just have such status
   “Hmmm….” The mayor sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hill. We can’t simply evacuate anachronism the town because a farmer comes and tells us we’re about to be attacked! You must have been weary from your travels, What? That's stupid. Hill isn't warning him about a poltergeist attack, and even in that case, it's a fantasy land! Bandits are a real thing. He could say, "You could have misheard", or something… besides – This town is not unprotected. We have guards! We haven’t had to use them in years for something so serious. No one dares attack this village anyhow. It is one of the most well-known places in this kingdom! If it is attacked, it will be protected!”
If only I had listened in a bit more, thought Hill. I could have found out where they were camped. Yeah, retard. If only you didn't phase out at that "the" Then I could have convinced the mayor.
“Mr. Hill… perhaps it is wiser that you leave this place… we don’t need any more false news to put us on guard. It makes the villagers nervous.” What? So you do think he's kooky. "Bandits? Erhm, haven't they been extinct for 65 million years? "
False news! Hill thought. But every word was true! Fine, then. He said to himself. I hope you’re destroyed. I’m sure this fool would listen to anyone as long as they didn’t bear such a title as farmer. Title means quite a specific thing, and I'm pretty sure "farmer" doesn't fit. It's more like a job, really. Good riddance! I’ll leave them to the bandits, then! I'm tempted to criticise this place as a weird thing to do for a grown-up man.

So he left Dales. His heart was still heavy for that town. He knew that the guard was meager, and that the bandits had a hundred men, at least. He could only convince them if he was better known. If he was someone respected. Or, if he wasn't only interested in fame, he could have just protected the town from the bandits, oh, wait, the retard mayor is going to order his guards to shoot Hill on sight if he's seen in the vicinity of the town. He had plenty of skill with the sword, but what would that help? Would he march into the mayor’s office again and ask for a test of blades? Then he would surely look like a madman. What he needed was some reputation. He needed to be known. He needed a new persona.




So he made one. He changed his name. He chose something that sounded more courageous. Metus. What? How is it better? It rhymes with "fetus"... And then I laughed like an idiot for two minutes, until the word connected with a picture in my mind. He would go by that name from now on.

He outfitted himself as an adventurer. Over the course of the next two weeks, he took many a quest. His skill with blades brought him countless victories, and he became known by several names. Orc-Slayer, Demolisher, Vanquisher of Beasts. He wanted nothing more than to be just Hill. But he couldn’t. Metus became fond of his newfound fame and glory, and became caught up in it. After a while, he had pushed the thought of the doomed town to the back of his mind….

As all this was happening, he also met someone very interesting. He was out on his sixth quest, and was currently sounds anachronistic at another pub in another town. By this time, he had several fans, and everyone was interested in him. If he turned he would see countless heads twist away to look in the opposite direction of him. People seemed nervous around the mysterious new adventurer, Metus. But one girl simply sat, and never paid him any mind. He observed her. She had dusky black hair, yet bright and intelligent hazel eyes. She noticed him staring, and stared back for a moment, then went back to her reading. It bothered him for a bit, but his curiosity soon took over. He spoke to her.
What follows is a huge overuse of dialogue-tags
   “Hello.” He greeted her simply.
   “Hello.” She returned. Then she continued reading. Metus was very perturbed, but Hill was interested.Is this sentence supposed to mean something? "Perturbed" and "interested" aren't antonyms. And if it's like different people, then what is that "but" about?
   “Do you know who I am?” he questioned.
   “Not really.” She replied, her eyes never leaving the words on the page.
   “I’m Metus.” He said. He was used to referring to himself as his false avatar And his true avatar is...?now.
   “Then I am Mirl.” She told him. Mirl. He kept talking.
   “What are you reading?” He continued to ask questions, and found himself talking to her for almost the rest of the day. Many other girls in the room looked over jealously, wondering what made Mirl so special. They only saw what she was on the outside. Normal. Many of them were considered beauties, but Mirl was chosen by the famous Metus? Ridiculous. They didn’t see what she did for him. She shot straight through Metus, and found Hill. No one else had ever done that. You can't really just say it and hope that we believe you. You need to "show, don't tell". What did they really say to each other to leave such impressions?

26 days after Hill’s encounter with the town of Dale, Mirl told him that she had to go. She was moving to a new town further down south. He didn’t bother asking where. He simply asked why. He wanted to stay with her. She told him that she had family there, and was moving back for a while. He still had many things to do where he was, so he didn’t follow her. He said goodbye and stayed behind. That night, he dreamed badly. Why not just say "he had a bad dream"?

He dreamt Decide whether you're British or American of destruction. A fiery blaze burned in his head. Buildings burning, Repetition, sounds clunky. "Buildings burning in a burning blaze..." people running, fleeing. Evil men, killing helpless villagers. He was finally freed from the prison of sleep by dawn’s first light. He immediately remembered something very important. He pulled out a map. Tracing his finger from where he was to the south, he found the name of a town. I think a correct map would be a pretty expensive commodity in the fantasy land, and I suspect that adventurers would mostly keep their maps in their heads Dales. It was like a wrench had twisted in his gut. Mirl. She was going south. New town. Family. A doomed town.

He bought himself a horse, and raced off towards Dales…
Generally, in non-Internet fiction, you don't start a new paragraph with a small letter. I think you can do with a straight sentence here. You don't accomplish much emotion-vise by this pause.
but by the time he arrived, nothing was left but bloodied corpses and destroyed buildings. A ghost of a town. Nothing lived. No birds sung. No people walked the streets. A doomed town. He searched all of it. He searched the whole day, moving wood and bodies until his hands were splintered and his arms ached. He searched for the tiny bit of hope left inside him. But all he found was the recognition of his dread. He found the body of Mirl, buried under rubble. He mourned for the remained of the night, crying bitter tears, telling himself that he should have been there. That if he had remembered what he was supposed to do, he could’ve saved everyone. He could’ve saved Mirl. But he hadn’t.

The following morning, he woke up, and made a grave for her. He prayed over it, and over the town. When he was finished, he walked back through it all. He found something. A bomb. It must have belonged to the bandits. He cursed out loud, and threw it with all his might. It exploded in midair, showering the area in fire. What?... Is it supposed to be a time bomb? In the fantasy land? Or in the DF land, where most bombs are made of overheated cats? When the smoke cleared, he saw a figure. It was a young boy. Must’ve been about 8 years old. The boy saw the sword in Hill’s hand, and ran. Hill yelled after him to stop. Yelled that he was a friend, but the boy kept running. Finally, Hill gave up, and sat upon a rock in the middle of the town. After a long while, when it was nearly nightfall, he saw shapes in the distance. Many shapes. And he heard marching. It was a group of soldiers. Hill got up and walked towards them. When they saw him, they sped up, and eventually they met him the middle of the field. One soldier spoke.
“That’s the one! He fits the description!” Then the soldier gasped. “Metus? Metus the Vanquisher?”
“No, my name’s-“ Hill was cut off.
“You! How could you! Seize him!” The guards attacked. Hill responded by instinct. Parry above, knock away spear, thrust to the chest. He killed the guard. No! He thought. I don’t want to kill anyone! No! But the guards kept coming. He cut them down, one by one. Block side, duck swing, slice legs, parry strike, overhead slash…. He couldn’t stop fighting. He had to keep fighting to survive. Eventually, he saw that he would be overwhelmed, and fled.

For seven days, he ran. He was a fugitive. He fought and killed those who tried to kill him. He survived. He wished dearly for the strength to give up, to stop the killing. But he didn’t have it. He wished that they would all just stop. He wished that he were Hill, the farmer. But he wasn’t anymore. He was Metus, the betrayer. He ran. He fought. He killed. Countless were the men he killed. On the eighth day, he was cornered, hungry, and fatigued. He was up against a battalion of more than twenty guards. It's not a battalion He killed half of them before he had his sword knocked away, and was then stabbed in the heart. At his dying moment, he wished for the strength to speak. To tell them that he was Hill. That he was innocent. But he wasn’t. He died as Metus, pillager, murderer, disloyal champion. Metus was remembered – as one of the worst villains in history - as the legendary hero that went bad.

No one remembered Hill.

Before you close the thread, allow me to bring in some constructivity. And, summarize, I guess. In no particular order.

Looking back, I see one of the most frequent points I make is, anachronism. Which means that you use words and expressions (highly) uncharacteristic of the period. I take it the story is set in medieval fantasy. The Middle Ages was a period in history from 5th to 15th centuries and usually to be sure I check my words in an etymology dictionary. Of course, you can't write in Middle English, but for some words you have to watch out.

My next point is careless use of figures of speech, such as metaphor and (just Gooogle'd it ) antithesis. Well, "slither", as an example of a bad metaphor, denotes a specific way of locomotion, so it's hard to imagine Hill doing anything close to slithering. For antitheses, observing swordplay against resting, perturbed against interested. You can't contrast anything to anything. Your points have to have a notion of contrast in the minds of the public, or they just create confusion.

I guess it's time to talk about  dialogue-tags. They are a sort of controversial matter, but the school I'm in places dialogue itself in the first place, and the tags in the second. Which means, we try to reduce the weight of dialogue-tags, so that the reader's eye flies over them almost not noticing, making the dialogue more visual. This is accomplished through preferred use of "said" over more fancy substitutes, like "questioned" and "returned", and contracting dialogue tags as much as possible, so adverbs such as "simply" are considered redundant... One more thing I forgot to point out - you use a comma, not a period, when character's words are a statement. That is,
  "Hello," he greeted her.

Well, my last point is, use logic. You have to be the harshest critic of your writing, and to part-time as a private investigator. Which is, go over your story many times and consider every plot twist and every exposition for whether it makes sense, whether it works. It's usually easier to do not after having written a story, but during outlining one. Write all your characters, their motivations, what they do during the story and where and what they end up with, the story by parts. And, of course, think about the tempo. The beginning of your story could use more exposition about Hill, how he became such a sword-master. Then the conversation with Mirl, which needs some more development. This whole deal with Mirl could use more development.

Oh, lastly. It appears to me you think that ThreeToe's stories are a pinnacle of short story evolution. Well, they aren't. They are flawed, sometimes more, sometimes less. Well, the flaws are more subtle than in your story, like random point-of-view switching, but they are there, and it would be a better idea to get your inspiration from classics of fantasy, and literature in general.

[Fishbreath]

You might not like it, but I fear my peers who have dubbed me soft-hearted, and I can't live with this curse, so I've ventured to make my critique a bit entertaining.

This is why we can't have nice things, you know.

First I'll remark on parts of Supermikhail's critique I agree or disagree with, and then I'll add any points I have left over. I'm writing with a bit of a cold, so if I don't make any sense it's not all my fault.

I guess it's time to talk about  dialogue-tags. They are a sort of controversial matter, but the school I'm in places dialogue itself in the first place, and the tags in the second. Which means, we try to reduce the weight of dialogue-tags, so that the reader's eye flies over them almost not noticing, making the dialogue more visual. This is accomplished through preferred use of "said" over more fancy substitutes, like "questioned" and "returned", and contracting dialogue tags as much as possible, so adverbs such as "simply" are considered redundant...

Ah, my old sparring partner (Nighthawk: if you read the Writer's Guild thread you'll see that Supermikhail and I are always going back and forth on this one subject), once again we must differ in principle (although not necessarily on this example).

Generally limiting yourself to simple dialogue tags and letting the dialogue speak for itself are good pieces of advice. Saying that anything more than that is unacceptable is very bad advice. Consider the different feel of these two lines:

"May I see your papers?" the ticket agent asked.
"May I see your papers?" the ticket agent questioned sharply.

They suggest different situations. In the first, it's routine; the ticket agent merely wants to be sure everything's in order. In the second, something is obviously wrong. Some might suggest using what the ticket agent is doing to generate the same feel, but there are some places where that really wrecks the urgency of a scene.

Of course, I also maintain that it's possible to overuse dialogue tags. If everyone is always questioning sharply, it won't strike the reader as strange when the ticket agent sharply questions the spy.

My next point is careless use of figures of speech, such as metaphor [...]. Well, "slither", as an example of a bad metaphor, denotes a specific way of locomotion, so it's hard to imagine Hill doing anything close to slithering. For antitheses, observing swordplay against resting, perturbed against interested. You can't contrast anything to anything. Your points have to have a notion of contrast in the minds of the public, or they just create confusion.

I agree with you that 'slither' is a bad choice, but disagree on reason: 'slither' evokes images of snakes and insects and all kinds of nasty creepy-crawlies. If an author chooses to use that word, then I view the character he uses it with in a very negative way. I might have chosen 'crept' instead.

As a bit of a swordsman myself, I agree that watching swordfighting is only slightly more instructive than doing nothing with it at all, but that's a different quibble. Regarding contrast, I use my status as a native English speaker to veto your criticism: 'perturbed' and 'interested' are very close in meaning but different in connotation, and contrasting them is perfectly acceptable.

That point and my use of 'crept' earlier brings me to another point: that of your remark about 'choose British or American'. In short, I say, "No." A writer's use of British vs. American spellings is a point of individual style; I'm an American but I prefer 'leapt' and 'travelled' to 'leaped' and 'traveled'. That one L looks so alone there. On the other hand, consistency is a good thing. When I'm writing for public consumption I tend to stick to 'leaped' because I use 'dreamed', and 'traveled' because I'm sure there's some other non-doubled stem-final pre-suffix L I use somewhere.

Looking back, I see one of the most frequent points I make is, anachronism. Which means that you use words and expressions (highly) uncharacteristic of the period. I take it the story is set in medieval fantasy. The Middle Ages was a period in history from 5th to 15th centuries and usually to be sure I check my words in an etymology dictionary. Of course, you can't write in Middle English, but for some words you have to watch out.

In some ways I disagree with this. Certainly it's bad style to be using language that's obviously modern, but some of the complaints you made ('currently', 'sir', 'Mr.') are difficult to support. There aren't many good alternatives for time expressions, and 'current' dates to the 1200s anyway. You can't complain about 'sir' and 'Mr.' without knowing more of the culture in which the story takes place. While it is easier for the reader to assume that the fictional world differs from the real one only where stated, the reader also has to cut the author a bit of slack, especially in a piece this short. 'Private property' is alright to my ear, and gets the point across alright, but we also have the word 'freehold', and I certainly would have used that one instead.

Word choice is always hard to get right, but that's why we post things for criticism.

You can't really just say it and hope that we believe you. You need to "show, don't tell". What did they really say to each other to leave such impressions?

Quoting aphorisms is all well and good, but if you lean back and look at this piece as a whole, a long heartfelt conversation doesn't really serve any purpose.

He dreamed badly.

I don't like this very much. He didn't sleep well, he tossed and turned all night, and so on; there are better ways to express the same idea.

He bought himself a horse, and raced off towards Dales…

but by the time he arrived, [...]

I see what you're trying to do here. I like the em-dash better. I also think it reads a little better if you start a new idea instead of continuing your old one:

He bought himself a horse, and raced off toward Dales—

—he was too late. [...]

Well. That's disjointed enough to confuse even the most diligent reader. I'm going to move on to some more general thoughts now.

First: I like the overall plot. It's a good setup and a good finish. The world it takes place in, however, is very bland. Even for a piece this short, having a concrete idea of the look of the world makes the whole thing look much more polished.

Second: the timing is way off. Two weeks is a very, very short time in a world where the fastest mode of land travel is the horse, unless you've got a very, very dangerous countryside. News just doesn't travel that fast.

Third: something bothers me about the style. I can't put my finger on it precisely, but if I had to give an attempt I think I'd call it halting. It just doesn't seem to flow off the page to me. Flow is elusive, though, and you'll only get better at it through practice. If Supermikhail hasn't scared you away, I'm sure we'd love to see you work on it over at the Writers Guild. Generally we're happy to give something a once-over before you put it somewhere more public.

Fourth: I approve of the wordplay in the title.