Up for brutal, yet hopefull creative criticisms

[Zynex]

I'm an amateur at writing, and have never written formally before, but i feel the need that my work has to be judged by many if I am to improve my standards as a writer. I may not know how to "properly" write, but I love to think up stories, always have and I guess always will. :smallbiggrin:

This is a chapter from one story I've been cultivating entitled the The Tome of Hordes. It's open for miticulous scrutiny and brutal criticisms. I have to know if I even have an inkling of talent or imagination if I am to pursue this endeavor further and improve what little skills I have in this craft, if ever I have any to work with. Post as you see fit, gloves are off.

Thank you.

Old Habits

It was barely busy that day amidst the surprisingly vacant streets of Calamb. It was eerie enough that old senile codgers would hint and shout out loud that it is to be a bad omen, perhaps even a sign of the coming of the apocalypse. Never it was seen that Hilgallen’s melting pot of cultures was not the least bit congested with merchants selling their wares, inventors presenting their modernizing gadgets and even common thieves picking pockets that are innately prominent in such a prosperous city. The place seemed like a ghost town. Neither was there a sight nor a sound of life that could be heard save for one lone figure walking leisurely as if nothing was wrong.

But there was all too many wrongs going on in Calamb nowadays. Too many times have there been attacks of monsters. They were never out of place in Hilgallen but these were creatures that were beyond the normal parameters of their kind. Military and militia alike have sufficient knowledge of such creatures but these new breed exhibited new attributes such as increased intelligence, absurd strength and uncharacteristic capabilities. And this was the city’s greatest concern, for now an abomination has made its way within the city center, petrifying the very flow of life within the city. Victims had escalated the last two days and the killings had not stopped for three weeks straight. The city had been closed down to outsiders and a writ had been issued for the city dwellers to stay within their abodes for none had been attacked indoors. What made these murders beyond military control was that not a soul knew what was killing Calamb’s inhabitants. Those who ever witnessed the murders, which were blatantly performed in the middle of broad daylight, only see the victims eviscerated and profanely disfigured beyond human contortions in mid-air.

The man, with pony-tailed blond hair underneath a felt hat and sporting a brown trench coat, surveyed the surrounding emptiness. Not much to see, as all he can spot are closed shutters and locked doors on all the houses and shops he passed by. Not much to hear either for the only sound he could make out was the clacking of his own military boots upon the well-laid cobblestones. He did not seem purposeful in his walking though, moreover it seemed like he was just a tourist soaking in the scenery. He gave out a cheerful, melodic whistling that some would find the tune eerie. It was a habit he had formed, one that his mentor severely disliked. Whenever he found himself amidst boredom, he would whistle the tune over and over for his own amusement, a meager distraction but was one that entertained him well.

After walking a good distance, he found himself at the city center, where Historical monuments lay for the eyes of those who would visit the city. The sound of water dripping lightly on the fountain at the center made the only noise in the area. Neither man nor beast was to be found here as well. Carts were left haphazardly as if to signal that whoever owned them left in a hurry, all the while the man kept his attention towards the barely dripping fountain though his physical appearance still hinted that he was just strolling around. He sat at the foot of the fountain and relaxed for a while. His whistling stopped as he reached into his trench coat pocket. He drew out a cigar and a matchstick. He lit the cigar and puffed out the smoke in a laid back manner, as if he were just lounging around at the local tavern.

He sat there for quite a while, shifting his position every now and then, fiddling with his sword, that curiously enough was slightly curved, untraditional for most swords in Hilgallen, and which he had expertly hidden within his coat, offhandedly flicking it around his fingers as if it were just a coin, all the while smoking his cigar that was now about a few millimeters beyond half.

He stopped suddenly. His left hand gripped tightly upon his sheathed sword, and his other hand removed the cigar from his mouth.

He puffed out the smoke strongly in front of him and it silhouetted a human like creature crouching down about to strike the man. Weirder still was the fact that the creature crouched down in mid-air, not touching the cobblestones. The creature by all means looked like a “Choker”, a monster with mottled gray flesh, tentacle like arms and legs, bony skull, spine and rib cage, though it was much larger than the text books say they were. It shook its head violently in irritation of the smoke suddenly blasted upon its façade. The man flicked the cigar upon the creatures eye and, as the creature gave out an unfathomable cry of pain, he drew his sword, he slashed at the creature in a fluid motion while shifting into a half-kneeling position, almost effortlessly, and as soon as he had hacked his opponent, his sword found its place within its sheath again in a mere fraction of a second as it was out of its sheath. It was as if he never drew it at all.

As the upper half of the creature slid off its lower half, its features became visible and it was indeed a choker. As the creature’s torso and lower body fell to the floor below, the man slammed the tip of his sheath upon the ground, unsettling dust wildly beneath it and revealing a tentacle about to strike upon the man’s head. Holding the sheath with his left hand and the hilt with the right, he drew his blade slightly vertically in front of him blocking the tentacle’s attack, its edged side aimed at the tentacle that slammed and cut itself upon the well-maintained edge of the man’s sword. Ichor spurted from the wounded tentacle as it withdrew from its assault, revealing itself as another choker-like creature levitating a mere ten feet from the man. But as soon as it had ceased its assault the swordsman launched itself into a dire charge, slashing with astounding speed that one would doubt if they had seen a sword drawn from its sheath or the sight of lightning, coursing through cloudy skies with blazing rapidity.

After this, he dusted off his coat, swiped his exotic curved sword into the air to clean off the blood or what of it that had clung to the perfectly crafted blade as the creature fell limp and deceased, neither giving off a whimper or a scream.

“Those smoke things are gonna kill ya someday Bill, ya know that?” A voice within his trench lectured. From there emerged a blue mouse, about the size of a hamster or a guinea pig perhaps, though his size did not hamper his audibility in speech, though astounding already it was for a mouse to speak perfect Common.

“Yeah, yeah!” the swordsman said gruffly though his voice was much younger than his features would make it seem. “ Save it for the old sages, Deidri, I ain’t goin’ away anytime soon!!!”

“And all that whistling!” the blue mouse complained again, his voice becoming harsher and harsher. “I could barely keep my sanity with that hauntingly irritating habit of yours!”

“Hey, it got the job done didn’t it. With your dumbed down version of that echo… somethin’, we were able to locate those abominations and know how many they were.”

“Whatever! The least we can do now is get our bounties from that Noble who runs this place and get the heck back on the open road!”

With a sneer of agitation, the blue mouse then ducked back inside the swordsman’s coat as they proceeded to the Reinhart’s mansion residence. All the while, people started flocking outside seeing their hero while being cautious at the same time. They had not seen this man before though they are grateful for his deeds that day. One child spotted and pointed at the back of the stranger’s coat bearing an insignia, one well forgotten yet renowned nonetheless to those of knowledge, signifying his birthright as a Van Burace.

[Zakama]

He gave out a cheerful, melodic whistling that some would find the tune eerie.
Just a little editing there, did you mean "That some would find eerie" or, "some would find the tune eerie"? Other then that, not too bad. build on it and it could be good. One thing though, this guy seems a little too kick tail. if you want him that way, OK, but I would tone him down a little bit.

[Brickwall]

Just a little editing there, did you mean "That some would find eerie" or, "some would find the tune eerie"? Other then that, not too bad. build on it and it could be good. One thing though, this guy seems a little too kick tail. if you want him that way, OK, but I would tone him down a little bit.

Or better yet, "He started whistling in a cheerful, melodic manner, though the tune he chose would strike some as eerie." "Giving" a whistle generally implies a short burst.

Overall, I'd say that the only thing that needs work is your grammer, as it makes the story hard to extract the total meaning out of. I am guessing that you are not a native English speaker, given your occasional capitalization of random, non-proper nouns, so it is a forgivable error. However, all the best writing is nearly completely free of any syntax errors like the one that the above poster cited, which are glaring even to the poorly-read.

[Tormsskull]

I'm an amateur at writing, and have never written formally before, but i feel the need that my work has to be judged by many if I am to improve my standards as a writer. I may not know how to "properly" write, but I love to think up stories, always have and I guess always will. :smallbiggrin:

This is a chapter from one story I've been cultivating entitled the The Tome of Hordes. It's open for miticulous scrutiny and brutal criticisms. I have to know if I even have an inkling of talent or imagination if I am to pursue this endeavor further and improve what little skills I have in this craft, if ever I have any to work with. Post as you see fit, gloves are off.

Thank you.


It definitely has some potential, and I'd say you are on the right track. I'll point out some of the errors I noticed:


Old Habits

It was barely busy that day amidst the surprisingly vacant streets of Calamb. It was eerie enough that old senile codgers would hint and shout out loud that it is to be a bad omen, perhaps even a sign of the coming of the apocalypse. Never it was seen that Hilgallen’s melting pot of cultures was not the least bit congested with merchants selling their wares, inventors presenting their modernizing gadgets and even common thieves picking pockets that are innately prominent in such a prosperous city. The place seemed like a ghost town. Neither was there a sight nor a sound of life that could be heard save for one lone figure walking leisurely as if nothing was wrong.

But there was all too many wrongs going on in Calamb nowadays. Too many times have there been attacks of monsters. They were never out of place in Hilgallen but these were creatures that were beyond the normal parameters of their kind. Military and militia alike have sufficient knowledge of such creatures but these new breed exhibited new attributes such as increased intelligence, absurd strength and uncharacteristic capabilities. And this was the city’s greatest concern, for now an abomination has made its way within the city center, petrifying the very flow of life within the city. The number of victims had escalated the last two days and the killings had not stopped for three weeks straight. The city had been closed down to outsiders and a writ had been issued for the city dwellers to stay within their abodes for none had been attacked indoors. What made these murders beyond military control was that not a soul knew what was killing Calamb’s inhabitants. Those who had witnessed the murders, which were blatantly performed in the middle of broad daylight, only see the victims eviscerated and profanely disfigured beyond human contortions in mid-air.

The man, with pony-tailed blond hair underneath a felt hat and sporting a brown trench coat, surveyed the surrounding emptiness. Not much to see, as all he can spot are closed shutters and locked doors on all the houses and shops he passed by. Not much to hear either for the only sound he could make out was the clacking of his own military boots upon the well-laid cobblestones. He did not seem purposeful in his walking though, moreover it seemed like he was just a tourist soaking in the scenery. He gave out a cheerful, melodic whistling that some would find the tune eerie. It was a habit he had formed, one that his mentor severely disliked. Whenever he found himself amidst boredom, he would whistle the tune over and over for his own amusement, a meager distraction but was one that entertained him well.

After walking a good distance, he found himself at the city center, where Historical monuments lay for the eyes of those who would visit the city. The sound of water dripping lightly on the fountain at the center made the only noise in the area. Neither man nor beast was to be found here as well. Carts were left haphazardly as if to signal that whoever owned them left in a hurry, all the while the man kept his attention towards the barely dripping fountain though his physical appearance still hinted that he was just strolling around. He sat at the foot of the fountain and relaxed for a while. His whistling stopped as he reached into his trench coat pocket. He drew out a cigar and a matchstick. He lit the cigar and puffed out the smoke in a laid back manner, as if he were just lounging around at the local tavern.

He sat there for quite a while, shifting his position every now and then, fiddling with his sword, that curiously enough was slightly curved, untraditional for most swords in Hilgallen, and which he had expertly hidden within his coat, offhandedly flicking it around his fingers as if it were just a coin, all the while smoking his cigar that was now about a few millimeters beyond half. ((This is 1 sentence!!!))

He stopped suddenly. His left hand gripped tightly upon his sheathed sword, and his other hand removed the cigar from his mouth.

He puffed out the smoke strongly in front of him and it silhouetted a human-like creature crouching down about to strike him. Weirder still was the fact that the creature crouched down in mid-air, not touching the cobblestones. The creature by all means looked like a “Choker”, a monster with mottled gray flesh, tentacle like arms and legs, bony skull, spine and rib cage, though it was much larger than the text books say they were. It shook its head violently in irritation of the smoke suddenly blasted upon its façade. The man flicked the cigar upon the creatures eye and, as the creature gave out an unfathomable cry of pain, he drew his sword, he slashed at the creature in a fluid motion while shifting into a half-kneeling position, almost effortlessly, and as soon as he had hacked his opponent, his sword found its place within its sheath again in a mere fraction of a second as it was out of its sheath. It was as if he never drew it at all.

As the upper half of the creature slid off its lower half, its features became visible and it was indeed a choker. As the creature’s torso and lower body fell to the floor below, the man slammed the tip of his sheath upon the ground, unsettling dust wildly beneath it and revealing a tentacle about to strike upon the man’s head. Holding the sheath with his left hand and the hilt with the right, he drew his blade slightly vertically in front of him blocking the tentacle’s attack, its edged side aimed at the tentacle that slammed and cut itself upon the well-maintained edge of the man’s sword. Ichor spurted from the wounded tentacle as it withdrew from its assault, revealing itself as another choker-like creature levitating a mere ten feet from the man. But as soon as it had ceased its assault the swordsman launched itself into a dire charge, slashing with astounding speed that one would doubt if they had seen a sword drawn from its sheath or the sight of lightning, coursing through cloudy skies with blazing rapidity.

After this, he dusted off his coat, swiped his exotic curved sword into the air to clean off the blood or what of it that had clung to the perfectly crafted blade as the creature fell limp and deceased, neither giving off a whimper or a scream.

“Those smoke things are gonna kill ya someday Bill, ya know that?” A voice within his trench lectured. From there emerged a blue mouse, about the size of a hamster or a guinea pig perhaps, though its size did not hamper its audibility in speech, though astounding already it was for a mouse to speak perfect Common.

“Yeah, yeah!” the swordsman said gruffly though his voice was much younger than his features would make it seem. “ Save it for the old sages, Deidri, I ain’t goin’ away anytime soon!!!”

“And all that whistling!” the blue mouse complained again, its voice becoming harsher and harsher. “I could barely keep my sanity with that hauntingly irritating habit of yours!”

“Hey, it got the job done didn’t it. With your dumbed down version of that echo… somethin’, we were able to locate those abominations and know how many there were.”

“Whatever! The least we can do now is get our bounties from that Noble who runs this place and get the heck back on the open road!”

With a sneer of agitation, the blue mouse then ducked back inside the swordsman’s coat as they proceeded to the Reinhart’s mansion residence. All the while, people started flocking outside to see their hero while being cautious at the same time. They had not seen this man before though they are grateful for his deeds that day. One child spotted and pointed at the back of the stranger’s coat bearing an insignia, one well forgotten yet renowned nonetheless to those of knowledge, signifying his birthright as a Van Burace.

Orange text = confusing & or odd-sounding. Consider revising.
Purple text = wrong tense
Green text = My suggested changes

[Zynex]

Yeah, thought the grammar would be the first to go. Brickwall hit it right on the nail, english is actually just my second language. Not only that, I usually write on a "in the zone" basis, meaning I write things like these when inspiration strikes me and grammar seems to slip my grip during those situations.

Thanks for the suggestions. Will definitely try to improve on grammar, imagination's checked out but form and structure is big in writing I guess. Originally though, I'd always wanted to have my stories in comic book form, maybe a webcomic like the Giant's OOTS, although even drawing just stick figures seem to be difficult for me.

How I wish I knew someone who could draw well to collaborate with. :smallsigh:

Oh well, enough of wishing, time to crunch some brain cells and learn to write proper english syntax.

[Goodfellow]

I found the tenses at the beginning a little off.
For Example:It was barely busy that day amidst the surprisingly vacant streets of Calamb. It was eerie enough that old senile codgers would hint and shout out loud that it is to be a bad omen, perhaps even a sign of the coming of the apocalypse

perhaps try:It was barely busy that day amidst the surprisingly vacant streets of Calamb. It was eerie enough that old senile codgers would hint and shout out loud that it wasto be a bad omen, perhaps even a sign of the coming of the apocalypse

also:"But there were all too many wrongs going on in Calamb nowadays" or somthing of the like anyway.

Tenses can be tricky to get right, but it makes the piece much easier to read if you can. Things just flow better.

I noticed this as well:He sat there for quite a while, shifting his position every now and then, fiddling with his sword, that curiously enough was slightly curved, untraditional for most swords in Hilgallen, and which he had expertly hidden within his coat, offhandedly flicking it around his fingers as if it were just a coin, all the while smoking his cigar that was now about a few millimeters beyond half.
I might be a little picky but that looks awfully long for a sentence. Just rephrase to get some punctuation in there.

[Brickwall]

I've read sentences twice as long as that, Goodfellow. Usually in 1800's-early 1900's literature.

But they are bad.

[Zynex]

Well, haven't really gone to fixing all of the problems on the previous chapter i posted, but i'd like to see if my grammar has improved since then. This is one I wrote a few months after I wrote the "Old Habits" one.

The same guy is there, but this part of the story is set farther into future, like i think 10 to 12 years after what happened in "Old Habits".

Anyway, enough of the pitch, just wanted to know if this has as much errors as the first one.

Knights No More

Zosk was a place that no creature would ever knowingly place itself in, whether intellectual or not. It was a place of dread, where the abominations of past sins have been imprisoned. Dark beings thought only to exist from imaginary tales, far superior than any to be found in Hilgallen lurk and hunger for freedom in that forsaken land. Though it seems that three people hardly see these matters. All three stood at a mountain peek, strong gusts bellowing and threatening to topple them over and lightning bolting down from the heavens. Oddly enough, none of the inhabitants of Zosk dare disturb the deadlock stare between those three.

They had been standing there for quite a while. First that came was a short and stout heavily bearded old dwarf with gray hair, using a staff to prop himself atop the peek, his robes bearing designs of his dwarven heritage, he stooped there for about an hour. Then the second one came. Almost covered from head to toe with his black cape and hood, he bore a weapon thought much too large for a human his size. His hair a clutter and wearing dark glasses, he glanced at the old dwarf now sitting atop swinging one leg. For a while the two stared at each other, then the second man sat where he stood, the huge wrapped weapon on his back making an echoing sound that seemed boundless as it hit the ground.

Then finally, after about half an hour or so, the third one arrived, his felt hat covering his long, blonde pony-tailed hair. He wore normal adventuring vestments, a trench coat; work pants, battle boots and a white shirt, as if to hint of poverty or practicality. He seemed unarmed but closer inspections upon his trench coat would reveal that he had the capability to hide his sword from most prying eyes. It was a sword estranged from Hilgallen, for it was like a longsword lest it was slightly curved.

As the third one arrived, the old dwarf stopped swinging his leg and stood slowly. The man with dark glasses though gave the blonde-haired man a menacing glare, though it could barely be seen through his ebon spectacles, and then stood as well. They all stood there, silent and strong.

The dwarf knew why he had agreed to this meeting. He had lived a good few centuries and he loved this land. Though he is growing weak, feeble and admittedly senile. Time is a vicious enemy and he knew full well that he was losing, as he was destined, as all were. This would be the last time that he would see these two. He wished that it would be three that were here now though he knew it futile to wish for such absurd things. The Siege Meister knew his limits and this was his farewell to these two, whom he called comrades at one point in time many years ago. He would not participate in this coming struggle, for he has come to terms that it is time for the new generation to arise and settle the coming dispute. His time to disappear into the annals of history was at hand and he had accepted wholeheartedly.

The man in dark glasses saw it fit to take part with this final farewell. He was known as the Butcher, a veritable killing machine. Many knew him as the man that slew a thousand, maybe more, abominations during the Onslaught and many admired and esteemed him. But those people never knew that there was one who had escaped his ferocity, and that man stood across that mountaintop, the man with blonde hair. This would be the last time he would see this man an ally. It was bittersweet for him, oddly enough for the man he wants to defeat, he also considered a friend.

The blonde-haired man looked at both men as he stood there. One he considered his friend, the other his rival. He was reluctant to come there, not because of the danger but because it was something he had wished would never happen. He never imagined nor wanted to be part of the celebrated Quarter Knights but fate had suggested otherwise. Grudgingly he took the “job”, and he bore with it. Strangely enough, he found that he had come to like it. It gave him something that had eluded him when he was the “Golden Nor’easter”, friends. And now, it was time to give up friendship and stand up for their separate resolves.

The dwarf was neutral, choosing to isolate himself from the conflicts of Hilgallen. The blonde-haired man, driven by honor, chose to uphold his late friend’s dying wish, a once more united Hilgallen. The man in dark glasses chose to ally himself with whomever he saw strong and fit to lead, be they good or otherwise.

And that was what that meeting was for, an establishment of resolves. Though, more importantly, it was a final valediction for after this, none would ever consider the other a friend anymore, just another obstacle. No words were needed, and they all knew of the consequences. Deep within, they all wished it would end differently, but fate was a fickle mistress and they were caught in its unerring flow. And fate saw it fit that the final bastion of hope of Hilgallen, its stalwart defenders in its most bleak of hours and its most trusted warriors, the Quarter Knights were to be disbanded.

Then, after the long stare, one by one, the three left that mountaintop. The dwarf had tears streaming down uncontrollably from his cheek to his beard, the man in dark glasses clasped his fists so tight that his palms bled, and the blonde haired man lowered the felt hat to cover his red, misty eyes. For a while, not a gust was felt and not a single bolt of lightning came down as they made their way down from the valley separately.

Then…

They were gone…

Knights, no more.

[Brickwall]

Well, haven't really gone to fixing all of the problems on the previous chapter i posted, but i'd like to see if my grammar has improved since then. This is one I wrote a few months after I wrote the "Old Habits" one.

The same guy is there, but this part of the story is set farther into future, like i think 10 to 12 years after what happened in "Old Habits".

Anyway, enough of the pitch, just wanted to know if this has as much errors as the first one.

Knights No More

Zosk was a place that no creature would ever knowingly place itself in, whether it was sentient or not. It was a place of dread, where the abominations of past sins had been imprisoned. Dark beings thought only to exist from imaginary tales, far superior than any to be found in Hilgallen, lurked and hungered for freedom in that forsaken land. Though it seems that three people hardly saw these things. All three stood at a mountain peak, strong gusts bellowing and threatening to topple them over and lightning bolting down from the heavens. Oddly enough, none of the inhabitants of Zosk dared disturb the deadlock stare between those three.

They had been standing there for quite a while. The first to come was a short and stout heavily bearded old dwarf with gray hair, using a staff to prop himself atop the peak, his robes bearing designs of his dwarven heritage. He stooped there for about an hour. Then the second one came. Almost covered from head to toe with his black cape and hood, he bore a weapon thought much too large for a human his size. His hair a clutter, and dark glasses over his eyes, he glanced at the old dwarf now sitting atop swinging one leg. For a while the two stared at each other, then the second man sat where he stood, the huge wrapped weapon on his back making an echoing sound that seemed boundless as it hit the ground.

Then finally, after about half an hour or so, the third one arrived, his felt hat covering his long, blonde pony-tailed hair. He wore normal adventuring vestments: a trench coat, work pants, battle boots and a white shirt, as if to hint of poverty or practicality. He seemed unarmed but closer inspections upon his trench coat would reveal that he had the capability to hide his sword from most prying eyes. It was a sword strange to Hilgallen, for it was like a longsword lest it was slightly curved.

As the third one arrived, the old dwarf stopped swinging his leg and stood slowly. The man with dark glasses, though, gave the blonde-haired man a menacing glare, though it could barely be seen through his ebon spectacles, and then stood as well. They all stood there, silent and strong.

The dwarf knew why he had agreed to this meeting. He had lived a good few centuries and he loved this land. Though he was growing weak, feeble and admittedly senile. Time is a vicious enemy and he knew full well that he was losing, as he was destined, as all were. This would be the last time that he would see these two. He wished that it would be three that were here now, though he knew it futile to wish for such absurd things. The Siege Meister knew his limits, and this was his farewell to these two, whom he called comrades at one point in time many years ago. He would not participate in this coming struggle, for he had come to terms that it was time for the new generation to arise and settle the coming dispute. His time to disappear into the annals of history was at hand and he had accepted wholeheartedly.

The man in dark glasses saw it fit to take part with this final farewell. He was known as the Butcher, a veritable killing machine. Many knew him as the man that slew a thousand, maybe more, abominations during the Onslaught, and many admired and esteemed him. But those people never knew that there was one who had escaped his ferocity, and that man stood across that mountaintop, the man with blonde hair. This would be the last time he would see this man an ally. It was bittersweet for him, oddly enough for the man he wanted to defeat, he also considered a friend.

The blonde-haired man looked at both men as he stood there. One he considered his friend, the other his rival. He was reluctant to come there, not because of the danger, but because it was something he had wished would never happen. He never imagined nor wanted to be part of the celebrated Quarter Knights but fate had suggested otherwise. Grudgingly he took the “job”, and he bore with it. Strangely enough, he found that he had come to like it. It gave him something that had eluded him when he was the “Golden Nor’easter”, friends. And now, it was time to give up friendship and stand up for their separate resolves.

The dwarf was neutral, choosing to isolate himself from the conflicts of Hilgallen. The blonde-haired man, driven by honor, chose to uphold his late friend’s dying wish, a once more united Hilgallen. The man in dark glasses chose to ally himself with whomever he saw strong and fit to lead, be they good or otherwise.

And that was what that meeting was for, an establishment of resolves. Though, more importantly, it was a final valediction for after this, none would ever consider the other a friend anymore, just another obstacle. No words were needed, and they all knew of the consequences. Deep within, they all wished it would end differently, but fate was a fickle mistress and they were caught in its unerring flow. And fate saw it fit that the final bastion of hope of Hilgallen, its stalwart defenders in its most bleak of hours and its most trusted warriors, the Quarter Knights were to be disbanded.

Then, after the long stare, one by one, the three left that mountaintop. The dwarf had tears streaming down uncontrollably from his cheek to his beard, the man in dark glasses clasped his fists so tight that his palms bled, and the blonde haired man lowered the felt hat to cover his red, misty eyes. For a while, not a gust was felt and not a single bolt of lightning came down as they made their way down from the valley separately.

Then…

They were gone…

Knights, no more.

Wow, this one has more mistakes than the last. I'll just bold my edits. However, some of your mistakes are not, to my knowledge, issues of translation. You mix your tenses, you misplace adverbial phrases, and have run-on sentences.[/bad things]

Okay, that's out of the way.

That was pretty good, for the most part. I learned two new words, and English is my first language. Valediction. I even took Latin, and should have known that, but no, I totally ignored how that looked. Heh, funny. Anyway, you get an A for vocabulary. Your words have the correct connotations, which is quite important.

The event is far too veiled in mystery and lack of context, but I overlooked that as much as I could.

One thing I would change specifically, but I can't help you with, is the "weapon" on the Butcher's back. Is it a sword? An axe? A spear? A crossbow? A bazooka? A nuclear warhead? Come on, a hint, please!

The environment of the event itself is a bit too...hmm. There's not too many good words available to describe it. Anyway, it does not lend anything to the event. A setting, in any drama of any kind, should be serendipitous to the event. There is [B]always actiony stuff in an action scene. A quiet moment, when the air is tense and all uncertain, should not be amidst lightning and creatures born of Hell. It should be eerily calm. Fix that, somehow.