Pandallow
04-14-2013, 01:57 PM
So uh, I wrote this thing as part of an assignment for school. I got an A for it, but my teacher didn't give me any comments on my work, and i would like to know how good it is as a piece of writing, rather than a piece of homework. Also, don't feel bad about railing me up the *** with critisism. Also, I didn't really find a place to cut, so I just kinda stopped mid scene.
A magpie took wing and plummeted down to the streets of Seagate. It skill-fully dodged sullen people trudging the muddy paving. The tall, murky buildings blocked out the setting sun, so the magpie flew in shadow. It kept it’s dark eyes open, looking for something. It flew higher and landed on a rooftop bathed in orange light. The magpie wouldn’t leave until it had seen its mission fulfilled. It went into the air again after taking an unfruitful look around, cocking its head left then right as it flew. A spec of red on a person. No. It was nothing. The magpie flew past. It landed in an alleyway, looking over its denizens. A male going through a pile of garbage, looking for hidden treasure. One who had seemingly soiled himself lay in a muddy corner. Nothing. Again, it took wing, zipping out of the alley. It landed on an open windowsill, peeking in. An old female human saw the bird, and chased it out with a broom. With a caw, the magpie fled. It checked out a few more windows as it passed them, but did not find what it was looking for. Red cloth. it thought. Red cloth. The magpie landed in the window of a two storied building, the inside sparsely lighted. It peeked around suspiciously. An ebony skinned human sat alone by a table, drinking one of the drinks that humans fancy. A couple of humans playing one of the games of humans fancy. More humans. All humans. No rebels. It was about to leave, then it saw a man and a woman, sitting around a table in the corner of the room. The man was fidgeting with a red cloth.The magpie cawed in triumph. Red cloth! Rebel! The dark skinned one turned around and shouted, seemingly upset by the noise. Another man came and shooed the magpie out, pulling the shutters closed after him. That didn’t matter. The magpie had found what it was looking for. It started for the towers that talled against Seagate, returning to its Master. It flew as fast as its wings would carry it, knowing that Master would be pleased. The magpie looked down upon the panorama of this anthill of humans as it flew. In one place, a male was throwing out food from some sort of wooden construction with wheels, attached to horses. The other humans scrambled and brawled to get a piece. In another, the magpie saw cub humans huddled in a street corner. It gazed upon the ocean view, and saw a number of those wooden bowls that flew on water, gently bobbing on the calm ocean, moored to the wooden strips that had been built out into the ocean. The water shone with a deep, golden hue, warmed by the sun’s last rays. The image might have been beautiful to a human, although it was somewhat ruined by the thick smoke rising from various buildings. Suddenly, a brown-white streak passed the magpie. A sparrow. The magpie was torn between hunting it down and hurrying back to Master. Master could wait. The magpie zipped after the sparrow. The sparrow veered to the right, but couldn’t flee. It was slow and fat, not like the magpie. The magpie did not hunt for food; it hunted just to see the pain in the eye of its prey. It sunk its talons into the smaller bird, then released it and watched it spiral down, crashing into the ground with a small thump. The magpie cried out. Victory! The magpie spun in the air and returned onto a straight course for the shortest of the five black, polished towers, beginning a precipitous climb to the top.
Morgan took in his surroundings. He took a deep breath. ”Lucky Number Seven” was an inn he frequented often. Not for the service, but for the price. He shut the door behind him and had a seat at an unoccupied table, his back facing the exit. He placed his hat on the rough-hewn wooden table, revealing an unkept mess of dark hair on his head. A few lamps on the walls lit up the serving room, but shadows were many, crawling in the corners with the flickering fires. The once white walls were now covered with stains, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Morgan didn’t mind that too much though. As long as the beer got him drunk and the girls were pretty, he wouldn’t ask for more. A cute redhead–bit on the skinny side–came to take his order. If memory served, her name was Jenny. The golden rule of this establishment was; Order, or leave on your nose. An embroidered plaque with those very words hung on the wall above the counter. The girl’s expression soured as she approached him; she knew he was a Blackcoat. He ignored it and bought paid for a beer, placing a few coppers on the table. She scooped them up and hasted off, red mane flowing. Morgan brought a small flute from his pocket and rolled it in his hands. It had been a gift from his sister. Sadly, he did not play the flute; he had never been very musical. No, he was destined for fighting. Jenny returned with his drink, curtsying in the most insignificant way possible. He smiled and nodded. Damn woman. He brought the urine-coloured beer to his lips and took a full swig. His face pruned from the bitter taste. A sudden cry sent Morgan spinning in his chair. There was a damned bird sitting in the open window, looking in. He shouted and waved his hands to shoo it off. One of the inn’s strongmen came and shoved it out, closing the wooden shutters behind him. Morgan shuddered. Probably a bad sign. Like I need more **** in my life. He put quarter to mouth. Morgan gazed about the place, looking over the patrons. A trio of men were dicing around a table close to the counter. One of them, a man with a broken nose that had swelled comically large–was cheating–quite obviously so. Morgan chuckled inwardly. He was cheating over a few coppers. Then again, times were bad. A man did what he had to. Like Morgan had enrolled with the mages in order to keep his sister fed. His eyes continued their journey through the serving room. His eyes met those of Logan Ferris, the innkeeper. He was a sinewy old sod, with long, black moustaches that sunk almost to his chin. Scars formed a pattern on his leathery face. His brown coat was simple, but of fine cut. Morgan envied him. His own coat had holes and miscolourings. The thin fabric didn’t offer much protection in the winter, either. Ferris nodded to him. He was about the only sod in the entire dump of a city that didn’t scowl when they saw him. Even the blackcoats seemed to despise their own. Morgan nodded back.
A magpie took wing and plummeted down to the streets of Seagate. It skill-fully dodged sullen people trudging the muddy paving. The tall, murky buildings blocked out the setting sun, so the magpie flew in shadow. It kept it’s dark eyes open, looking for something. It flew higher and landed on a rooftop bathed in orange light. The magpie wouldn’t leave until it had seen its mission fulfilled. It went into the air again after taking an unfruitful look around, cocking its head left then right as it flew. A spec of red on a person. No. It was nothing. The magpie flew past. It landed in an alleyway, looking over its denizens. A male going through a pile of garbage, looking for hidden treasure. One who had seemingly soiled himself lay in a muddy corner. Nothing. Again, it took wing, zipping out of the alley. It landed on an open windowsill, peeking in. An old female human saw the bird, and chased it out with a broom. With a caw, the magpie fled. It checked out a few more windows as it passed them, but did not find what it was looking for. Red cloth. it thought. Red cloth. The magpie landed in the window of a two storied building, the inside sparsely lighted. It peeked around suspiciously. An ebony skinned human sat alone by a table, drinking one of the drinks that humans fancy. A couple of humans playing one of the games of humans fancy. More humans. All humans. No rebels. It was about to leave, then it saw a man and a woman, sitting around a table in the corner of the room. The man was fidgeting with a red cloth.The magpie cawed in triumph. Red cloth! Rebel! The dark skinned one turned around and shouted, seemingly upset by the noise. Another man came and shooed the magpie out, pulling the shutters closed after him. That didn’t matter. The magpie had found what it was looking for. It started for the towers that talled against Seagate, returning to its Master. It flew as fast as its wings would carry it, knowing that Master would be pleased. The magpie looked down upon the panorama of this anthill of humans as it flew. In one place, a male was throwing out food from some sort of wooden construction with wheels, attached to horses. The other humans scrambled and brawled to get a piece. In another, the magpie saw cub humans huddled in a street corner. It gazed upon the ocean view, and saw a number of those wooden bowls that flew on water, gently bobbing on the calm ocean, moored to the wooden strips that had been built out into the ocean. The water shone with a deep, golden hue, warmed by the sun’s last rays. The image might have been beautiful to a human, although it was somewhat ruined by the thick smoke rising from various buildings. Suddenly, a brown-white streak passed the magpie. A sparrow. The magpie was torn between hunting it down and hurrying back to Master. Master could wait. The magpie zipped after the sparrow. The sparrow veered to the right, but couldn’t flee. It was slow and fat, not like the magpie. The magpie did not hunt for food; it hunted just to see the pain in the eye of its prey. It sunk its talons into the smaller bird, then released it and watched it spiral down, crashing into the ground with a small thump. The magpie cried out. Victory! The magpie spun in the air and returned onto a straight course for the shortest of the five black, polished towers, beginning a precipitous climb to the top.
Morgan took in his surroundings. He took a deep breath. ”Lucky Number Seven” was an inn he frequented often. Not for the service, but for the price. He shut the door behind him and had a seat at an unoccupied table, his back facing the exit. He placed his hat on the rough-hewn wooden table, revealing an unkept mess of dark hair on his head. A few lamps on the walls lit up the serving room, but shadows were many, crawling in the corners with the flickering fires. The once white walls were now covered with stains, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Morgan didn’t mind that too much though. As long as the beer got him drunk and the girls were pretty, he wouldn’t ask for more. A cute redhead–bit on the skinny side–came to take his order. If memory served, her name was Jenny. The golden rule of this establishment was; Order, or leave on your nose. An embroidered plaque with those very words hung on the wall above the counter. The girl’s expression soured as she approached him; she knew he was a Blackcoat. He ignored it and bought paid for a beer, placing a few coppers on the table. She scooped them up and hasted off, red mane flowing. Morgan brought a small flute from his pocket and rolled it in his hands. It had been a gift from his sister. Sadly, he did not play the flute; he had never been very musical. No, he was destined for fighting. Jenny returned with his drink, curtsying in the most insignificant way possible. He smiled and nodded. Damn woman. He brought the urine-coloured beer to his lips and took a full swig. His face pruned from the bitter taste. A sudden cry sent Morgan spinning in his chair. There was a damned bird sitting in the open window, looking in. He shouted and waved his hands to shoo it off. One of the inn’s strongmen came and shoved it out, closing the wooden shutters behind him. Morgan shuddered. Probably a bad sign. Like I need more **** in my life. He put quarter to mouth. Morgan gazed about the place, looking over the patrons. A trio of men were dicing around a table close to the counter. One of them, a man with a broken nose that had swelled comically large–was cheating–quite obviously so. Morgan chuckled inwardly. He was cheating over a few coppers. Then again, times were bad. A man did what he had to. Like Morgan had enrolled with the mages in order to keep his sister fed. His eyes continued their journey through the serving room. His eyes met those of Logan Ferris, the innkeeper. He was a sinewy old sod, with long, black moustaches that sunk almost to his chin. Scars formed a pattern on his leathery face. His brown coat was simple, but of fine cut. Morgan envied him. His own coat had holes and miscolourings. The thin fabric didn’t offer much protection in the winter, either. Ferris nodded to him. He was about the only sod in the entire dump of a city that didn’t scowl when they saw him. Even the blackcoats seemed to despise their own. Morgan nodded back.