So I was looking through this Off-Topic thread and didn't see any place for people to post samples of their writing and have fellow writers critique. Though I want to keep this civil and uplifting this is a place for critiques. So take everything with a grain of salt and remember we are all here trying to learn or help others learn.
So feel free to post with some of your writings (or links to writings) and wait for someone to come around with advice. Though I ask if it's more than a few paragraphs to put it in a hider; so it doesn't make each page super long.
So to get the ball rolling for those who want to advise but not submit samples. I recently wrote a post and would love to have peoples opinions on it. It has been quite a long time since I wrote an intro post this big so I am concerned for it's flow and wording. I would love and appreciate any feed back ^-^
Some back story. This RP is about people who were currently changed into monsters by a Magician type man. My character happens to be a succubus.
Lizbeth clung to her knees in a dark corner of the dungeons deep within the Nixus estate. She had only lasted a day before finding her way back to the only place her twisted mind found solace. Her mind reeled in agony though her form remained motionless as she sat in her solemn corner of exile. Thoughts of that night alone plagued her to the core, sending shrill aches down to her center and from it radiating a nauseating pulse. The images were a blur but clear enough to set her teeth on edge; forcing her to squeeze her legs to her chest as if that were going to alleviate the pain.
--few days earlier.
Her body was hot as she walked the dark streets of the ghetto. Her arms clasped around her stomach as they tried to restrain the bizarre urge that permeated into her bones. It wasn't a dull ache but a wildfire of desire that gave her a cold sweat; thanking whatever God was out there when he granted a cool breeze to rush past her. The road was dimly lit and hardly any life on the street as she stumbled her way through. But it wasn't long before some poor, unlucky bastard poked his nose into a trap he did not see. A door opened off to the girls left, an older man with slight graying hairs stepping out from behind it with a soft, concerned look across his face. "Oh dear. Come in side child, you look terrible." He cooed sincerely as he beckoned her with his hand.
From the door wafted a scent unlike any; like a mix of rose and vanilla, screaming an odd sense of relief to her nerves that she desperately craved more of. Her body tried to resist but the pull nearly knocked her off her feet. She shambled across the street and entered the home, her strained eyes glancing at him as she passed. He closed the door behind her and ushered her innocently to the couch, helping her sit without falling. He crouched before Lizbeth and placed a soft hand to her head and sighed. "You're burning up dear, let me get something for you." he offered and left before Lizbeth could protest.
Before she knew it the man had returned with a cool damp rag and a strangely colored syrup. He placed and held the cool rag to Lizbeth's forehead and offered the syrup with the other hand. "Here, drink this. It'll help with the cold." he insisted. Thinking the man was right and it was only a cold she took the small cup and down the liquid, wincing and gagging at the foul taste; though the man got a laugh out of it. "I know it tastes bad, but it'll help." He smiled. A smile so genuine and kind that it was almost heavenly. Why couldn't it have been someone else...
The medicine didn't make anything better. Her body only ached more and more as the tireless seconds droned on. But that sweet smell of rose and vanilla pulled at her still. She looked around curiously as she tried to find the source that she was so drawn to but her eyes kept falling back to the man crouched before her. She dismissed it though, why would her senses be drawn so strongly to this stranger. Her cravings weren't of affection or romance, it was hunger. A type of hunger that could cripple a man. A hunger that pulled at your very essence until you succumb to it. And Lizbeth was slowly losing that battle with hunger. Why couldn't it have been someone else...
It wasn't long before Lizbeth lost that battle within herself. Lunging from the couch and taking the man with her, slamming him into the far wall and pinning him there with a strength she didn't realize that she had. That smile washed away into a look of terror, her hand around his throat and leaving him without a voice. She didn't know if the man was cowering or what though she was beginning to look down at the man as if he were beginning to slouch but he seemed to be standing straight up. She dismissed the thought. She didn't care enough to investigate. She suddenly then stole a kiss from his lips. It was only a moment before this strange, soothing heat burst through her veins. Sparks ignited under her skin so tantalizing that it caused her to groan passionately against the mans lips. Why couldn't it have been someone else...
Her consciousness soon left her in a haze until she awoke the next morning, curling up in a ball in the center of the living room; broken pieces of glass and wood scattered across the oak floor. She groaned as she began to regain consciousness, rubbing her head as it ached like a bad hang over though strangely her body felt more alive than it ever had. She opened her eyes to a blur of sleep, though a few blinks began to crystallize her view. Her heart sank into her gut at the vision before her. There the man sat against the wall, his flesh sucked in like a mummy without any semblance of life left in his sunken eyes. The shock quickly faded before it was filled with an overwhelming sense of nausea. She heaved dry air though no substance was found in her stomach to evacuate. The heaves tore at her throat but she couldn't stop, the image so traumatizing and horrific that it was the only thing she could do to try and rid the disgust. Why couldn't it have been someone else...
It had been several hours before the traumatized Lizbeth finally stopped staring at the corpse and pushed herself up off the floor. Her body ached for comfort. She didn't care what. She soon found that her feet had carried her all the way back to the Nixus estate. She was greeted warmly, a prized pet had found its way back to the nest. She didn't care. Her mind was too plagued with horrifying thoughts to have any space left for caring. So she followed along down to the dungeon where she was to be kept; a place she found fitting for what she had become. So there she sat in her dark corner for the following days without touching any of her food. Simply clinging her knees to her chest as images shuffled through her mind of the mans kind, warm smile and how she had twisted that face into a husk.
@McHaggis Thank you so much for the critique. ^-^ I am very glad you liked my post. And Thank you for the idea on what I can do about transition times for flashback scenarios; I never really knew how to properly do that. xD And curse you apostrophes!! You are the bane to my existence! hehe xD
I have a Fallout Fan Fic in the Gallery about an NCR expedition into Alaska, although the intro states that they moved their up the coast meeting new Factions or Nations along the way. http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/80707-fallout-explorers-of-the-new-world/ooc Here's the thread link, hopefully I can get some input to improve my writing.
This is my intro to my farcry RP. (Excuse the hiders. On a bad laptop r/n and going to adjust the picture size so i can get rid of the hider) Critique will be appreciated :)
@McHaggis Thanks! I just wasn't up to checking through it when I wrote it, get it edited soon. Was thinking maybe I could argue they were deliberate and it is a way of making the reader wonder who they are , also because all of the people that read it can't be the same person, the tenses changing reflects that.
Nice to have such nice feed back, thanks bro/broette.
(I should really put something of mine up. Feels bad doing the constructive criticism with none of the actual receiving it.)
@VATROU First of all, a disclaimer: I have no experience with Fallout and so I'm just assuming everything on that front is correct ^^ I liked this, for as much as someone who doesn't know anything about the universe can, and my confusion stemmed mostly from my own lack of knowledge. I'm thinking the hook was the ships/initials on the shoulder was the hook? If so it was well placed. I also think the characters shone through with distinct personalities – especially Jonathan and Claire.
The only criticism I feel comfortable giving (as I literally know nothing) is to avoid the exposition at the beginning and spread it throughout the whole piece so far. It seems like too sharp a jump to go from paragraph one of exposition into paragraph two, which is on a small scale location.
Secondly, I think perhaps North's speech at the beginning could be split up rather than be in one blocky paragraph. Perhaps describing the gestures, tone of voice, etc, at one point, or moving how the recruits react to it up and into when he's saying the speech might help with that and make it a little more clear and give it the illusion of length. I think the speech itself was well-written, though.
Technically everything so far regarding my story's setting is neither correct nor incorrect. As it takes place in a fictional setting of my own design. Yes it takes place in the Fallout Universe, but Alaska has almost no precedence save for what is establish Pre-War as in the Great War which ended most life on Earth and set the tone of the franchise. I agree with you on North's speech, I need to work on more nuanced background behaviors. I tend to find articulating different background noises so to speak difficult, as I can't find the words used to describe gestures or sometimes tone. I'm trying to get better and I hope over the course of my Fan Fiction I will improve on those facets.
As for the exposition. I partially agree with you. It would have been more immersive to spread it out, perhaps with the soldier's dialogue. But I also wanted to give a time frame about important events right away so there would be less guessing as to where and when the story takes place.
Dirt and sand jumped frantically from the rough track, reaching for the dark clouds above as Elro speeded past the endless trees either side of him. Shifting his weight to one side and applying the brake suddenly he skidded around the corner, narrowly missed a crop of rocks, and sped back up the track. It took a few more turns until he saw his encampment, the high fence and the watch towers felt welcoming – the dirt bikes and jeeps was also comforting. He didn’t slow down as he approached; the lookouts rushing to open the gate as the cloud of dust loomed closer, the gruff purr of an engine rolling along with it. As Elro sped through the gap between the two retracting fence doors he had to swerve right as the left door was lagging behind, he felt his shoulder brush against the gate. He was admittedly in a good mood, but if you can’t open a damn gate properly, you need to be taught a lesson. The boys knew that he didn’t like to be disappointed – and he particularly hates having to throw out a perfectly good leather jacket. Cutting the engine, he rolled the bike slowly into the nearest space amongst its painted brothers and pulled his helmet off, throwing it to the ground with a crash as he inspected his jacket. One lengthy slash along the left forearm. Taking the ruined jacket off he grabbed it in his left hand and marched over to the line of jeeps. Telling the boys to ready up and fill up, he told the nearest one to go get the shit that had messed up the gate. He took a seat on one of the wooden benches outside the emptying common room, pulling a cigarette out and pushed the lighter from his pocket. As he lit the tip, the shit walked over to him. “What’s your name?” He said, between a long inhale of the intoxicating fumes. “Mickil, Sir.” A soft whimper in his voice. “Do you know what this is, Mickil?” Elro asked, waving the jacket by his side. “No sir.” He was scared, Elro sensed it as he took another long breath of nicotine. “This is the jacket of mine you just ruined.” Elro said, staring into his eyes as he began to fidget, smoke rising past his dark eyes. “Sorry Sir, I don’t. I mean I never meant. If I can do anything I...” He was stuttering now. Was he trying to piss Elro off? “Shut up. Here.” He shoved the jacket into the young man’s hands. “It’s yours now.” The boy looked confused - he was expecting something far worse than a gift, but he flashed an awkward smile and thanked Elro. He began to make his way back to his post when Elro stopped him. “Aren’t you going to put it on?” He asked. The boy knew better than to think this was a question and quickly pushed his arms in, shaking the jacket into place - it barely fit his scrawny body. “Boys? Boys! Come here.” Elro called those that surrounded the jeeps over to him. They came over still holding conversations and some even laughed among themselves, taking the last of the life from his cigarette, he flicked it at the group. “Shut it! Now...What do we think?” Elro pointed to the jacket which hung loosely off of the boys shoulders, his head dropped slightly in shame. A few of the boys laughed, others teased with mock compliments, but all were cut short when Elro stood suddenly – walking over to the boy. Taking the dagger from his belt he gripped it by the handle. The boy was shivering now. “Do you think this ruins the look?” he asked as he pointed the tip of the blade at the long unsightly tear down the left arm. He grabbed the boys shoulder tightly. None of the men said anything. “What about now?” he said softly and without looking, took the right sleeve and cut a similar line through it. “Matching arms, right?” Elro looked across the silent gang, all of them looked on in suspense.
“No? Maybe something like this then.” He stabbed into the jacket hard, pushing the dagger to one side so that it missed the boy by the width of a hair. The boy winced and almost jumped back, but chose against it. Elro pulled the dagger down, the scratching sound as the material was ripped slicing through the silence. “Fashionable is it not?” He exclaimed loudly as he took a few steps back and turned to face the boy. “Well? What do you think boys?” A few murmurs floated around but no one spoke up. “I said, what do you think?” He screamed this time, his voice bouncing of the closely pact stone walls of the encampment buildings. This time a handful of men raised their voices high enough for Elro to hear them. A mix of comments from the startled lot met his ears, but none were what he was looking for. “No no. It needs something else I think.” As he said this Elro crossed his arms, frowning as he stared at the boy, draped in a mangle brown leather jacket, very out of place. He stood like this for a few minutes “I know!” Elro said suddenly. Pulling his pistol from his hip he shot three consecutive shots into the boy’s chest and watched as the blood flowed out and down the jacket, slowly he fell forwards, his face impacting with the dirt. “Just needed a splash of colour.”
Two chapters of an original fic I'm writing. It's a story about Magical Boys and Girls, played straight, no Deconstructions (although I love PMMM), targeted towards, well, people who like Magical Boys and Girls in general; lighthearted Anime Fans. Does it appeal towards that target audience?
Prologue
California
“I can feel it.”
The speaker was an old man, with wispy white hair and a wrinkled, pointy face and nose, one that reminded people of a horror movie character; he was clad in a coat, red scarf, and a suit underneath said coat.
He looked up at the sky, at the brewing storm on the sea. He was accompanied by two men, athletic figures who stood some paces behind him on either side - protective and close, but not so near that they hovered about him. They granted a respectful distance that allowed him ample space to think freely as he stood on the edge of a cliff, unafraid of the great height.
These two men were armed with pistols and carbines, which seemed closer to the models found in video games than in real life, as well as grenades.
“To the west of us, in the Dawn Archipelago, the wheels of fate are turning, new lights shine, hope reigns anew...only to find that like always, it is empty.” All warmth left the old man’s eyes now, as he looked over the coming storm.
“Tell me, who are our enemies?” he was asking his bodyguards now.
“The Police, sir,” spoke the leftmost bodyguard, a blond with green eyes, who looked uncomfortable with the question.
“And?” pried the old man further.
“And honest officials, and activists, and people with a cause in general.”
“Yes. They have always used guns, money, and zeal against us,” said the old man, “trying to stop us from turning a profit, trying to stop us from taking what we want, what we deserve. And now,” he looked at them, ”it seems that God or ‘The Gods’ want their own piece of our pie, as well.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked the second bodyguard, a brunette, baby-faced, young man with blue eyes, one more suited for an escort than a true guard.
“What I mean is,” the old man said, “you are not what you appear to be.” Suddenly, the old man drew out a hidden pistol and fired two shots.
*BLAM!* *BLAM!*
The two men fell down, gaping holes in their chests, but as they fell in their knees, they glowed brightly, and their clothes transformed; the blond’s changing into a shirt, blue jeans, sneakers and a leather jacket with artificial fur lining, while the brunette changed into a longcoated man clad in a T-Shirt, tan jeans, and another pair of sneakers. They got up, showing no evidence of their wounds.
“How long have you known?” said the brunette.
“Oh, oh, Caedwalla, he said to the blue-eyed man, you and Emerald Azurehand have been known to me for quite some time now,” the old man was vague, the gun still smoking. “You have been trying to establish control over the supernatural in America, trying to get them to stop fighting each other...so that you can fight us.” He said the word ‘us’ with contempt. “Tell me, how goes your younger brother, Arthur? Does he keep playing games in the Archipelago still?”
“Enough exposition, Stephen,” Caed echoed the man’s contempt. Stephen Paolini, the old man who looked like a Hollywood villain, was a man of great power, great resources, and utterly and completely unscrupulous in getting both. “I would kill you...if you were really here. Emerald - Now!”
Emerald stretched out his hand, and ‘Stephen’s’ skin began to peel away, revealing metal and circuitry underneath; a Human Replica Robot, one of the first of its kind.
“Heh, heh, heh,” said the droid, “it seems that you knew what I am all along. Fair enough, Magical Boys, fair enough. But the fact is that you cannot stop the wheels from turning, not with yourselves, not with Arthur, not with any champion the Supernatural World might appoint. We, with the power of crime and commerce, resources and technology, will challenge your ‘Gods’, God, and your outdated ideas of morality, and we shall prevail.”
”You forget that Emerald here is a technomancer,” said Caed. “He can rip out any information your avatar has; he has already disarmed the various high explosives meant to take us down.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Stephen’s voice from inside the droid. “The pieces have been set, the opposition mustered. All you can muster, while you are digesting your recent gains in America, are children.”
“And children will defeat you, Paolini,” Caed replied. “I swear it.”
The droid can only laugh as Emerald took him away...
Chapter 1
Astrea, Dawn Archipelago
“Well, well, what have we got here?” the two heavily-built men spoke, staring at a wide-eyed boy of about fourteen. This boy had snuck behind their truck, was attempting to pick the locks of the human cages inside, then got caught.
“I -” said the boy in a tone of fear, stuttering, “- I was looking for food, sirs, and I found this truck -”
“Shut your yap, you little liar!” said the first thug as he kicked out at the boy, who managed to pull himself out of the way. This caused the kick to hit the nearest cage, startling the other children inside. One of the reasons the thug was so enraged wasn’t just because the wide-eyed boy was lying, but that it was so blatant. Why? Because despite being dirty from spending hours at the dock, his red shirt and tan jeans, marked with 'Astral Force' signs were rather clean.
What was a young, well-off kid doing in the docks, trying to free other children from the clutches of criminals? That was what the thugs didn’t know. Nevertheless, they were now thinking that if this kid was going to be so foolish, he might just join the children in the truck…
“C’mere, kid,” said the second thug, his tone trying to be sweet and friendly. “If you just tell us what a tyke like you is doing here -”
*FLASH*
“What was that?!” said the leftmost thug again, as the fourteen-year old before them began glowing, blinding the criminals as the boy spun, his shirt and jeans cleaned themselves up, smoothing out their folds in the process, before acquiring a golden lining. But what was most prominent was a glowing sword of energy, the lower half which had a crooked, serpentine blade, and the top half which was straight like western weapons.
A Kalis, a weapon that suited the boy’s evident Filipino heritage. Furthermore, it was glowing silver, almost white, a weapon of evident supernatural qualities.
The two nameless henchmen, once they had recovered their sight, were spooked now; never in their lifetimes have they seen any moment out of the ordinary.
Two seconds later, the boy was bull-rushing them, two strokes of his sword bringing them down; the children in the cages, if they hadn’t been scared, panicking, or drugged, would have noticed that there were no wounds on the slavers, although their clothing was cut.
But other thugs were now rushing towards the truck, attracted by the light, and as the boy jumped out of the vehicle, they prepared to pepper him with a combined volley of semi-automatic fire...if not for a stream of five green beams arcing out of a block of containers to the left of the truck, which brought down three more thugs. From the other flank jumped down, with enough force to crack concrete, an eight-foot tall armored figure clad in black plate, carrying a Zweihander.
“One last chance to surrender, assholes!” shouted the brown-skinned fourteen-year old boy who had started all this, who was now surrounded by an imposing silver aura of fire. “Let go of the kids, and we’ll let you go!”
The response from the scared criminals was to run as though they were pursued by Hades’ hounds.
The fourteen-year old smirked.
------
The kids were set free, the police and a prominent anti-human-trafficking group were called in order to mop up any returning criminals and make sure that the children were safe.
As for the three, the armored figure, the boy in gold-rimmed clothing, and the third, a young girl in a pink top and a sniper rifle, had retreated to a motorboat moored to a hidden section of the docks.
“Come on, Rhodry!” said the girl, “de-transform now and let’s go!” The armored figure responded by dispersing said armor into a scattered white motes, revealing a tall, heavily-built teenager of about sixteen years of age, clad in a pastel yellow shirt and normal-looking blue jeans, as well as tough sneakers. He then hopped into the motorboat, where the Filipino boy and the (Caucasian) girl had already hopped in; the latter took the pilot’s seat. And a few seconds later, the motorboat zoomed off, off to a destination unknown...
------
Two hours later, the trio were now in a room whose red carpet was perpetually clean, had an air conditioner that functioned even in the hottest tropical days, and which held a luxury sofa, a plasma tv with speakers, a DVD player, cable, and black waterproof remote controls.
“That...was...awesome!” said the young girl, who, in the light of the entertainment room, can now be seen more clearly. Her light brown hair and blue eyes, coupled with a long face and short smile, excluded her from the realm of conventional beauty, but her long, slim figure made her not ugly, either.
“It was, wasn’t it?” said the Filipino boy, whose messy black hair accentuated his black eyes and brown skin. Beside him was another Caucusian, with brown hair that was almost red, hazel eyes, and a tall, healthy build. He was eating butter popcorn while listening to the conversation with mild interest.
“Yeah, it was!” said the girl, who was flipping through channels on the remote. “Patrick, I can’t believe stuff like this is real! I feel just like those girls from that dark Magical Girl series, only not dark!”
Patrick smiled, before saying:
“Megan, that’s a good thing to feel, although, I must say, when we found The Cave,” he was able to pronounce the extra capital letters, “I wanted us to back out after rushing in.”
“Still think what we’re doing is dangerous, though,” Rhodry broke in. “I mean, I like rescuing kids as the next do-gooder, but the criminals will not stay unprepared forever. And there’s the news, and the YouTube videos, and of course, the fact that people will freak out once they find out MAGIC IS REAL!” he shouted in a tone of panic, bringing Patrick and Megan to a halt.
“Oh, come on,” spoke Patrick, “the fact of the matter is, the Diwata* work through a mix of Hindu and Faerie Magic, the latter part being important in that it messes with people’s minds. As long as we stay on the island, what happens there will be ignored by those from abroad...even if we blow up half the city, which we shall not.”
“Ah, yes, the Diwata,” said Rhodry. “Hindu Deities transformed into Western Fae by the Spanish Occupation of the Philippines and the Dawn Archipelago -”
“Madaling-araw (Filipino for Dawn), Rhodry,” said Patrick, before shutting his mouth again.
“And the Dawn Archipelago,” Rhodry continued a bit snippily, “who, according to you and your occult lore, combine South Asian and Western powers. Tell me, according to the data you yourself provided, how are we supposed to trust them, neat powers aside?”
In response, Patrick drew out, from his shirt, a rosary.
“Of course,” said Rhodry, “Catholicism is the defense against the same magical powers we use.” A sigh escaped his lips. “How are we supposed to get away with this hypocrisy?” He continued in a half-joking tone. He then smirked more joyfully.
“Anyway, enough talk. Let’s eat!” And with that, he began devouring more popcorn.
Patrick, meanwhile, stared wistfully at the ceiling…
------
The three of them were the wards of Phineas de Montejo, whose Un-Spanish name came from the fact that his mother had (matrilineally) married an American for money, starting a local scandal. Phineas was a charitable, though distant soul who had lost a wife to disease, and since then had tried to secure the soul of said wife through participating in charitable activities through the Catholic Church...while conducting clandestine, syncretistic rites in his mansion, activities tolerated because of his wealth and importance.
Patrick, Rhodry, and Megan were originally from different families, the first born to Filipino Immigrants who died in an accident, and the latter two siblings born through the liaison of an American Soldier from Fort Azure, and a local woman, who died in Megan’s childbirth. As the American Soldier had left for another posting, he can do no more than send money, and even that dried up when said soldier died in a freak air crash. So Phineas adopted them.
The three were raised on one simple maxim: That Sin was when you treat people like things, no more, no less, and they, in reverence to their father, tried to live by said maxim, while at the same time, pursuing their education.
Patrick was the most academically and physically accomplished, but more than made up for that by being the second to rush into trouble; the first one was Megan. Those two regularly went on daredevil, nay, nigh-suicidal, missions of exploration that drove Rhodry almost mad.
It also didn’t help that Phineas turned a blind eye to those missions, and, in fact, this entire trouble was caused by the fact that, once the old man realized he was dying, he sent the trio on a mission of his own, a mission to the beaches on the far side of his estate.
On said beaches, at low tide, was a cave with a glowing, rainbow color that inevitably drew Patrick and Megan’s attention. Those two rushed in, followed by a reluctant, almost fearful, Rhodry.
And that was the day when their lives changed.
For in that cave was a beautiful woman, clad in a white robe with a striped girdle, with a mix of Filipino and Caucasian features, and with pointed, leaf-shaped ears. This woman was a Diwata, a Hindu Goddess hybridized with Western Faeries.
Patrick was the first to identify her, then, after trying to give himself as much poise as someone on his fourteenth birthday can muster, calmly asked a series of questions about herself, the cave, and magic.
From there, they learned that the Dawn Archipelago was a fount of magical power, magical power shaped by the human subconscious. Also, that there was a God, but he was far more than any human, or even Diwata, can comprehend. After going on that tangent, the Diwata spoke about how Magic, once present in the world, but now both gone and taboo, needed to be reintroduced, but in a way that would be...palatable to the majority of normal humans.
And by that, she meant that the trio had to become superheroes…
-------
“You know,” said Rhodry, “I can’t believe you agreed with me when I said that we cannot go fight crime without training.”
“Yes,” said Patrick, “only to suggest that we take a month off in order to train with Magic.”
“It’s a shame that our old man had to die, though,” said Megan, “although...dissolving into motes of light was not the way people usually do it.” She sighed, so did the other two; Phineas had died after the three returned to him with the news, but not before saying that he knew about the Diwata all along, and that he was going to leave in such a way as to allow them maximum freedom of action.
And that was when he transformed into the motes, leaving behind no body, and allowing Patrick to make up a story about how Phineas had gone into seclusion, not showing himself to anyone except his children. Seeing as there were no servants anyway - Faerie magic, friends, Faerie magic - the three now had free run of the place, as well as control of the Montejo fortune.
“At least he died happily,” said Rhodry, who looked at his sister. “Amazing, isn’t it, that we’re being so...blase about a responsibility that not even adults would want to take.”
“Hey!” said Patrick, “you’re not the one who has to file the old man’s tax forms!”
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