Adventures With Triond and Hubpages

After writing my blog post, Gaining Perspective, last week, I was browsing around Digg.com and found a submission about writing for Triond.com. I'd never heard of Triond before and decided to check it out for myself. An interesting premise, Triond allows you to submit articles for their various associated websites. What do you get in return? Revenue sharing from the ad clicks generated from your articles. Obviously, this isn't the most efficient way of making money on the web, but I decided to give it a try.

My first article, Can You Win a Writing Contest? was accepted and published in the wee hours of Sunday morning. As of this post I have made 41 cents and the page has received 417 views (not necessarily unique). This article took me about an hour to write up and edit before we headed out to the amusement park for the rest of the day. I felt pretty good about submitting the article and it was just the trick to get my spirits up for a long day in the heat.

From there I started poking around at other online publishing options. I've never really been one to cling to the idea of writing articles. Back when I spent a semester writing for the school newspaper in high school, my articles were more of the editorial and opinion nature. If nothing else, I was a gimmick. After years of stewing on that and later having an article printed in the Hilltop Times that could have used a bit of final editing and polish, well, I guess I lost the taste for article writing altogether.

So why start now? I'm not sure how to answer that question. It was all sort of on a whim, you know? After poking around a bit I noticed that some of the Triond users also had accounts with HubPages.com. I hopped on over to take a look and ended up signing up there as well. I've even added a widget to my blog here that will list my hub activity. A hub is basically a standalone page that can be linked with other hubs or left on its own. I figured I would give it a shot and created my first hub, How To Give Writing Feedback.

On one hand, writing these articles satisfied my desire to write when I just didn't feel like I was in the frame of mind that I needed to be in for working on my Science Fiction short story. On the other, even if I never really make much money from these submissions, I've succeeded in expanding my web presence and I've added a few writing notches to my belt. In-so-far as expectations are in order, I don't see a problem spending my time writing articles; as long as it scratches the writing itch and doesn't detract from the writing I really want to do. Using this as an escape from completing my short story isn't acceptable. I still have the goal of completing my first draft by the end of August.

Another bonus to writing these articles for Triond and Hubpages is that I don't have to worry about specific content and whether it is in line with where my blog is currently headed. A review about a green-living magazine or tips on working from home may not fit well on a creative writing blog, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't take the time to write something that I find an interest in. These sites allow me to post my non-related articles without having to go through the hassle of creating and maintaining separate blogs.

For any who might be interested, two additional articles were published on Triond this morning:

Mother Earth News: A Review.
Five Tips for Working From Home.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Personal Embarrassment

Embarrassment, even the word is embarrassing to some people. Dissected, it comes from the Greek word meaning bare ass mention, which roughly translates into that time you went skinny dipping and your annoying friend couldn't help but mention it to people you would rather not have enlightened with such information.

My embarrassing story takes place when I was around 16 or 17 years old.

I was at a church camp-out up in the mountains with a bunch of friends. One particularly uneventful afternoon we decided to hop on the bikes and ride up towards Causey Reservoir. It was a couple of miles away and the mountain road was calm and quiet. We must have peddled our way about two or three miles before we stopped at a point one of the other guys was familiar with. We hopped off the bikes and walked them down the trail and into the bushes.

As the foliage parted before us, we saw the magnificent contraption, our mouths open with wonder and delight. It was beautiful. The metallic cord stretched across the expanse above the river coming out of the reservoir, and hanging on the cord was a metal cart. To a teenager, something like this could only mean one thing, ADVENTURE!

Two at a time we crossed above the river, one pulling the cable and rolling their way back across the gap to pick up another person, leaving one on the other side. We did this until we were all sitting on the other side of the river, enjoying the view and reveling in our adventure. That's when we discovered we were in a spot of trouble. The last person to cross on the cart had let go upon reaching the other side. The metal cart had rolled back to the center of the cable, the weight of it forcing the wheels that ran on top of the metal rope to roll backwards. We were trapped.

Being the daring sort I volunteered to recover the wayward cart. I gripped the cable and swung out over the water. One hand after the other I made my way further into the grand expanse, the water raged beneath me, my friends urged me onward and advised I be careful. It was about the time that I yelled back, "I'm fine!" that I realized the grand mistake I had made. It was too late to change my course and I stared, wide eyed, as the horrible seconds ticked by and my fate was sealed.

As I had traveled further across the river my weight had slowly shifted the drag on the cable from the middle, where the metal cart was, to the new heavy object moving towards the center. As that weight balance had moved to where the cable was loosest, I became the new low point. When that happened the cart had no choice but to roll down the slope of the cable as it had when someone had let go of it on the other side of the river. The edge of it slammed into my chest and nearly knocked the wind out of me. Had I not had that second or two of warning I wouldn't have been able to tense up and brace for the blow.

A few things at that point entered my mind as I groped for possible solutions to my newfound dilemma. My first instinct was to let go and allow myself to fall into the river below. It was a sizable drop and the water was moving somewhat faster than I would have liked, I opted to think of another solution. The next thought to enter my mind was that I should let go of the cable and grab the edge of the cart and pull myself up. If I could do this without accidentally opting for option 1, I could pull myself back to the other side of the river and we would have the cart, mission more or less accomplished.

"Are you okay?"

I didn't answer.

Alright, let go of the cable and grab the cart. Let go of the cable and grab the cart.

Uh, let go of the cable. LET GO OF THE CABLE!!! But I couldn't. The large metal wheels that rolled on top of the cable had rolled right on top of my hands. I had the entire weight of the cart resting on my fingers, the grooves of the wheels threatening to sever my digits for me, thus opting option 1, minus a few fingers.

"Are you okay?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled myself upward and leaned toward the cart, freeing one on my hands. Then I grabbed the edge of the cart and pushed it backward off my other hand and slipped downward. The cart teetered precariously and I discovered that lifting myself up wouldn't be an option. Still not liking option 1 I shouted, "I'm stuck, wade out into the water and grab my feet and pull me back!"

I was facing away from them but the silence behind me indicated they were all probably all looking at one another, sure that they weren't going to volunteer, fulling expecting someone else to jump up to bat.

"Fall into the river!"

"If I do, who's going to get the cart?!" I retorted.

Silence.

"Fine! I'll do it!" Felicia shouted, more at them than me.

Felicia was the only girl in the group, and by far the shortest.

I asked, "Are you sure you can reach my feet?"

"I think so."

She slowly stepped into the water, careful to get good, solid grips with each step, lest one slimy stone send her down with the current. The water came to her belly button.

"I can just drop, Felicia, go back."

"Who will get the cart?" She asked. I couldn't refute the logic.

After a few minutes she reached out and grabbed my dangling feet and pulled me back towards the rocks where the rest of our friends were standing, watching. My fingers burned with pain and I struggled to hold onto the edge of the cart, half expecting to slip and fall into the water, taking Felicia with me as the current swept us away.

But we made it. We reached the other side.

"I'll go get the cart," one of the guys mocked.

"Shut up." I replied, rubbing my bruised fingers.


Creative Writing Prompt:

The Boy in the Window

I have taken this story out of the running for the Bebo Author Short Story Competition. I will be submitting it shortly to another contest whose rules allow for posting on your personal blog.
I put a lot of effort into this story and I hope I pulled it off as well as I'd wanted to. If I had to pick one word to describe it, I think I would choose magical, but even that leaves so much more to be said. I'll leave this up for a few days to give people a chance to comment before I make my next post. Let me know what you think. I would love to write more about what went into this story, in case anyone wants to know more about what was on my mind when it was coming together.


*** This story has been removed as I look to find it a new home.***

Work in Progress

Excerpt from “Coma - The Cataclysm”

Draft
__________________________________________________________

Completely lost, Mark staggered down the winding forest path. His head still throbbed, sending sharp spikes of pain that shook his vision and threatened the slipping grasp of consciousness he struggled to maintain. As the trail wound downward the decline increased, pushing him on. Faster and faster he went, his tired legs screaming in agony. His mind was racing, where was he? What had happened? Soon the trees on either side of the trail turned to a green blur and he realized too late that he was, in fact, running down the steep decline and slowing down was no longer an option. That's when he saw it, the twisted, gnarled root protruding from the ground like a giant snake, waiting, ready to strike.
Somehow after the image processed in his mind the warning failed to reach his feet. Unable to stop Mark felt time slow to a crawl and watched in disbelief as the root loomed closer. Feeling the first burst of pain as his toes slammed into the base of the protruding offender he took flight, sailing slowly though the air. It was during that brief moment of suspension that he first looked at his surroundings. Each rock on the trail below crept past with stunning detail. Each leaf of each tree slowly danced on the cool mountain breeze. He took a breath and smelled the sweet, clean air of the forest, bringing back images of camping trips from his youth; echoes of a past he could barely remember. Just as he closed his eyes, trying to hold tight to the slipping memory, he felt it. Time lurched forward at double speed, regaining lost ground and thrusting him back into the present. His stomach turned as he opened his eyes to see what would break his fall. Squeezing his eyelids shut again he braced for the impact.
The expected piercing pain never came. Instead, his right shoulder buckled under the force of the tree, pain had been replaced with intense pressure that shot through his very core. He felt dizzy. Staring down at his knees he watched as blood soaked through the torn fragments of dirty linen. The pressure in his shoulder seemed to increase significantly, and then he heard it, the ominous pop that emanated from his flesh as he inched slowly closer to the trunk of the tree. The broken branch that had impaled him began to groan under the weight of his limp form and snapped. Slumping to the ground in a heap, Mark closed his eyes and fought the panic that threatened to take him.
Don't breathe he thought. The wind has been knocked out of you. Wait for your body to catch up. Steady. Steady... Okay, deep breath...
The crisp mountain air burned his lungs as he inhaled slowly and deeply, struggling to fight the urge to let go and gasp like a man drowning in a cold lake.
It's okay, easy now. His mind was racing, filling itself in on what had happened. The winding trail, he was going too fast and couldn't stop. The root, he'd tripped over the root. He saw it coming, he should have missed it but he didn't. The pain in his right foot pinged to life and he adjusted to look at his worn tennis shoe. The once white canvas was coated with dust and blood; the dark red-brown stain seemed to grow outward towards the seams at a slow but steady pace.
"It won't be pretty," he said to himself, smiling half-heartedly.
His eyes focused again on his knees, scraped and dirty with small shavings of skin barely clinging to the wounds in vain.
Pushing up on his left elbow Mark attempted to right himself but his right arm wouldn't budge. Again he attempted to grasp the trunk of the tree to brace himself and again his arm remained at his side.
"That's not right." he told the tree, concentrating intently on the contours of the bark.
It was a large, sturdy pine with tiny globules of sap which had dripped and hardened on the flaky bark exterior. As his vision narrowed in and focused he realized that the trunk was bleeding as well. His eyes followed the gleaming red trails upwards until he found the apparent source. The dead limb had long shed its bark and the smooth, weathered grayness peaked out from the crimson torrent that had washed over its surface. Six inches from the trunk the red and gray turned to a clean white where the limb had snapped with jagged disregard.
Mark felt his face run cold as he stared at the splintered wooden spear. The first wave of nausea hit like a flood. Again his mind raced into action, feebly striving to protect him from the gruesome reality of his situation. Tearing his eyes from the limb he forced himself to look down at his shirt and the hot, sticky blood that covered it.
"It's not right... It's not right," he murmured, totally transfixed by the gleaming wetness.
Unable to bear the dawn of realization he closed his eyes in disbelief. His fingers however, moved slowly through the unknown with morbid curiosity to the source of the blood. The touch of the splintered branch protruding just above the collarbone caused his stomach to lurch. Sickened, He opened his eyes and struggled to stand once again. Beads of cold sweat formulated on his brow, his vision began to fade as he struck out frantically with his left hand, ravaging the leaves in a desperate attempt to get away. Latching onto a nearby stump, he pulled himself away from the tree and onto his knees. The world seemed to spin uncontrollably and the nausea overtook the last bit of control he'd managed to hold on to.
With a sudden jerk his hot, smelly vomit covered the forest floor. His eyes began to water as his vision danced in and out of focus. Chancing another glance at the wound caused his stomach to jolt back into action, sending a fresh stream of vomit onto the very stump he'd used to pull himself up.
"You're in shock. Slow down." he gasped. A small string of saliva hung from his bottom lip and he wiped his mouth doggedly with his sleeve.
"It's just a flesh wound," he chuckled, looking back spitefully at the old pine. "One of these days someone will chop you down!" He yelled.
"And as for you..." he struggled to stand, now fueled by his growing anger and delirium.
By pure concentration of will his right arm flopped weakly and his fingers clenched into a loose fist as he grit his teeth against the new wave of pain. He bent down and picked up a rough, jagged stone from the side of the trail and stumbled drunkenly back up the path to the root.
Once, twice, three times the rock rose and fell, scraping away at the hard wooden skin and exposing the soft white interior. Faster and faster the rock came crushing down and Mark roared with his maddening battle cry until the mountains rang with his fit of rage. Blood from the wound in his shoulder splattered down on the tender white wood which soon turned to a dull pink mush under the pulverizing onslaught.
Mark felt his strength waning and soon the rock grew heavy in his hands. Dropping the small boulder he stared quietly at the destruction that lay before him. The root was no more and again the world began to spin as the blood drained from his head. Blurry brown dots invaded his vision and the world went black. The sounds of the woods around him died out as a million invisible ants marched through his head with the faint pulse of his heart. His awareness came crashing in as he crumbled silently to the ground, finally allowing the darkness to take him.
Ten yards away in the underbrush twin sets of eyes peered at the limp form on the trail. One set of eyes giggled followed by a sharp shush from the other. Leaves rustled and twigs snapped as the twins emerged from their hiding spot.
The young twins were about twelve years of age, a boy and a girl. Their tousled brown hair was unkempt from their day of playing in the woods. The girl pulled a dead leaf from her hair and tossed it aside. Her brother's menacing grin bothered her.
"Let's go look!" He giggled again.
"Joshua!" she hissed as he broke cover and crept closer to the still form of the man laying face down on the trail. Rolling her eyes she quietly followed.
Joshua had already begun poking the stranger with a stick by the time she'd caught up.
"I don't see what's so funny about poking a dead man with a stick." She glared.
"He's not dead," the boy giggled. "He's still breathing, see?"
The girl jumped back in fright. "Joshua stop!" she whispered. "He's going to get you, he's gone mad!"
"He ain't going to get me." The boy smiled before leaning a little closer to his sister. "He's fainted!"

Creative Writing Prompt:

Tonight's Special Feature!

Woo Woo!!! It's Friday! I'm so happy! I have determined that this weekend I will finish the rough draft of the story I'll be submitting to the Bebo Author Short Story Competition. So far I have no idea what it's about. All I know is that it includes a small boy looking through a window. It's decidedly not going to be dark and gruesome, I hope.
The rough draft of the beginning of a story I started working on a few months ago that I will include in this post, however, is. But I must admit, I love it. It's a wonderful beginning, even if a bit colorful and perhaps a little graphic. Okay, it's absolutely demonic, proceed with extreme caution. Some of you may wish to avert your eyes. What I like about it so far is that it has it's own voice. Jacob's voice. It's the world as he sees it. I close my eyes and I can see it too.
Anyway, there's still a long way to go, but I thought I would share this part with you. It's the story in it's entirety at this point, I have a few more projects to do before I can take the time to finish it, but I can tell now... it will be a grand adventure. It will be magical.

Jacob's Tale:

Jacob fumbled with the Colt .45 tucked into the front pocket of his over sized, hooded sweatshirt. Somewhere around the corner three government agents were in hot pursuit, the thunderous echoes of their shiny black shoes told him they were getting closer. Finally freeing the cold steel of the pistol, he planted his feet firmly and prepared to kill. It wouldn’t be the first time, if he got lucky it also wouldn’t be the last.

As the first shadow fell on the tiles in his view he braced for the recoil that would send the first bullet on its path toward his relentless pursuers. He managed a smile at the thought of Agent Roberts rounding the corner first, taking the bullet square in his puffy, condescending chest. These weren’t the type of agents that wore bulletproof vests; they were the spooks, the ones that operated out of an office without a name. They were the type of agents that questioned their detainees via ‘alternate methods’ which might mean the dunk tank or electrical connecters attached to your nut sack, depending on the mood of dear Mr. Roberts.

“Say goodnight, Agent.” Jacob whispered as the first suit rounded the corner, gun held aloof.

The first shot was deafening in the tight corridor, each following reverberation shook his vision and left his ears ringing in pain, but he couldn’t stop the hatred that had built within him during his three weeks of captivity. The first agent crumpled to the floor like a shredded paper doll. The second caught a bullet to the shoulder but managed to get off a shot of his own. Jacob barely noticed the projectile tearing through the flesh of his left thigh; the man’s weapon flew backwards in burst of red that had once occupied the space of the clenched fist of his trigger hand. The next round found its place between his eyes which were now wide with shock, staring at the stump, undoubtedly still trying to squeeze the trigger with the finger that now fell to the floor with a stunning sort of grace.

Writing Exercise:

Old Poems

These are old, and when I say old I mean years and years old - some even from High School.

"Time to Love"

Out of Summer skies of blue
my heart, at once, it longs for you,
and in this darkness I wish you near
to vanquish all the things I fear.

Alas, this evening the winds dance low
and create for us an eerie show
of Autumn leaves which have turned brown
which leap and drift ever slowly down.

My thoughts, to you, have turned with ease
to calm the coldest of Winter breeze.
Your laugh, your smile, your heavenly touch,
nothing could ever mean as much.

So in this Spring, with flowers new,
I stop to dream of things to do
to show my thanks to God above
who's taught me now, take time to love.

© Brady Frost


"Soft Summer Breeze"

I had a dream I died that day
and all that I knew just passed away.
Dressed in white linen I talked while you slept
and then in the morning I departed and wept.

When you found my frail body you started to cry,
the Lord called me home and you didn't know why.
At the funeral procession you followed my desire,
of course there was music and laughter like fire.

This dream, not a dream, but a nightmare - you see,
because no laughter was heard and no toast given to me.
You were sad and heartbroken - there wasn't a sound.
No one laughed merrily, not a smile could be found.

I woke up alive and rather distraught,
how lucky to have you and hold you, I thought.
You held me so close and I loved you with ease
and your touch brought me comfort like a soft Summer breeze.

© Brady Frost


"An Ode"

Ode to my locker,
ode to my shoe,
ode to the hall-pass,
this poem is for you.

Ode to the teachers,
ode to the books.
Of course, ode to you
and your stunning good looks.

Ode to my socks
and ode to my shirt,
ode to the grass
and ode to the dirt.

This is an ode
of no stunning grace,
but an ode, yes it is,
for this very place.

Goodbye Clearfield High!

© Brady Frost


Last one!!!!!!

"Will I Love Again?"

I often long for one to hold
and cherish oh so dear,
but when my heart becomes so bold
it's all those things I fear.

A cloud enshrouds my aching heart
as I now gaze at you
and when I feign to play my part
my pain's in plainest view.

Thus when I look into your eyes
I see the love you hold inside,
and all my hate I do despise,
along with all these things I hide.

Now I think of times ago
and every how and when.
But of to come I do not know,
Will I ever love again?

© Brady Frost


Writing Exercise:

This post will be deleted soon!

I break the rules, I always break the rules. When it comes to exercises of creativity I always find a way to mangle them to suit my own evil plans. Today is no different, only this time I feel like the result is so phenomenal that I have no choice but to act on it. That said, this post will only remain up for a very short time. I have written a story to answer Kat's meme about showers, The meme.

So without further adieu I present, for a limited time..... (I apologize in advance if the formatting is off...)

********
This story has been removed!
********

I have taken down "Intuition" because I am submitting it to a writing competition. I will post it up again once I have found a home for it. This could be as soon as September. The general rules are that pieces can't be published elsewhere and some people consider the internet as a form of publishing. I figured it's better to be safe than sorry.

Writing Exercise:

Writing Sample

So, I ended up working until sometime after 3:45 AM last night/this morning. I normally start work at 8:00 AM, so I guess you can do the math. I was back up and at it again at 9:30 but I actually got off on time today. One of my schools I'm working on is having some server problems of the severe variety, I turned it over to Support but they hadn't figured it out by quitting time and without getting an update from them I just wasn't going to hang around. I did finish the other school I was working on, I would say it was a day early but I don't think it counts if you stay up all night working on it. This was one of the worst weeks for data migrations, all four schools ended up having problems.
All that troubleshooting leaves me a little sapped for ideas. Okay, I lied. I have quite a few ideas actually. Every time one popped into my head I logged in and created a new post with the topic and the basic idea that I had. They are all sitting there in draft form hanging out on the sidelines. So the real answer is that all the troubleshooting I've been doing this week (and the lack of sleep) makes me doubt that I could really give those ideas the attention they need.
So far I've written a few posts with writing advice and this blog is still very young, all things considered. I haven't really shown you any of my writing. That probably isn't very fair. I figured that tonight would be a good night to share my writing with you. You don't have to like it, and even if you can't stand it we can still be friends. :) This blog is about writing and not about my ego. Any comments you have are more than welcome!

This is draft form and just a sample, it is the introduction of a major character at the beginning of Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it. Don't mind the formatting, the blog format and my indents just don't seem to want to cooperate. :)

__________________________________________________________

Excerpt from “Coma - The Cataclysm”

Draft

Deltwathe, considered the center of culture and reason by most, stood tall and graceful, a safe haven to merchants and royal envoys of allied towns. The towers of the castle challenged the heavens, visible for miles upon the horizon. The flags flew proudly on their posts, announcing the allegiance of the White Dragon. Formidable outer walls enclosed the Lower Commons, housing for the poor and the home to small tradesmen and those peddling common goods. An area designed to serve the kingdom as a primary defense; it remained guarded day and night by both castle guard and militia formed from residents of the lower city.

An architecturally defensive structure, the outer walls were adorned with bastions along the embattled parapets, perfect cover for defending archers. The entrance to the city within included inner and outer gates, ornate wooden gates fortified with iron and steel, with a twenty yard kill zone between each gate proceeded by its own portcullis, an iron grille suspended within the ceiling of the tunnel. As a last line of defense against a breach, the portcullis could be dropped to reestablish the killing field against reinforcements. The walls in the corridor were lined with narrow slits every two feet, alternating from side to side. In the event the attackers were to breach the gates, archers and crossbowmen would be at the ready.

Such were the defenses of Delwathe, the fairest kingdom of Velmoria. A castle fortress, nearly impenetrable, the sole guardian of the nations aligned under the flag of the White Dragon. As it stood sentinel over the forests below, the red moon showered the white stones with twilight as the last glimpse of the former day dripped from the horizon.

In the distance a chapel bell clanged the hour, a symphony of echoes rang back in reply. As if on queue the torches within the bastions lit simultaneously, warning the world that the eyes of Delwathe were forever watching. The streets of Lower Commons were flooded, cobble venders pushed last minute sales before customers retreated to the comfort of homes, inns, or taverns to stave off the incoming cold that night would bring.

Through the mingling crowd a darkly dressed man made his way towards Three Swords Tavern. His rusty blonde hair whisked about his shoulders as he weaved towards his destination, the long broadsword bridled to his back cause some to quietly step aside as he passed. His movements were lithe and catlike despite his girth and muscled broad shoulders. The armband on his left bicep bore the insignia of Captain, denoting his rank in the Kaelvacci, the elite Special Forces charged with serving the Prince and high ranking members of the court.

Catching a glimpse of a familiar face, the Captain smiled and quietly followed the retreating figure into an adjacent alleyway. Long stealthy strides quickly closed the gap between predator and prey, within fifteen paces the mousey old man squirmed feebly against the Captain’s unyielding grip.

“Good to see you again Tibias,” the Captain grunted into the man’s ear, pressing his face into the stone wall of the building.

The old man’s eyes winced shut in pain, his long stringy gray hair pulled tight into the fist of his assailant. “Always a pleasure, Captain Reshald, how may I be of service to the Kaelvacci this evening?” he asked politely, struggling against both pride and pain.

“Not to the Kaelvacci tonight old man, “ Reshald loosened his grip. “It’s time for one last payment, payable to me. Play your cards right and tomorrow you could be a free man, cross me and we both know what happens.”

“An-anything, M’lord, name it and it shall be done.” Tibias smiled, exposing the rotten teeth jutting up from his gums.

“Tomorrow night, Tibias StormWeaver, your life depends on it.” Reshald thrust a small scroll marked with the royal seal into the trembling hand of the terrin addict and backed silently out of the alleyway, disappearing into the murmur of the crowd.

Clenching the wrought iron handle of the tavern door, Captain Reshald checked himself and straightened his jerkin. Once everything seemed in order he swung the solid wooden door outward and stepped into the dark parlor, the smoky atmosphere swayed as the flames of candles danced upon their wicks, the clamor of glasses clinking and patrons laughing drifted from the main hall.

Nestled deep within Lower Commons, Three Swords Tavern bore a very exclusive membership comprised of powerful men and women among the middle citizenship, imperial agents, and a select few upperclassmen with a propensity for slumming and a taste of lower class appeal. For all matters the tavern was a place of discrete business, a safe-house, an organization threatening to breathe with a life of its own. It was the perfect place for the type of business the Captain had on this particular evening.

__________________________________________________________

Writing Exercise: