Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Okay, so I said I wasn't doing TOI anymore... I lied.  I'm re-writing it!  Here's the re-written first chapter.

Chapter One: The Whisperer 

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on the soggy ground as the autumn moon rose over the trees and shone through gossamer spider webs hanging in the branches. A mouse stuck it’s head out of it’s hole beneath a large old oak. It blinked at the moon and looked at the Tower, it’s wet nose quivering.

To the mouse, the Tower of Noran Mir looked almost heavenly bathed in the moonlight, each of its four sides glinting with the golden images of a hand. Music and laughter drifted through its open windows, carried by the breeze into the forest. All was at peace. All was well. Had the mouse thought to, it would have smiled at the sounds of celebration. But it was frightened away.

A tall man stepped out from behind the oak tree, his face shrouded from view by a heavy black hood. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he gazed at Noran Mir. The moon glinted off his eyes; black they were, and cold as steel. They sparked with vehemence at the Tower and the sounds of happiness that came out of it.

“Soon,” he said to the Tower in a dead whisper, “Soon you will be bowing in the dust before me.” He patted the sword that hung at his side, and smiled a grim smile.

There was a slight noise somewhere behind him. He whipped about, dagger in hand, dark eyes probing the black shadows of the night. Seeing nothing, he sheathed his dagger, cast one last bitter glance at the Tower, and stealthily made his way into the deep shadows of the forest.

The path he followed was an old creek bed, which winded through the forest like a snake. Deeper and deeper it went until the man was reaching the very heart of the forest. He could just hear the sounds of harsh shouting and drunken laughter, and could see the red glow of fire up ahead, when suddenly a rough hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and he felt the sharp edge of a knife tickle his throat.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. The dokkal’s face, grey and grim, could barely be seen by the moonlight. “What’s the word?” the dokkal demanded in a deep voice.

“Shade, you idiot!” the man hissed. His captor let him go with a gasp.

“By the Snake, Elamstar!” muttered the dokkal, “We didn’t know it was you! With your hood...”

“Be glad I don’t have time to deal with you now, imbecile,” growled Elamstar. He turned and strode toward the campsite.

As usual, he was greeted by a drunken brawl. He scowled at his soldiers, but they were too busy fighting or drinking to notice him. He crossed the camp, dodging the fighting Dokkalim that came in groups or pairs, and stepping over the sprawled forms of sleeping soldiers, slowly making his way to a lone tent erected beside the great bonfire in the center of the camp.

Casting a hostile glance at the sleeping dokkal leaning against the tent with an empty wineskin in his loose grip, Elamstar lifted the heavy canvas flap and entered. He lit a small lamp hanging in the corner, revealing a table with a plate of half-eaten food on it and a cot. On this cot lay a person, dressed in a dingy blue shirt under a stiff leather jerkin. The flickering light from the lamp accentuated the sharp Annwine features of his youthful face and shined in his golden hair.

Elamstar scowled at the sleeping Annwyn. He looked so peaceful, as if he were back in his own bed in his great Fomorian palace in Linaar. “Well, Prince Mornan Fomori,” muttered Elamstar under his breath, “It seems your days of peace are finally at an end.”

A slow smile spread across Mornan Fomori’s face. “Would you mind closing the flap?” the prince asked, “There’s a draft.”

Elamstar frowned. “Stand up!” he ordered.

The Annwyn prince slowly obeyed, clearly enjoying the cloud of impatience spreading over Elamstar’s face. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me bow to the dust before you, like Noran Mir?”

Elamstar started at this. “You... You didn’t follow...” He rushed back to the entrance where the dokkal guard was still in a drunken slumber. “Fool!” he shouted as he shook the massive soldier to his feet. “I warned you that if you did not keep the closest watch on him, there would be consequences!”

The dokkal stumbled to the ground, wide eyed. “He escaped, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper as he struggled to his feet.

“That’s one thing you’ll never know,” hissed Elamstar in his soldier’s face. “Kinnos!”

A large dokkal strode away from the bonfire and grunted a salute.

Elamstar shoved the staggering dokkal toward him. “This idiot isn’t to see the light of another day,” he snarled, “See to it, and replace him with someone more trustworthy.”

“I’ll do it myself,” said Kinnos.

Elamstar studied Kinnos for a moment. There was a certain... something about him that unnerved him. Something almost noble, if a dokkal could be noble. Elamstar waved them off. “See to it.” He went back into the tent.

Mornan was smiling that mischievous smile that never failed to anger him. “I could have escaped, you know,” the prince said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I enjoy baiting you. Your reactions are most amusing.”

Elamstar scowled. “You are not at your palace in Linaar, Mornan. You are as helpless as a rabbit in the claws of a vulture.”

Mornan tilted his head to one side, as if studying Elamstar. “You’re right,” he said finally, “You do look like a vulture.”

Elamstar regarded the Annwyn with distaste for a moment. Then he smiled slowly. “Would you like to hear the latest news of the war, my prince?”

A stoic mask immediately dropped over Mornan’s face. He sat down on the edge of the cot and stared at the flickering lamp. “Go on,” he said quietly.

“Very well,” Elamstar leaned against the table and watched Mornan’s face. “Our troops,” he said, “Have destroyed all the ships in Isai Nor. Without their sailor friends, the soldiers of Noran Risas gave up without much of a fight.”

Mornan’s face remained emotionless, but Elamstar could sense the shock of the news quickening the prince’s Annwine blood. Shock, replaced by bewilderment, and then... hope?

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Mornan suddenly, his blue eyes piercing into Elamstar’s.

Elamstar was taken aback at first, but then shrugged it off. “So, you’ve guessed,” he said slowly, “But, no. Your fool of a brother escaped with it.”

There was no mistaking the triumph, and pride, in Mornan’s voice. “As long as Naramir has it in his care, you can forget about taking the Sarilan.”

Elamstar shrugged. “Who cares about that sword anymore? We have a better one now.” He straightened and threw his coat back. He drew the sword that dangled at his side, it’s elegantly curved blade rasping as it came out of it’s scabbard. Elamstar held it almost worshipfully in the dim lamplight. “Do you know it, my prince?” he asked in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the polished steel blade. “Can you feel it’s power? Can you hear it screaming for a battle? For death?” His eyes narrowed at Mornan. “It’s bite is hungry, it’s fire is unforgiving. Do you know it’s name, Mornan?”

Mornan gazed at the shimmering blade. He saw how easily the hand of Elamstar gripped it’s handle. “Rimastan,” he said reverently, “The sword of King Dore.”

“Rimastan,” said Elamstar, “The sword of Elamstar.” He sheathed the sword and leaned against the table. “Do you realize the gravity of it all? Rimastan is in the hand of the one it otherwise would have fought against.”

“I assume you are thinking of the prophecy of Seer Ash?” Mornan asked.



“That if Sarilan and Rimastan fought against each other the Towers of Iron will fall?”

Mornan narrowed his eyes at Elamstar. “Surely you don’t believe that,” he said, “Seer Ash was a madman!”

“Was he?” Elamstar smiled, “Not a nice thing to say about my great-grandfather.”

He continued to speak, but Mornan couldn’t hear him. The detail of the tent, Elamstar’s face, and everything else blurred and blended together in confusion. Mornan instinctively leaned back and let the feeling take him.

Elamstar stopped speaking. His eyes narrowed as he saw Mornan’s eyes close. Then uncertainty gave way to fear. He realized with shock that Mornan was passing into salimin, a trancelike state in which the Annwine people were said to receive visions. Elamstar grimaced. Visions from... Lor.

Elamstar spat and leaned against the table, waiting for Mornan to finish speaking with his god.

Elamstar.

Elamstar smiled. He closed his eyes and concentrated. “Yes Master?”

All is ready. You need to attack now.

Elamstar nodded. He opened his eyes and stood.

“You will fall.”

Startled, Elamstar looked at Mornan. The prince had come out of his vision and was smiling up at him.

“Oh, yes,” said Mornan slowly, as if savoring each syllable, “You will surely fall. The strength of Lor is on our side.”

Elamstar struck Mornan across the face with the back of his hand. “Don’t you say that name again,” he snarled. He turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, leaving a smiling Annwyn prince behind.
“Kinnos,” he growled to his general, “Is all ready for the attack?”
“All is ready,” said Kinnos, his voice showing no emotion, “The troops are assembled just outside the wood, as you ordered.”
“Then,” said Elamstar, his voice jubilant, “Order the advance.”
“Yes, sir.” The dokkal drew his scimitar and lunged through the camp, followed by half a dozen soldiers.
They ran down the winding path faster than any horse could have, and soon they burst out into the clearing. Kinnos laughed a grim laugh as the rush of the impending battle swept over him. He lifted his great battle horn he carried at his side and blew a resounding blast. With a tremendous shout the Dokkalim troops exploded out of the darkness of the forest and swept over the clearing toward the walls of Noran Mir. Overhead great round stones hurtled through the night sky and burst against the stone battlements. Kinnos saw them and grinned wildly. The catapults were doing their work.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Inside, General Nimoran leapt up from his seat in the Great Hall. “Everyone to the walls!” he commanded. There was confusion as tables and chairs were overturned and people scrambled for the doors. Men hurried everywhere, herding the women and children deeper into the Tower and seizing weapons and armor.
General Nimoran stood on the wall, staring in horror at the great mass of Dokkalim charging the walls. A flaming thing hurtled towards him from the blackness of the night, roaring through the air.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Mornan opened the tent flap, just enough to peek out. The camp was almost empty, only a few drunken Dokkalim sprawled out around the diminishing fire. A slow smile spread across his face. He stepped out, keeping to the shadows as much as he could as he crossed the camp. No voice called out, no pursuing footsteps were heard... And he ran.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

*walks in and grins sheepishly* Well... Hi again.  Just wanted to drop by real quick and tell y'all that TOI is finished.

WAIT!  Before you get excited... By "finished" I meant "finished FOR NOW".  I really didn't complete writing it, I just pretty much posted the spoilers for the unwritten chapters. 

Just thought I'd letcha know...

- Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Chapter 2: The Hunt and the History Lesson

Prince Sorrin rode up the hill with his shoulder length auburn hair flowing behind him and his hunting spear ready. Occasionally he would bend low to the ground to find what he was looking for. Boars run light, and this one was no exception. It seemed that though the ground was wet and soft, the hoof prints were becoming more difficult to make out.

He laughed softly to himself when he thought of the other hunters searching in vain in the woods for the animal that he was about to claim as his own. He fingered his trumpet hanging at his side and then stopped. No, he wouldn’t signal the others. He would bring it in himself.

His happy thoughts were short-lived, for when he arrived at the peak of the hill, he saw one of his father’s sows grazing contentedly at the grass. He dismounted from his horse, and picked up a small rock.

"What are you doing here?" he said, tossing it at the pig. "Go back home and stop ruining the hunt!"

He was suddenly aware of someone behind him. "Talking to animals now, are we, young Prince?" laughed a voice.

Sorrin turned and saw his manservant, Sordoin. "It’s not like that, Sordoin," he said. "I thought I was chasing a boar."

"Well then, it’s a good thing you know the difference between a boar and your father’s best sow," said Sordoin, still laughing under his breath. "You might have killed her and brought her to the dinner table all proud and victorious-like."

Sorrin said nothing, but turned and looked toward the west, where the sun was about to set behind the tall hills, casting a long shadow across the valley. Stories of this place filled his mind and he forgot all about the hunt.

"What is the name of this hill again?" he asked Sordoin.

"Mass Rin," said Sordoin gravely. "The Hill of War. Here, long ago, a great battle was fought between our ancestor, Saor, and the Rasnonim. There was ever a enmity between the Rasnonim and us Saorlings."

Sorrin nodded and looked west at a mountain, shining blue above the green hills.

"And that is the mountain where Saor is buried?" he asked.

"No one knows for certain," replied Sordoin. "Saor died right after the battle, and it is said that he was either buried there or he was set in a boat and sent down the Nar River, after the fashion of the Ancient Kings."

"And what became of his sword, the Sarilan?"

"It was given to Horanas, the Annwyn king of Linaar, for saving Saor’s son Raliminan, who is your grandfather."

Just then, a horn sounded. Sorrin slapped his forehead. "The boar!" he cried. "The others must have found it." Then, wheeling his tall bay around, he galloped off to find them.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Okay, yer prolly wondering why I'm not doing Forty Fathoms below anymore. I can sum it up in three words: LACK OF INSPIRATION. Yeah, I'm just not in a piratey mood anymore. So, I'm returning to Middengarne! Here's the first chapter:

 

Chapter 1: The Whisperer

The moon was just rising, and it’s mournful face gazed down on Noran-Mir, the Tower of Hands. No face looked over the battlements, and there were no sentries at the gate, for this was the celebration of Minarasin Eve, when no one need fear danger. Even the wind seemed to blow gentler than usual for autumn Within the walls of the Tower, the people feasted and danced.

A tall, thin person stood just outside of the surrounding woods, staring at the Tower with hatred in his eyes. Then he turned and strode into the wood.

The path he took was one that many people would have avoided; it was believed to be a haunt for wraiths and ghosts. But for this man, whose name was Imira, this path led to something that would change everything forever.

He was met by two Dokkalim, each with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The Dokkalim resembled Humans, except they were taller and much more stronger. The Dokkalim stopped Imira.

"Simiror," they said in unison.

"Simira," Imira gave the countersign. The Dokkalim let him pass.

Imira walked into the camp, and went straight to a tent that was set up in the center close by a great fire. He lifted the heavy canvas flaps and entered. Inside there was only a table with a plate of half-eaten food on it, and a cot in the corner. On this cot lay Mornan, the Annwyn prince of Linaar.

"Stand up, filth!" shouted Imira.

Mornan obeyed, but slowly. He stood still and smiled. "Lovely evening for a walk, eh Imira? Did you enjoy the sight of the great Tower of Hands lit by the autumn moon?" He tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear as he noted the slight look of surprise on Imira’s ugly face.

"So you’ve been following me again have you?" questioned Imira after a while. "You must remember something, Mornan. You are a prisoner in my hands. It is time you acted like one."

"I guess, then, that you should set more than one guard outside the tent." retorted Mornan.

Imira frowned, but then he smiled scornfully. "I have some news for you," he said. Mornan braced himself for what was sure to come. "Our troops," continued Imira, "Have taken all the ships in Linan Nor. The Tower of Faces will fall, just as the Tower of Hands will. But there is a quandary," Imira paused, and then continued.

"Your brother, Naramir, has escaped, along with a very valuable weapon. With this weapon, he might, just might, be able to resist us. But luckily, we have something to bargain with." he pointed at Mornan. "Something very dear to him."

Mornan let this all sink in. Then he said defiantly, "My brother will never give you the Sarilan."

"Ah," Imira raised his eyebrows, "You know the sword. Then you will also remember that Sarilan has a brother, forged on the same day, in the same forge. Surely you know it’s name."

Mornan nodded. "Rimastan, the Whisperer."

Imira smiled. "Yes, the Whisperer," he said, throwing his cloak back, and drawing a sword from his belt. It was long and thin, almost delicate looking, but Mornan knew that it could hack through the thickest armor.

Mornan gazed at the ancient blade that was still gleaming as if it was new. For a moment he thought of all the battles that Rimastan had fought: the Battle at Mass Rin, at Noran Rimana, and the Scourge of the Frontier.

He thought of all the kings of old that wielded it. There was Mornsinil, and his son Sinana. Even Dorr, brother of Saor, used it against the Dokkalim at Mass Rin. And now it was in the hands of the enemy.

All of a sudden, time stopped. Mornan’s senses dulled a little. He was no longer standing in the tent. He was on a wide plain. It was raining, and there was no sunlight anywhere. He noticed two people were fighting before him. He looked closer.

One of them he recognized as Imira, and the other was a boy, no older than seventeen, with auburn hair and the fair skin of the Huwyn people. His armor was that of the Saorlings, and his shield bore the markings of the family of Dain. He was wielding the sword Sarilan. The boy and Imira fought hard, each bringing the other within inches of death.

Imira and the boy stood apart for a moment to catch their breath. The boy said something to Imira, but Mornan could not understand what he said. Imira gave an angry shout and leapt at the boy. Sarilan and Rimastan met in a flash, and the blade of Rimastan was shattered.

Mornan came out of the vision smiling. Imira watched his face with uncertainty mixed with fear. He knew that when Mornan’s eyes were half closed he was seeing a vision, which the Annwyn people are renown for. "You will fall," Mornan said slowly, as if savoring each syllable, "Oh yes, you will surely fall. The strength of Sinainon Lor is on our side."

Imira struck Mornan across the face with the back of his hand. "Don’t you say that Name again," he snarled. He then turned on his heel and stomped out of the tent.

"Hisarasin!" he called. A great Dokkalim came out from a group around the campfire and grunted a salute. "Hisarasin," said Imira, "is all ready for the attack?"

"All is ready," said Hisarasin, "The troops are assembled just outside the woods, as you ordered."

"Then," said Imira, "Remember your allegiance to Rastoran, the Maker of Shadows, the great Snake of Shades. Order the advance."

"Yes, master," said the Dokkalim. He drew his great scimitar and blew a great blast on his horn that he carried at his side.

A shout went up among the Dokkalim troops. The siege on Noran- Mir, the Tower of Hands, had begun.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Okay. Pip and I (Jules) have taken upon ourselves the duty of writing the sequel to the AWESOME Inklings story Jack wrote. We have completed the first chapter so here's the link: http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/Part2/ *sits back and looks at the link* Hmm. . . To bad my iMac can't do those nifty "click and you're transported there automaticly" links. Oh well. . . Jules, The Most Awesomest Pirate Guy In The World

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Hi. Just wanted to say that I invited AnnaBeth to join Inklings. WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!!!! So stop glaring at me, R.K. . . .

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Jules here.

Okay, we all agreed it would be fantasy, and we tried to come up with a plot via PMs, but obviously it didn't work.   So here's what's gonna happen.

We all give an idea for a small part of the plot.  e.g:

      "a boy loses his favorite teddy bear, and this guy comes and finds it."

Okay, I know that was stupid, but you get the idea.  I'm looking for something way more cooler than that. 

Oh yeah, and because it's fantasy y'all can come up with some races or countries, and stuff like that.  Just please NO ELVES! ! !  Make up something original.  Let's not write a copy of LoTR or Eragon.   There are already too many of those out there.

Okay, you've read it, now comment and tell us your ideas!

P.S:

Corduroy pillows are making headlines.

 

 

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Sence only five ppl (including me) said they wanted to do the group story, and five votes were cast, I'm assuming that everyone has voted. 

 

And the winner is *drumroll*:

 

Time to vote for the genre!
Selection		Votes
High Fantasy (like LOTR and Eragon)	40%	2
Fantasy (like anything from Narnia to Peter Pan)	60%	3
Historical Fantasy (like Pirates of the Carribean)	0%	0
Historical Fiction	0%	0
Absurdist (like Lemony Snikett's books)	0%	0
Mystery	0%	0
Or something totally unexpected!	0%	0

 

Fantasy!!  Okay, if you still wat to do this, comment and say so.  I still need to figure out a way that we can all come up with a plot together. . . If you have any ideas, please tell me. 

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Hi, fellow Inklings!  This is Jules speaking.  I had an idea.  What if the Inklings wrote a story as a group? 

Here's how I thought we'd do it:

We would choose the genre of the story by voting. Then we would set to work on the characters and the story-plot. . . nothing too long or complicated.

Then we choose one Inkling member to write the first draft of the first chapter, and he/she PMs it on to the next person, who adds whatever he/she wants. They can only take something away with the previous person's permission.

After it goes through all the members, and everyone approves it, we post it. And then on to the next chapter.

I told Lewis about this, and she thought it was a good idea.  If you want to participate, PM me or comment.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

I wrote this when I was studying about Medeival guilds.  The assignment was to write a short story about a guild using some facts I had learned. 

"But, surely, Master Otto," cried the old man pitifully, "Thou art an influential man in your guild! Wilt thou persuade them to lower the prices? Sixpence and three pounds for a candle? It’s outrageous!"

Giles looked up from his candle molds and sighed. His uncle Otto was trying to convince this old man that there was no way to lower the prices set by the guild officers.

"I’m sorry," said Otto, "but there’s nothing to be done about it. However, I will appeal to the guild and ask them if it is possible to lower the price a little."

The old man’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded his head and continued with his purchase. After he left, Giles sighed again. How his uncle planned to get the guild to lower the prices on candles, he hadn’t the slightest idea. There were many other candle makers in the guild that wanted to raise the prices even higher. It was getting so bad that many of the townsfolk stopped buying candles altogether.

Uncle Otto heard Giles sighing and nodded his head. "Today, I am calling an emergency meeting of the candle makers guild. Go you now to deliver the message to Master Giovanni Valenti. I will send Ben to spread the word to all the brethren." Guild members called each other brethren.

Giles laid down his half finished work, put on his gold and scarlet cloak, which was the livery of the Candle Makers Guild and started out. Giovanni Valenti was the chairman of the candle makers guild. Lately, Valenti had taken ill with a fever and had not been able to attend the meetings, but his spokesman, Benedetto de Sora was there to preside over them in his place. It was also de Sora’s idea to raise the prices.

When he was halfway down the road, Giles heard a commotion coming from the marketplace. He hurried over to see what was going on. A group of people were gathered around a cart of fruit that had been overturned, and all the fruit was dumped into the mud. An angry man was trying to put it upright, but the cart proved too heavy for him.

"You," he shouted to another man, who Giles noticed was wearing a red and black cloak, which meant he was a shoe maker, "You ‘ave no business goin’ aroun’ and dumpin’ me goods into the street!"

"When it comes to that," replied the shoemaker cooly, "You have no business selling fruit in town, without paying a toll. You are a distraction to our customers."

"Seems a body carn’t do nothin’ without you merchants demandin’ a toll," said the man. But then he sullenly fished in one of the many pockets sewn onto his ragged tunic and brought out some copper coins. " ‘eres your toll." He said, throwing the coins in the mud. Then he turned his attention to his cart. Giles turned and walked away.

When Giles reached Valenti’s house, he paused briefly to gape at the towering building. Standing at the corner of town, and taller than any other house, one could see it from anywhere in or around town.

He walked up to the large oaken doors and lifted and let fall the iron knocker. A resounding thud echoed, but no one came to answer. He knocked again, but still nobody came to the door. It seemed that no one was home, so Giles turned to leave. But a noise from inside caught his attention, and he stopped.

He walked quickly back up to the door and entered. The house seemed empty at first, but Giles thought he heard someone talking upstairs. He slowly ascended the staircase, and followed the voice to a slightly opened door. He raised his hand to knock, but then he dropped it to his side. He put his ear to the door and listened. This is what he heard.

"De Sora, I refuse to be thus detained any longer! Release me, and I will give you whatever it is you desire."

"Do you think me so foolish as to do that? You would go telling everyone about me. But be still, I want to hear what this man, who has not revealed his face even to me, has to say. Who are you, and why do you go about with your face covered in a black hood?"

Then a strange, deep voice said, "Call me Phillip. My face is covered for I wish none to see it. I came to you, for I know your story well. It is my business to know. You are searching for something. The thing you search for is revenge, revenge against Loffred de Anagni. You long for his demise, and it is just within your grasp now. I can bring about his ruin."

Here, Giles stifled a gasp, and sent a silent prayer to St. James, the patron saint of the candle maker’s guild. Loffred de Anagni was the mayor of the town, who, it was said, expelled de Sora from the town council, thus taking away from him many privileges. Giles felt that something bad was afoot.

"H-how do you plan to do that?" said de Sora after a moment.

Phillip laughed. "Mine is the way of the hunting cat, of the spider that waits patiently in its web until its prey is caught in the invisible traps the spider sets, the way of the serpent by the pathway that sits until some careless passer-by steps near, and then snaps out with its fangs. That is how."

Giles hadn’t noticed that he was leaning on the door a little, but all of a sudden he fell into the room. "What is this!?!" screamed de Sora.

Giles barely had time to recover himself and run out of the room again before Phillip and de Sora were after him. He went down the stairs two at a time and fairly flew out the door. He bumped into a man on the front steps, and to his relief he saw that it was the sheriff. "What’s the matter, boy?" the sheriff asked.

"de Sora . . . hooded man . . . danger," he managed to gasp. But when he saw that the sheriff didn’t understand, he pointed inside and said, "Help Giovanni."

The sheriff drew his short sword and entered. Presently there was the sound of a scuffle, and the sheriff emerged holding Phillip by the collar of his cloak and de Sora in front with the sword pointed at his back. Giovanni Valenti was right behind them.

"It’s a good thing I happened by," said the sheriff. Then he nodded to Phillip. "We’ve been trying to catch him for a long time."

"Aye," said Giovanni, "And we’ll have no more nonsense about raising the prices on candles, right de Sora? You are officially no longer a member of the guild. Now," he said to Giles, "Tell your uncle that I am well, and everything will return to normal as soon as possible. I say, it was a piece of luck that brought you here wasn’t it?"

Giles nodded and turned to leave. Phillip caught his eye for a split second, and Giles shuddered. He was glad that Phillip was caught.

Uncle Otto was glad at the news. "Finally," he said, "No more complaining customers."

 

 

Yeah, I know. . . terrible ending.  Anyway, please tell me whatcha think!

 

Jules Verne