DaManofWar
Hans Assman
Okay, so I am an aspiring writer, and I would like some feedback on my story I am writing. It's a fantasy entitled A Most Unusual Holiday. Here is the opening.
Well, hello there. Yes, you, the person who has picked up my book. Are you a bookworm? Never mind. You have opened up my book, are currently reading it, and that’s all I need.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, I am the Narrator. It is my job to tell stories. Most people say that this is untrue, and that all I do is narrate whatever I am told to, that I am unimportant to a story, just a side show. Well, a pox on them all. The narrator does not tell stories because he is told to. He tells stories because he wants to. And this story will be one that you will very much enjoy, I hope. I should start by telling you about our setting, the Lodger’s Inn.
The Lodger’s Inn is a rather unique building. It is a massive stone building, and it seems like someone has taken some castle from France and transported the whole thing to North America. It is over five stories high, with a tower in each of its corners, are a testament to its majesty and grace. The windows are very well polished, and one can see not a speck of dust nor a remnant of some cobweb to stain it. The building is less some ramshackle stop on a road trip to rest and deal with their hyper active children, and more an overlooked marvel of the world, just waiting for someone to come and discover it, untold magic waiting to be read aloud.
If you entered that building, you would be greeted by a lobby that looked more like the hall that a king would host a ball in, with a deep red and gold carpet, and so grand and elegant is this lobby that you would expect that a king would come out of the doors that flanked the reception desk on either side, followed by his beautiful queen. The reception itself would be where he would have ruled his kingdom, intriguing and marvellous to look upon, with a breath taking royalty, the chair in the centre looking much more like a throne, grand and proud, behind a desk, no, a small fence of solid oak, with its images of lions, dragons and other creatures you could not possibly name for your life, and would most certainly have been the king’s throne. One could even see it, the court were this king of such power and splendour would meet with his dukes to discuss lands and estates, his barons to argue over taxes, place a sword over the shoulder of his knights as they were made his loyal warriors of chivalry, his advisors, telling him how to rule such a mighty kingdom, and watch his prince and princess play, grow, and become his worthy heirs. How mighty this kingdom must have been.
And then one of the doors would open, and the manager would come out, bearded and bald, with a round head, and take his place at the reception, asking you to check in as he smiled, watching you count out your bank notes, green and flimsy, and the bellboy would ask for your bags, his face flustered, or pale, or simply blank, and the spell would be broken. The court of that great kingdom is gone, replaced by the hustle and bustle of tourism, the prince and princess, now the children who are immune to the wondrous spell, so engrossed in modern technology.
Like most hotels, it has a pool. It is a large, deep pool, with dull, shimmering water, a hot tub in the corner, occupied by some large individual, who would be fast asleep, snoring loudly. Like most hotels, it has its fair share of guests. They come in all shapes and sizes, and from almost all corners of the world. But they do not stay for the greatness, the awe, the magic and grace of a castle. They come only for a short visit, merely stopping by for a quick stay, before going on to the more flashy, tempting and famous metropolises of the world, with its filth, its technology and its fast food.
But if the guests don’t come for the hotel itself, then perhaps they come to it for the real beauty of nature. My, but oh how grand that valley is to see. The forest and trees are old, older than the United States, and have seen many things. If you could speak to them, what stories would they tell you? Would you listen to the mighty pine trees tale of the hunters who have used him to find their game, or would to hear the maple’s tale of robbery, as men take her sap for their pancakes?
If that does not make you wonder and think, then maybe you should watch the streams and rivers. What maiden is that, lurking under the waves, so serene is her face? Why, the Lady of the Lake’s niece has a home here! Be careful not to dishonour her by relieving yourself in her rivers, least you feel her wrath. And watch you do not tread on her friends, the flowers who bloom along the edge of the waters.
If not for the grand hotel’s mighty presence, then surely people come to see this perfect specimen of a valley, with its forests, its rivers, and its mountains, so powerful. Hikers, people who really see the world, can appreciate this splendour and miracle of the world. It was thanks to people like them that those men of business, with their suits and their briefcases, who wanted to build their roads and their skyscrapers, were foiled, and the land now protected by the law of British Columbia.
Oh, it is worth mentioning the involvement of the hotel’s staff, I suppose. Have I neglected to tell you of the men and women who work and live in the Lodger’s Inn? Well, forgive me, for you shall meet them now.
First, we have the manager of the hotel, a Mr G. P. Hammer. You remember him? The man who was watching your money as you laid it in front of him? Well, he is not a very pleasant man. He was never married, and has no children to call his own. The man is well educated, but this only makes his incompetence all the more inexcusable. He is always running from one place to the next, with a big bushy beard which seems to just hang there, tired and worn, and a bald head, but not the shining kind. It is riddled with moles and spots. But Mr Hammer wears no wig. He takes pride in his head, and claims to have counted every blemish he has. When he watches you putting your money down, it is not because of greed. It is because he does not trust you to pay it all, up front. His eyes are sharp, and he has been known to heavily scold anyone who misses a single speck, one only he can see. He would take the rag, and deal with the offending spot himself. “The work I have to do for these people,” he would mutter, but it would be very hard to tell if he really resented it. You probably believe his beard is brown or black, and he has sideburns. Don’t be fooled for a minute. That beard has been dyed from its natural colour, a deep gold, and he has no sideburns. You just imagined it.
But he has never fired anyone. Not once. The staff are too well mannered, too well skilled, for him to find any fault. They’re skills in their respective jobs is truly stunning to see. The Chef de cuisine, Herman de Par, is rather thin for what one would think to be a chief, but nonetheless, as imposing as they come. His rat like features seem to be able to find the very best ingredients, no matter where they are hidden, and create something outstanding each time. The head house-maid, Madam Bundy, a rather young woman to be head maid, Ukrainian, and very no nonsense. Do not get on her bad side, as she has a nasty one. You could mistake it for a Russian even. Ah, I almost forgot, the head butler himself, Mr Donati, that silent figure who commands respect. He would make a great guard at Buckingham Palace, such is his skill. He would not even notice if a young lady were to wink at him, and smile seductively, that great weakness of man that has beseeched him for centuries. However, should a bellboy drop a bag in his presence, no, if he was in the adjourning room, he would stop whatever he was doing, which would be nothing, walk slowly to the terror stricken young man, take the bag or baggage, and carry them for the poor fool. Heaven knows what he will do to him afterwards.
It is worth noting that the hotel itself is very much alone in this wilderness that is its kingdom. But it really suits it quite well. This seclusion has only added to the hotel’s character, its great pride requiring it to be left alone and content. When those men of business came to Mr Hammer, hoping to persuade him to agree to their schemes of deforestation and the building of a massive, bustling mall and rest area for the weary traveller, the look on their faces when he said no must have been comedic gold. Mr Hammer knew full well that his hotel had no need of neighbours, for it’s ego would be hurt beyond repair. His money was what helped to fund the hikers in their quest to protect the kingdom of the Lodger’s Inn. The horrific plan of corporate industry was foiled, and all was made well.
But that is not the story I will tell you. I simply wished to get it out of the way, so as not to be disturbed by silly questions, like why isn’t there any other buildings nearby, or why the forest hasn’t been murdered yet. The story I will tell you will be of what happens when the hotels golden rule was broken. All the staff knows it. The guests are told of it right away. Even the hikers have to obey this rule, no matter how much they may wish to. Mr Hammer himself dares not to even think of the consequences of such an action, so horrific it would be.
No one may go hiking on the west trail.
Well, hello there. Yes, you, the person who has picked up my book. Are you a bookworm? Never mind. You have opened up my book, are currently reading it, and that’s all I need.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, I am the Narrator. It is my job to tell stories. Most people say that this is untrue, and that all I do is narrate whatever I am told to, that I am unimportant to a story, just a side show. Well, a pox on them all. The narrator does not tell stories because he is told to. He tells stories because he wants to. And this story will be one that you will very much enjoy, I hope. I should start by telling you about our setting, the Lodger’s Inn.
The Lodger’s Inn is a rather unique building. It is a massive stone building, and it seems like someone has taken some castle from France and transported the whole thing to North America. It is over five stories high, with a tower in each of its corners, are a testament to its majesty and grace. The windows are very well polished, and one can see not a speck of dust nor a remnant of some cobweb to stain it. The building is less some ramshackle stop on a road trip to rest and deal with their hyper active children, and more an overlooked marvel of the world, just waiting for someone to come and discover it, untold magic waiting to be read aloud.
If you entered that building, you would be greeted by a lobby that looked more like the hall that a king would host a ball in, with a deep red and gold carpet, and so grand and elegant is this lobby that you would expect that a king would come out of the doors that flanked the reception desk on either side, followed by his beautiful queen. The reception itself would be where he would have ruled his kingdom, intriguing and marvellous to look upon, with a breath taking royalty, the chair in the centre looking much more like a throne, grand and proud, behind a desk, no, a small fence of solid oak, with its images of lions, dragons and other creatures you could not possibly name for your life, and would most certainly have been the king’s throne. One could even see it, the court were this king of such power and splendour would meet with his dukes to discuss lands and estates, his barons to argue over taxes, place a sword over the shoulder of his knights as they were made his loyal warriors of chivalry, his advisors, telling him how to rule such a mighty kingdom, and watch his prince and princess play, grow, and become his worthy heirs. How mighty this kingdom must have been.
And then one of the doors would open, and the manager would come out, bearded and bald, with a round head, and take his place at the reception, asking you to check in as he smiled, watching you count out your bank notes, green and flimsy, and the bellboy would ask for your bags, his face flustered, or pale, or simply blank, and the spell would be broken. The court of that great kingdom is gone, replaced by the hustle and bustle of tourism, the prince and princess, now the children who are immune to the wondrous spell, so engrossed in modern technology.
Like most hotels, it has a pool. It is a large, deep pool, with dull, shimmering water, a hot tub in the corner, occupied by some large individual, who would be fast asleep, snoring loudly. Like most hotels, it has its fair share of guests. They come in all shapes and sizes, and from almost all corners of the world. But they do not stay for the greatness, the awe, the magic and grace of a castle. They come only for a short visit, merely stopping by for a quick stay, before going on to the more flashy, tempting and famous metropolises of the world, with its filth, its technology and its fast food.
But if the guests don’t come for the hotel itself, then perhaps they come to it for the real beauty of nature. My, but oh how grand that valley is to see. The forest and trees are old, older than the United States, and have seen many things. If you could speak to them, what stories would they tell you? Would you listen to the mighty pine trees tale of the hunters who have used him to find their game, or would to hear the maple’s tale of robbery, as men take her sap for their pancakes?
If that does not make you wonder and think, then maybe you should watch the streams and rivers. What maiden is that, lurking under the waves, so serene is her face? Why, the Lady of the Lake’s niece has a home here! Be careful not to dishonour her by relieving yourself in her rivers, least you feel her wrath. And watch you do not tread on her friends, the flowers who bloom along the edge of the waters.
If not for the grand hotel’s mighty presence, then surely people come to see this perfect specimen of a valley, with its forests, its rivers, and its mountains, so powerful. Hikers, people who really see the world, can appreciate this splendour and miracle of the world. It was thanks to people like them that those men of business, with their suits and their briefcases, who wanted to build their roads and their skyscrapers, were foiled, and the land now protected by the law of British Columbia.
Oh, it is worth mentioning the involvement of the hotel’s staff, I suppose. Have I neglected to tell you of the men and women who work and live in the Lodger’s Inn? Well, forgive me, for you shall meet them now.
First, we have the manager of the hotel, a Mr G. P. Hammer. You remember him? The man who was watching your money as you laid it in front of him? Well, he is not a very pleasant man. He was never married, and has no children to call his own. The man is well educated, but this only makes his incompetence all the more inexcusable. He is always running from one place to the next, with a big bushy beard which seems to just hang there, tired and worn, and a bald head, but not the shining kind. It is riddled with moles and spots. But Mr Hammer wears no wig. He takes pride in his head, and claims to have counted every blemish he has. When he watches you putting your money down, it is not because of greed. It is because he does not trust you to pay it all, up front. His eyes are sharp, and he has been known to heavily scold anyone who misses a single speck, one only he can see. He would take the rag, and deal with the offending spot himself. “The work I have to do for these people,” he would mutter, but it would be very hard to tell if he really resented it. You probably believe his beard is brown or black, and he has sideburns. Don’t be fooled for a minute. That beard has been dyed from its natural colour, a deep gold, and he has no sideburns. You just imagined it.
But he has never fired anyone. Not once. The staff are too well mannered, too well skilled, for him to find any fault. They’re skills in their respective jobs is truly stunning to see. The Chef de cuisine, Herman de Par, is rather thin for what one would think to be a chief, but nonetheless, as imposing as they come. His rat like features seem to be able to find the very best ingredients, no matter where they are hidden, and create something outstanding each time. The head house-maid, Madam Bundy, a rather young woman to be head maid, Ukrainian, and very no nonsense. Do not get on her bad side, as she has a nasty one. You could mistake it for a Russian even. Ah, I almost forgot, the head butler himself, Mr Donati, that silent figure who commands respect. He would make a great guard at Buckingham Palace, such is his skill. He would not even notice if a young lady were to wink at him, and smile seductively, that great weakness of man that has beseeched him for centuries. However, should a bellboy drop a bag in his presence, no, if he was in the adjourning room, he would stop whatever he was doing, which would be nothing, walk slowly to the terror stricken young man, take the bag or baggage, and carry them for the poor fool. Heaven knows what he will do to him afterwards.
It is worth noting that the hotel itself is very much alone in this wilderness that is its kingdom. But it really suits it quite well. This seclusion has only added to the hotel’s character, its great pride requiring it to be left alone and content. When those men of business came to Mr Hammer, hoping to persuade him to agree to their schemes of deforestation and the building of a massive, bustling mall and rest area for the weary traveller, the look on their faces when he said no must have been comedic gold. Mr Hammer knew full well that his hotel had no need of neighbours, for it’s ego would be hurt beyond repair. His money was what helped to fund the hikers in their quest to protect the kingdom of the Lodger’s Inn. The horrific plan of corporate industry was foiled, and all was made well.
But that is not the story I will tell you. I simply wished to get it out of the way, so as not to be disturbed by silly questions, like why isn’t there any other buildings nearby, or why the forest hasn’t been murdered yet. The story I will tell you will be of what happens when the hotels golden rule was broken. All the staff knows it. The guests are told of it right away. Even the hikers have to obey this rule, no matter how much they may wish to. Mr Hammer himself dares not to even think of the consequences of such an action, so horrific it would be.
No one may go hiking on the west trail.
