User Avatar Image

The Writing Thread

posted by DAISHI on - last edited - Viewed by 5K users
Herein lies the Writing Thread! Usually I just post something brief and then allow the participants to engage one another, unshackled by rules like a meeting of Tea Partiers in a debate with Muslims.

However! I propose the following rules to the writing thread, and what this thread should be about.

1.) This thread should obviously be about your own writing.

Your post should be about one of the following things.
2.) A pitch. A story you're thinking about writing, ideas you're tossing around to solicit for feedback.

3.) Brief poetry can be posted in full. Just don't make your poetry a full length story.

4.) A short story you've written that you would like to post, in part. Since a short story can run 2000 to 5000 words, do not post in full. You may post sensible length excerpts, preceded by synopsis of that portion of the story for context.

5.) A long story or novel you've written that you'd like to post, in part. Since a novel can run from 80000 words to 120000 words or more, do not post in full. You may post a sensible length excerpt, preceded by synopsis of that portion of the story for context.

Things to avoid.
Don't get in a hissy fit about criticism. It's the only way to grow as a writer.

Don't just criticize to criticize. In other words, don't be a Debby Downer. List what you think a writer did well, in addition to criticism. Tone means a lot. Don't be overly negative in the tone of your criticism.
179 Comments - Linear Discussion: Classic Style
  • I’m thinking of doing a story in the style of a 70s cop show.
  • Been clearing up my room - under my bed, to be specific - and I found some old notebooks with the beginnings of stories I wrote years ago. They're basic, not even remotely finished and aren't particularly great, but if you guys wanna read them, I'll happily post them and let you laugh at how lame I am USED TO BE.
  • Pitch...

    A man in Colorado is invited to his rich brother’s manor for the weekend. When he gets there, he discovers that not only has his brother disappeared, but the mansion has been frozen over with ice and snow. Now, he must confront the evil that hides in the shadowy halls of the estate and learn the horrifying truth behind his brother’s disappearance.
  • Noname215;798340 said:

    A man in Colorado is invited to his rich brother’s manor for the weekend. When he gets there, he discovers that not only has his brother disappeared, but the mansion has been frozen over with ice and snow. Now, he must confront the evil that hides in the shadowy halls of the estate and learn the horrifying truth behind his brother’s disappearance.
    The plot for Luigi's Mansion 3?
  • Friar;798393 said:
    The plot for Luigi's Mansion 3?
  • Noname215;798406 said:
    Sorry, I've literally just beaten the second game, so it's at the forefront of my mind.

    On a serious note, It sounds pretty decent, actually.
  • New pitch...

    A five-part miniseries. A 20-something former gunslinger moves to Alaska in the 1890s to become a prospector. His reputation follows him their, and he is forced to face a greedy land baron, a gang of outlaws, and five deadly bounty hunters all out for his head. He also falls in love with a prostitute who works in a saloon to support her and her brother.
  • Even Spartans dream. John-117, the last of his kind, dreamed of horror. Masses of putrid, stinking nightmare forms leapt 50 feet through the air, half-rotted things that once were human or Covenant Elite, swarmed him from all sides, as the never-ending hordes of tentacled, spherical Infection Forms splattered against his shields. He fired and fired, reloading and retreating and still they came, groaning and splattering coagulated blood and chunks of grave-flesh with every shot. On and on and on, sick with the noise and recoil and ceaseless killing..
    At last there were no more. Hip deep in the remains, he stood and shook with fatigue. Then one shape stood up.
    It was a Marine, battered and disheveled but still human, and recognizable. Cpl. Jenkins!
    The corporal raised his assault rifle in salute, and smiled.
    The smile got wider, and wider, until it split his face wide open. His entire head opened like a meaty flower, and all of of John-117's fears spewed out into the light....

    He didn't wake up screaming. Spartans were far too disciplined for that. But his sheets were soaked in sweat, and his heart pounded almost uncontrollably. He forced himself to remember where he, for the moment, aboard a UNSC Phantom-class scoutship. Normally there would be 4 other crewmembers, but for this mission he was accompanied only by Cortana, the spunky Artifical Intelligence that he had carried throughout the harrowing HALO missions.
    "Master Chief! What's wrong?" Cortana's voice echoed from the wall speaker. "Your vital signs are far above normal sleep levels!"
    The Chief sighed. "Nothing, Cortana. Just a dream. What's our situation?"
    A second's pause, then, "We are still 2 hours out from System 31-E, and then another hour to orbital insertion around the target planet."
    "I'll be up in a minute." The Chief signed off and squeezed his massive frame into the dinky shower unit, allowing himself the luxury of a two-minute shower. He then shrugged into a light coverall, and negotiated the cramped corridor leading to the closet-sized area glorified by the label "bridge".

    When he arrived he found a tray loaded with rations..halfway decent ones, for a change. He grinned at the foot-high glowing hologram of Cortana, standing on the projection pedestal beside the main seat.
    "I didn't know you cared," he said, eyeing the hologram's reactions.
    "Don't get any ideas. I just want you to be in top form for the mission. After all, my head is on the line too." Cortana tossed him what he could have sworn was a flirtatious wink, digital patterns swirling around her colour-shifing form.
    "Your head will be in orbit. But thanks anyway." He attacked the meal, while Cortana shrugged an "any time" gesture.

    Whatever it was that had caused Command to order the Master Chief to undertake this mission, it had bought some time for the human race. After the fall of the main shipyards at Reach, it was a foregone conclusion that Earth would have weeks to live at best, before the alliance of alien races known as the Covenant massed their fleets to bring about humanity's exinction, in accordance with their Jihad proclamation.
    The Fleet had gathered what it could, while research teams worked day and night with captured Covenant technology to find something, anything, that could save Earth.

    Thirty-three other Spartan soldiers had been lost on Reach, leaving the Master Chief as the last of his small regiment, the last of an experiment that had kept the Spartans together since the age of six. All his brothers and sisters, bonded through brutal training, worse combat, and the uniqueness of their situation, were gone now. The Chief didn't have time to mourn, there were more important problems at hand. Revenge would come later.

    Humanity had one advantage in that the Convenant were not inventors; all their technology, centuries beyond Earth's, had been scrounged from worlds once inhabited by the Forerunners. These mysterious aliens, extinct since before humans learned to use fire, were also the basis for the Covenant's religion. "Holy Relics" also known as new technology, were always being hunted by the alien alliance. Now that much of it had fallen into human hands, it was being reverse engineered and even improved upon.
    One of the results of this crash program was the Phantom scoutship the Chief and Cortana were currently flying. Small and fast, equipped with cloaking devices and shields, it was perfect for infiltration into Covenant space.
    It was merely one of the consolation prizes won after the devastation of Reach had led both Humanity and the Convenant to the massive construct dubbed HALO.

    A desperate, random slipspace jump had taken the last remaining UNSC cruiser, the Pillar of Autumn, to Halo's system purely by accident. Less accidental was the fact that 3 full battlegrops of Covie cruisers had managed to not only follow them, but get there first!
    The aliens had boarded the Pillar by means of its own lifepod hatches, and Captain Keyes gave the Chief custody of Cortana, the most advanced AI yet created. His orders: get off the ship, survive, and keep the AI out of enemy hands.

    A long, arduous series of guerilla actions followed, running a race with Covenant forces to learn the secrets of the Halo, and hopefully gain control of it.
    The ring world turned out to be a weapon, but not the kind anyone wanted to use; it was a doomsday weapon, intended to erase all living things within a 25,000 lightyear radius!
    The reason: to starve to death a form of pseudolife called The Flood. Ravenous, hideous creatures that took the bodies of everything big enough to own a nervous system and assimilated them for their own use, the Flood had nearly escaped the Halo and come close to killing the Chief as well.

    He had, with Cortana's help, initiated an overload in the Pillar's reactors. The resulting gigaton explosion had shattered the Halo, and with it the Flood, the Covenant fleet, and every human left on the surface.
    The Chief had escaped in a Longsword fighter-bomber, and was picked up some days later by a UNSC patrol.

    Now, with his MJOLNIR armour newly augmented by adapted Covenant technology, the Chief was back in action. And it was, as usual, "Critical to the survival of Humanity!!"

    ONI..Naval Intelligence..had learned that the Convenant had found something that posed a greater threat to them than the human race. The alien's leaders, called Prophets, had postponed the attack on Earth to deal with the new menace.
    It was puzzling; reports from the Covenant Battlenet suggested that one of their frigates had returned from a previously unexplored world, and immediately attacked everything in sight! They still had no idea why, since the frigate had been vapourized, but more ships were sent and they too had either failed to return or had gone renegade.
    Fearing a Flood infestation, the Covenant went into Paranoid Mode...which was saying a lot, considering their normal state of mind.
    They pulled surviving ships back from missions to the strange system, and had ordered them to self destruct. Clearly, their leadership was terrified of something, and anything that scared the Covies was potentially useful to humans.

    Thus the Chief's presence on the small bridge of a tiny ship, bound into the dark unknown.

    "So, what do we know about this system? My briefing was, uh, a bit short on details." the Chief asked Cortana, pushing his food tray into the recycler.
    "You know as much as I do. It has an atmosphere, gravity of about .9 gee, and something that scared the piss out of the Convenant." She paused and smirked. "You aren't SCARED, are you?"
    The Chief grinned. "Who, me? Never happen. It would be nice to know what I'm walking into for a change, though."
    Cortana's eyes turned blue and her body strobed for a moment..."We did get one word from the translators, but I'm not sure if it is correctly interpreted."
    "So? Spill it!"
    "Xenomorph." she replied. "Whatever is out there, we won't know what it looks like until it comes up to shake our hands."
    The Spartan sighed. "Why not? If it were easy, they'd send trainees."

    The little ship exited slipspace on schedule and boosted toward the greyish planet on the viewscreen.
    "Cloaking device is working" Cortana reported. "Although I don't see anyone or thing out there to hide from."
    "They've got cloaks too, with our luck." the Chief answered. "Check the planet's surface."
    "Scanning...uh HUH." The hologram squinted, miming human response to a signal difficult to detect.
    "There are two Convenant ships on the surface, base-carrier dropships, and they aren't putting out much energy."
    "Not dead then. Life readings?" That sort of scan would have been impossible a year ago but the knowledge brought back from Halo had improved things considerably.
    "Uh..sort of." Cortana looked perplexed, and even a bit embarrassed. "The number of lifeforms appearing on the scanners don't match the equivalent biomass readings."
    The AI could be exasperating when she wanted to be. "Fine, what does that mean??" the Chief grated.
    "I don't know. You'll have to go down and take a closer look."
    Good, he thought. I hate being on spacecraft!

    Normally it took a team of technicians 15 minutes to fully suit up a Spartan, but the Chief had the help of waldoes controlled by Cortana,and it took ony 10 to dress and test the MJOLNIR armour. It felt good to be back, and with the upgrades the Chief was confident he could handle anything that the planet could throw his way.

    He opened the weapons locker, and pondered which would be most useful. He reached for the 8-guage Magnum shotgun, which was the most useful against the Flood, but decided two short range weapons would leave him vulnerable. He was already taking the newest weapon in the arsenal, created from Covenant plasma technology. It was a cross between a plasma rifle and a flamethrower, and it spewed a white-hot cone of plasma out to a range of 30 feet. Another 30 feet of radiant-energy damage could be expected, but beyond that it was ineffective.
    To fill the gap, he chose the 50 caliber SABOT-round sniper rifle. It was always nice to reach out and touch someone.

    He also packed 4 each of plasma grenades and frag grenades, 100 rounds of sniper ammo, and a spare tank for the plasma streamer.
    "Okay, take us down!" he told Cortana. "And hold on. This is gonna be a fun one."
    She chuckled. "Aren't they always?"

    The Phantom drifted gently to the ground, surrounded by mist and fog, about a mile from the nearest Covie dropship.
    "Outside temperature is 18 degrees...not bad. Atmosphere is a bit thin but you can leave your suit's vents open." Cortana reported.
    "Good." the Chief answered. "But lock the doors anyway. Hate to lose our ride home."

    The small cargo bad held an ATV, a 4X4 electric motorcycle with a 7.62mm machine gun barrel nosing out from above the headlight. The Chief lowered the vehicle to the ground and dogged the hatch, and mounted up.

    He gunned the engine, keeping a close watch on his motion tracker. The targeting reticule for the streamer was a large square, which would expand or contract depending on the size of the plasma stream he fired. It stayed targets in range.
    The ground was squishy and a bit slippery, and visibility was limited to around 100 feet. Patches of fog came and went, and there seemed to be nothing much in the way of life. Just some stunted grasslike plants and a few dead-looking bushes.
    A low ridge separated the Chief from the closest dropship, so he hopped off the ATV and crouched low, unslinging the sniper rifle. He racked the scope up to 10X, and clicked on the night vision to help cut the mist.
    The squared-U shaped dropship leapt forward in his vision, its side-mounted doors hanging down. He scanned...There! One dead Elite and 5 dead Grunts, all arranged in a line. He squinted involunarily..they appeared to have been burned.
    In fact, it looked like the Elite had killed and cremated his troops, then held a plasma grenade to his chest and suicided.
    Not standard behavior for Covies! Satisfied that nothing remained alive, he cautiously moved down the slope and inched his way up to the remains. Where were the other 45 troops this ship had carried??

    Those Grunts didn't look at ALL like any he'd encountered to date. It looked like someone had tried to grind them up, or do dissection, something violent and bizarre, before they'd been burned.
    And that Elite...damned if that didn't look like a third arm had started growing from its side!
    The Chief swallowed and clicked his radio. "Cortana, I have a very bad feeling about this. Check my helmetcam, see if you can find anything that might explain this."
    "Already have, Chief," she sounded like she was at a loss for words. "I have no idea. No idea at all."
    Well, better safe than sorry. The Chief hosed the dead with his plasma streamer, flashing them to vapour in a millisecond.
    Returning to the ATV, he headed off toward the second dropship, a chill running up and down his spine.

    The second ship was surrounded by a wall of cargo containers, clearly a hastily erected barrier. There were no bodies anywhere. Paranoia building, the Chief parked the ATV behind a boulder and crept toward the barrier, every sense alert for..anything at all.
    There were definite signs of battle. Discarded weapons lay scattered, and scorch marks painted the cargo boxes..on the inside of the perimeter, not the outside! Was there some kind of general mutiny here? A mind-wrecking disease, maybe?
    It was time to make some noise.

    The Chief flicked the pin off a frag grenade with his thumb, and tossed it to the nearest exit hatch. The explosion boomed and reverberated for several seconds, but did no real damage to the door. He hadn't expected it to..but whatever was inside, if anything, would surely come to investigate.
    Ah HAH! The door swung down and an Elite came striding arrogantly out, head swivelling. This one wore the golden armour of a Field Master, a fine catch by any standards. Quickly, the Chief armed his sniper rifle and zoomed the reticule in on the creature's head. Elites don't carry on conversations, but maybe an intact body could provide some clue as to what was happening here.
    Gently, he squeezed the trigger, the rifle barked and the Elite's head exploded most satisfactorily. With a slightly triumphant grin, the Chief waited for the body to fall. It didn't cooperate. Rather, it swayed for a couple of seconds, and started..rearranging itself.

    The Master Chief looked on in fearful fascination as the Elite's neck began sprouting shapes, and its armour fell away as its body altered its form repeatedly.
    "Cortana...please tell me you're recording this" he said softly.
    "I am..but I wish I weren't. What IS going on down there?" she whispered back, as if the thing could hear them.
    He just shook his head.
    Arms were absorbed and replaced by claws, or by tentacles..some thick and dripping gore, others slim and whipping about wildly. Mouths appeared in the Elite's chest..yawning cavities ringed with ragged teeth, elongated snouts, some almost human looking.
    At last, the chest cavity ripped wide open and revealed heads. One of them was human, beyond doubt, and another was a dog. A Husky, if the Chief knew anything about animals at all.
    The noise was hideous. A sick symphony of screams, howls, gurgles and groans, all to the backdrop of a high-speed butcher shop sound..ripping flesh and dripping ooze.
    "Oh my God..Chief, I'm sure I saw human shapes in there!" Cortana said, voice quivering. "How can that be?"
    "You're the AI, you tell me! Have these things ever been to Earth?"
    "Impossible. We wouldn't be here if they had!"
    He couldn't argue that. "I'm falling back. We need more information before we can begin to deal with this."
    Cortana didn't argue that point, either.

    With the new updates to his armour, the Chief was well camouflaged. The monster didn't see him retreat to the ATV, or if it did it didn't care.
    "Chief, you promised you'd leave me in orbit!" Cortana whined as the Chief crouched beside the ATV. " I really don't need this!"
    "You should talk. That thing can't hurt you." he retorted.
    "No, but I could...wait. Wait..motion behind us, maybe 50 feet." her voice snapped back to matter-of-fact, military tone.
    The Chief swung around and brought the plasma streamer up, ready to fire. "Any idea what it is?"
    "Yes, for once. The readings indicate Covenant Grunt. Just one of them."
    One Grunt? No threat there, if in fact it was what it appeared to be. He was starting to get disoriented; never fear an enemy, but what if you can't tell friend from foe? Not what he'd trained for, that much he knew.

    Footsteps trudged toward his position, and a high, squeaky voice called out, "Don't shoot, I have no weapon, please!"
    Huh? He'd heard Grunts talk before, usually things like, "Here, more enemy", "No, bad cyborg!!" or "Heads up!". They even used profanity from time to time. He didn't think they could form sentences, though.
    "I am friends, don't shoot don't shoot!!" it called again.
    "Why the hell not?" he yelled back, through the suit's external speakers.
    "Because we have same enemy!" it replied.
    "Maybe you should give him a chance." Cortana suggested. "You can always crisp him if he makes a wrong move, and we DO need information."
    The Chief grunted. "All right. Come ahead, slowly, hands high in the air. Don't get me mad!" he warned.
    "Coming, coming!" the little trooper sounded distinctly relieved.

    Sure enough, here it came. About 3 feet tall, with gangly arms and legs, a gasmask-like breather and a high, cone-shaped life support unit on its back, it looked more comical than dangerous. At least until you had to face a thousand of them..
    Its armour was red-trimmed, indicating the little alien was a veteran. Which might explain its knowledge of English, he thought to himself.
    Its left arm was wounded, dripping pale blue blood. True to its word, it was not carrying any weapons.

    "Stop right there!" the Chief ordered. "Turn around slowly." The alien complied, whimpering.
    "Now, what have you got to say?"
    "Nasty, killer thing, took my whole cohort, can't tell until too late, makes us explode," the creature trailed off into a series of squeaks and barks, clearly traumatized.
    "Settle down!!" the Chief barked in his best drillsergeant voice. "I'll flame you if you do that again!!"
    "Noo, nooo...." snivel, snivel...the trooper began to collect itself. "Been alone with them for so long"
    "Talk slowly, tell me what happened. Who killed your troops?" the Spartan asked, more gently this time.

    The Grunt fell into a crouch and peered into the Chief's faceplate. "They looked like Officers. Field Masters. Came from dropship, sounded normal." it said, steadily. It paused for a second, searching for words.
    "They did like Flood, only worse. Whips, teeth, and the wounded did the same thing when they were hurt. Joined them, changed sides. I ran, got shot.." it indicated the wounded arm.."they didn't chase me. I ran and ran. Don't want to be turned into those, nasty!!"
    Looking at the puddles of blood, the Chief asked harshly "How do I know you aren't one of them? You're wounded!"
    "There is a way, if time, if time..there is a..." the Grunt paused again, lost for words.
    " A test?" the Chief supplied hopefully.
    "Yes, yes, a test! A test, but only if you catch them in time!" the Grunt replied, nodding enthusiastically.
    "What sort of test?"
    The alien pointed at its wounded arm. "Blood. Hotthings. Bad blood hates heat things. Good blood just goes SSSSSS".
    Fine. We'll test you, he thought. The Covenant soldier had the same idea.
    "Look, " it said, squeezing blood out of its wound, "you hotweapon that blood, see I am friendly."

    Okay...he goosed the trigger of the streamer, a small tongue of plasma licked out at the blue blood on the ground. It hissed and flashed into vapour.
    "So what would happen if you were one of them?" Cortana asked.
    The Grunt cocked its head, then screeched and started dancing around madly. "Bl
  • Noname215;799864 said:
    "Quite impossible, as you see, to start without an introduction," laughed Ivan. "Well, then, I mean to place the event described in the poem in the sixteenth century, an age—as you must have been told at school—when it was the great fashion among poets to make the denizens and powers of higher worlds descend on earth and mix freely with mortals... In France all the notaries' clerks, and the monks in the cloisters as well, used to give grand performances, dramatic plays in which long scenes were enacted by the Madonna, the angels, the saints, Christ, and even by God Himself. In those days, everything was very artless and primitive. An instance of it may be found in Victor Hugo's drama, Notre Dame de Paris, where, at the Municipal Hall, a play called Le Bon Jugement de la Tres-sainte et Gracièuse Vierge Marie, is enacted in honour of Louis XI, in which the Virgin appears personally to pronounce her 'good judgment.' In Moscow, during the prepetrean period, performances of nearly the same character, chosen especially from the Old Testament, were also in great favour. Apart from such plays, the world was overflooded with mystical writings, 'verses'—the heroes of which were always selected from the ranks of angels, saints and other heavenly citizens answering to the devotional purposes of the age. The recluses of our monasteries, like the Roman Catholic monks, passed their time in translating, copying, and even producing original compositions upon such subjects, and that, remember, during the Tarter period!... In this connection, I am reminded of a poem compiled in a convent—a translation from the Greek, of course—called, 'The Travels of the Mother of God among the Damned,' with fitting illustrations and a boldness of conception inferior nowise to that of Dante. The 'Mother of God' visits hell, in company with the archangel Michael as her cicerone to guide her through the legions of the 'damned.' She sees them all, and is witness to their multifarious tortures. Among the many other exceedingly remarkably varieties of torments—every category of sinners having its own—there is one especially worthy of notice, namely a class of the 'damned' sentenced to gradually sink in a burning lake of brimstone and fire. Those whose sins cause them to sink so low that they no longer can rise to the surface are for ever forgotten by God, i.e., they fade out from the omniscient memory, says the poem—an expression, by the way, of an extraordinary profundity of thought, when closely analysed. The Virgin is terribly shocked, and falling down upon her knees in tears before the throne of God, begs that all she has seen in hell—all, all without exception, should have their sentences remitted to them. Her dialogue with God is colossally interesting. She supplicates, she will not leave Him. And when God, pointing to the pierced hands and feet of her Son, cries, 'How can I forgive His executioners?' She then commands that all the saints, martyrs, angels and archangels, should prostrate themselves with her before the Immutable and Changeless One and implore Him to change His wrath into mercy and—forgive them all. The poem closes upon her obtaining from God a compromise, a kind of yearly respite of tortures between Good Friday and Trinity, a chorus of the 'damned' singing loud praises to God from their 'bottomless pit,' thanking and telling Him:

    Thou art right, O Lord, very right,
    Thou hast condemned us justly.

    "My poem is of the same character.

    "In it, it is Christ who appears on the scene. True, He says nothing, but only appears and passes out of sight. Fifteen centuries have elapsed since He left the world with the distinct promise to return 'with power and great glory'; fifteen long centuries since His prophet cried, 'Prepare ye the way of the Lord!' since He Himself had foretold, while yet on earth, 'Of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven but my Father only.' But Christendom expects Him still. ...

    "It waits for Him with the same old faith and the same emotion; aye, with a far greater faith, for fifteen centuries have rolled away since the last sign from heaven was sent to man,

    And blind faith remained alone
    To lull the trusting heart,
    As heav'n would send a sign no more.

    "True, again, we have all heard of miracles being wrought ever since the 'age of miracles' passed away to return no more. We had, and still have, our saints credited with performing the most miraculous cures; and, if we can believe their biographers, there have been those among them who have been personally visited by the Queen of Heaven. But Satan sleepeth not, and the first germs of doubt, and ever-increasing unbelief in such wonders, already had begun to sprout in Christendom as early as the sixteenth century. It was just at that time that a new and terrible heresy first made its appearance in the north of Germany.* [*Luther's reform] A great star 'shining as it were a lamp... fell upon the fountains waters'... and 'they were made bitter.' This 'heresy' blasphemously denied 'miracles.' But those who had remained faithful believed all the more ardently, the tears of mankind ascended to Him as heretofore, and the Christian world was expecting Him as confidently as ever; they loved Him and hoped in Him, thirsted and hungered to suffer and die for Him just as many of them had done before.... So many centuries had weak, trusting humanity implored Him, crying with ardent faith and fervour: 'How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost Thou not come!' So many long centuries hath it vainly appealed to Him, that at last, in His inexhaustible compassion, He consenteth to answer the prayer.... He decideth that once more, if it were but for one short hour, the people—His long-suffering, tortured, fatally sinful, his loving and child-like, trusting people—shall behold Him again. The scene of action is placed by me in Spain, at Seville, during that terrible period of the Inquisition, when, for the greater glory of God, stakes were flaming all over the country.

    Burning wicked heretics,
    In grand auto-da-fes.
    Is this one Luigi's Mansion 3?
Add Comment