conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Natchez, Zeb, Hannah with the genre: Children's Books, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'The Devil's Highway'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Devil's Highway
  They worked in the byre by torchlight. In the stalls the cow bellowed. Andagin feared she would wake their father, who had succumbed to sleep like a warrior to his wounds.
  They contemplated the steaming baskets. Judoc's face was hard to read for the torch burning behind it.
  Andagin patted the cow's hot flank. Taking the torch, he left the byre and walked into a weeping wind. Winter searched for every rent in his gear. After the smoke and fug of the hut, after his father's nightlong coughing, the cold was welcome, a familiar enemy. Andagin contemplated the shuddering pelt of the heath. He pissed into the heather, expectorated as Judoc had taught him – a lusty hoick into the wind. He returned to the sorrow of the hut.
  His mother was up and doing. He ducked out from under her tousling hand and sat beside the fire, where Nyfain greeted him with her habitual scowl.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Snowflakes.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Devil's Highway
  They worked in the byre by torchlight. In the stalls the cow bellowed. Andagin feared she would wake their father, who had succumbed to sleep like a warrior to his wounds. 
  They contemplated the steaming baskets. Judoc's face was hard to read for the torch burning behind it. 
  Andagin patted the cow's hot flank. Taking the torch, he left the byre and walked into a weeping wind. 
  Snowflakes clung like burrs to his cloak and the stung tips of his eyelids. Winter searched for every rent in his gear. After the smoke and fug of the hut, after his father's nightlong coughing, the cold was welcome, a familiar enemy. Andagin contemplated the shuddering pelt of the heath. He pissed into the heather, expectorated as Judoc had taught him – a lusty hoick into the wind. He returned to the sorrow of the hut. 
  His mother was up and doing. He ducked out from under her tousling hand and sat beside the fire, where Nyfain greeted him with her habitual scowl.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Marcus had given him little thought. Why did they hold him captive? Was he the son of a rival tribe? Was he a spy to merit his bruised cheek?
  Together and apart, boy and soldier watched the druid. Whatever else he had lost, the man retained his cauldron of hot words. He reached into it and his audience was spellbound, its nerves and sinews stiff with listening. Marcus was able, with what Condatis had taught him, to pick out some of the words: 'foreigner', 'father', 'shame'. It was the straightest path for a firebrand, to probe the live wound between generations.
  Marcus listened, and curiosity made a clearing in the forest of his dread. He noticed how like his wolfhound the druid looked: his hair thick and tangled, the black turning to grey, his starved frame lean and loping. He remembered from stories how the crazed warrior, by resembling the bull, the horse, the wild boar, took on the animal's strength. He found himself marvelling at his enemy, wondering about the road which had brought him here, to pacified country and this senseless act of rebellion. The druid had been an imposing figure once. Somewhere, to judge by the damage to his leg, he had come to physical harm. Still, with his cavernous voice and burning eyes, with the priestly torc under his winter rags, he made one forget that he was a vagabond, a speck of ash from a conflagration. A ghost, like Marcus, outstaying his welcome in the world.
  Suddenly he wanted not to see. He wanted to be asleep like Glyco. The druid removed his gaze, very briefly, from his audience and sent it, swift as a hawk and with the same intent, towards his captive. Marcus saw, and then doubted he had seen, a smile on the man's face. Then, from the seemingly fathomless recesses of his cloak, the druid extracted a noose of rope and gave it to the brute. To the redhead he handed a long dagger.
  Marcus strained against his bonds. He fought stupidly, in panic and indignation, trying with what strength he retained to break the cords that held him down.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Marcus had given him little thought. Why did they hold him captive? Was he the son of a rival tribe? Was he a spy to merit his bruised cheek?
  Together and apart, boy and soldier watched the druid. Whatever else he had lost, the man retained his cauldron of hot words. He reached into it and his audience was spellbound, its nerves and sinews stiff with listening. Marcus was able, with what Condatis had taught him, to pick out some of the words: 'foreigner', 'father', 'shame'. It was the straightest path for a firebrand, to probe the live wound between generations.
  Marcus listened, and curiosity made a clearing in the forest of his dread. He noticed how like his wolfhound the druid looked: his hair thick and tangled, the black turning to grey, his starved frame lean and loping. He remembered from stories how the crazed warrior, by resembling the bull, the horse, the wild boar, took on the animal's strength. He found himself marvelling at his enemy, wondering about the road which had brought him here, to pacified country and this senseless act of rebellion. The druid had been an imposing figure once. Somewhere, to judge by the damage to his leg, he had come to physical harm. Still, with his cavernous voice and burning eyes, with the priestly torc under his winter rags, he made one forget that he was a vagabond, a speck of ash from a conflagration. A ghost, like Marcus, outstaying his welcome in the world.
  Suddenly he wanted not to see. He wanted to be asleep like Glyco. The druid removed his gaze, very briefly, from his audience and sent it, swift as a hawk and with the same intent, towards his captive. Marcus saw, and then doubted he had seen, a smile on the man's face. Then, from the seemingly fathomless recesses of his cloak, the druid extracted a noose of rope and gave it to the brute. To the redhead he handed a long dagger.
  Marcus strained against his bonds.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He walked into the shade of a very tall beech. He touched the wounds in its bark and heard woodlarks behind him and stonechats. A green woodpecker flashed from a tussock of grass where it had been licking for ants. He went to the tussock, for ants intrigued him with their busy comings and goings.
  It was there, in a scrape of exposed turf, that he found the stone. The other flints were mute but this one spoke. He picked it up and stared at it, turning the carvings in his hand and mind. It was by no means beautiful, but how snugly it fitted the width of his palm, its shape almost human though lacking arms or legs. He sat in the whispering grass and stroked the lines, like rings in wood but on the outside. He forgot about his fear. A companionable sweat pooled in the small of his back. He gave himself up to daydream, until he looked up from the stone and recognised the place.
  He had been here before, laying traps with his grandfather. The beech tree shimmered in the heat. Butterflies flopped among its branches. He held the stone, or the stone held him. It was a gift that would guide him home: a mystery for him to hold and keep safe.
  There was a great sigh, like the rushing of waters, above his head. He looked into the shaken curtain of leaves.
  The beech was ancient, its trunk scarred and wrinkled like the hide of a beast. Andagin turned to watch it contend with the wind, and his spirit soared into the green boughs and the stone rolled over in his palm. He was a bird, high in that shifting canopy. He thought: the trees have no soul but the wind, and the wind has no body but the trees. And what being would he have – he, son of Brennos and Vala, youngest of the hill-fort clan – without this love that called him home?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He walked into the shade of a very tall beech. He touched the wounds in its bark and heard woodlarks behind him and stonechats. A green woodpecker flashed from a tussock of grass where it had been licking for ants. He went to the tussock, for ants intrigued him with their busy comings and goings.
  It was there, in a scrape of exposed turf, that he found the stone. The other flints were mute but this one spoke. He picked it up and stared at it, turning the carvings in his hand and mind. It was by no means beautiful, but how snugly it fitted the width of his palm, its shape almost human though lacking arms or legs. He sat in the whispering grass and stroked the lines, like rings in wood but on the outside. He forgot about his fear. A companionable sweat pooled in the small of his back. He gave himself up to daydream, until he looked up from the stone and recognised the place.
  He had been here before, laying traps with his grandfather. The beech tree shimmered in the heat. Butterflies flopped among its branches. He held the stone, or the stone held him. It was a gift that would guide him home: a mystery for him to hold and keep safe.
  There was a great sigh, like the rushing of waters, above his head. He looked into the shaken curtain of leaves.
  The beech was ancient, its trunk scarred and wrinkled like the hide of a beast. Andagin turned to watch it contend with the wind, and his spirit soared into the green boughs and the stone rolled over in his palm. He was a bird, high in that shifting canopy. He thought: the trees have no soul but the wind, and the wind has no body but the trees.