conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Shadow, Flame, Taladas entitled Shadow of the Flame.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shadow of the Flame: Shadow of the Flame involves a small band of heroes as war and devastation spread across the continent of Taladas.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shadow of the Flame
  With that said, I commit the last of my dreams of Taladas to this chronicle. It came to me on a stormy autumn night, long months after I last beheld our friends—Forlo, Shedara, and Hult. It does nothing to illuminate their fates, but I believe it is important to any who might seek, one day, to set foot upon Taladas. And with it, I bid you, my honored readers, farewell.
  Far away from the Rainward Isles, on the other side of Taladas, a minotaur commander crests a hill, leading a company of soldiers, both his kind and men. His name is Bolgash, and he is young, newly elevated to the rank of Centurion in the Third Legion. There are many young officers in the League's armies these days: the wars of ascension, following Emperor Rekhaz's assassination by the traitor Forlo, have taken a deep toll. But there is a new emperor on the throne now, who has taken the name of Ambeoutin XIII in hopes of restoring the old peace to the war-torn land. He has commanded the Third to travel north, to the Tiderun's shores, and investigate the village of Kharto, which rumor says has been destroyed.
  Both Ambeoutin and Bolgash's superiors suspect bandits, preying on the weak in the aftermath of war. But when Bolgash looks down from the hilltop, he sees something else.
  Bolgash strokes his black muzzle, his eyes narrowing. He hears his men muttering, for they, too, have spotted what he has seen.
  The soldiers follow him down the hillside, axes and spears at the ready. Kharto lies in ruins, bodies scattered everywhere. The fires have long since burned out, and the crows have eaten their fill. All is silent in the town. Even the birds refuse to sing.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The sun is high, its light making the Run glisten like a band of gold, the distant shores of the Tamire a faint shape in the haze of springtime. The ships moored there are mere shadows against that gleaming vista. Even just beholding their silhouettes, though, Bolgash knows they're like no vessels he's seen before. They have an ancient look, like the Aurish vessels of old. He has seen their like in mosaics and tapestries that the men of the League rescued from the fallen empire. No one has built ships like them in more than four hundred years.
  As he and his men make their way toward Kharto's docks, however, the sun passes behind a cloud, and he knows they are not true Aurish ships. Aurim was a realm of wonders, but nowhere in history or lore has it ever been said that its shipwrights made their boats out of stone.
  One of the ships wallows in the shallows; the moons are waning, and though the Run won't drain this month, the tides are very low. Bolgash slogs through the muck to the boat and touches its hull. It is indeed stone, pumice to be specific—volcanic. It is a type not found in these parts or anywhere west of the Steamwalls. He glances toward the jagged, cloud-shrouded mountains, rising only two days' march away.
  Bolgash shakes his head. "Even the Fianawar don't make their boats out of rocks. Maybe the gnomes... but there aren't any machines aboard. I don't—"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They do: three more, broken to pieces, surrounded by stinking, fly-covered bodies. Every one is identical to the rest.
  Then Bolgash sees something else, and his bad feeling about things gets worse. To the east, the ground is torn, clots of turf gouged from the soil. He bends down, Tarl at his side.
  The track is huge and deep: much deeper than any man could make... unless the man were made of stone. And there are more of them, many more, leading away from Kharto. When his men are done searching, there are many guesses as to the size of the company: scores, certainly; hundreds, likely. A thousand or more? Possible.
  When he is gone, Bolgash stares at the tracks. They lead east, in a straight line, through thickets and creeks, up steep hillsides and down into deep vales. Nothing seems to steer them from their course, on toward the rocky mass of the Steamwalls. Bolgash knows, in his heart, that whatever the stone men are, they have gone to the mountains.
  He stares at the peaks, a hand shading his eyes, and though he tries to hide it from his men—even from himself—he is afraid.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He stares at the peaks, a hand shading his eyes, and though he tries to hide it from his men—even from himself—he is afraid.. Bolgash knows, in his heart, that whatever the stone men are, they have gone to the mountains. Nothing seems to steer them from their course, on toward the rocky mass of the Steamwalls. They lead east, in a straight line, through thickets and creeks, up steep hillsides and down into deep vales.
  When he is gone, Bolgash stares at the tracks. A thousand or more? Possible. When his men are done searching, there are many guesses as to the size of the company: scores, certainly; hundreds, likely. And there are more of them, many more, leading away from Kharto. unless the man were made of stone...
  The track is huge and deep: much deeper than any man could make. He bends down, Tarl at his side. To the east, the ground is torn, clots of turf gouged from the soil.
  Then Bolgash sees something else, and his bad feeling about things gets worse. Every one is identical to the rest.They do: three more, broken to pieces, surrounded by stinking, fly-covered bodies