conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about GUNSMOKE, SHADOW, HAWK with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Shadow of the Hawk'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book titled Shadow of the Hawk about GUNSMOKE, SHADOW, HAWK with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shadow of the Hawk: An old Native American Shaman trains his skeptical grandson to take over for him as the new tribal "Medicine Man" of his small village.\nAlong the way, they battle the Shaman\'s enemies, and their black magic.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shadow of the Hawk
  Drake shrugged. "He's as free as you can ever expect to be when you're owned by Ignus. He no longer wakes each morning wondering whether the day will be his last. You and I don't have that luxury."
  Drew thought about the old man, finding it hard to imagine how he had ever been a gladiator, let alone a champion.
  Drake cackled. "Don't talk soft, Wolf. I'll still have to kill her if we come face to face in the Furnace."
  Drake turned to Drew and prodded a finger in the young Wolflord's chest. "You need to wake up, and fast," he said. "This—you and me shooting our mouths off—this is fun. This feels almost normal, like how folk talk to one another beyond the walls of the Furnace. Only we'll never get to experience that, will we? We're stuck here, and thinking about any other life is sheer folly. You're a gladiator, Drew, and gladiators fight and die. Don't ever forget that."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me two more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Djogo glanced at it and then back to Drew.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Drew growled as he answered. "I've done you no wrong. We brought a child to your gate, a girl who'd been attacked upon the river."
  Two guards hastily untied the captives. As they stepped back, one threw a scimitar on to the floor, the blade ringing as it struck the marble. Djogo glanced at it and then back to Drew.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Whitley had struggled to imagine if there could be any greater agony than that which accompanied an arrow in the back. She hadn't had to wait for long, with a second arrow joining the first as the Lionguard scouts approached her motionless form. Gritting her teeth, she thanked Brenn that the thick cloth of her cloak had hidden the telltale trembling of her shaking body. By chance, the arrows had missed the vital organ of her heart, her leather armor having slowed the momentum of the shafts as they'd lanced through her torso. The injuries wouldn't prove fatal to a therian such as Whitley, but regardless, the pain was immeasurable. She could feel the blood pooling inside her breastplate, against the flesh of her belly, hot against her cold skin. The boot to her leg had told her it was time to act, her survival instinct kicking in as she brought the man to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
  These two were dangerous, no doubt; scouts, just like her, searching for her friends. The Romari settlement wasn't a great distance away, full of women, children, and old folk: if the Redcloaks were to search the wider area they'd be bound to come across her comrades. Whitley wasn't only battling for her life: she was fighting for the future of her friends. While the older Lionguard struggled to control his horse, the younger man came at her fast with his knife, the blade jabbing straight for Whitley's neck. With only a moment to react, she'd brought her arm up defensively. She could see the knife wasn't silver—potentially deadly to a therianthrope like her—but it would still cause enormous damage if it struck her throat. The knife hit her arm, the steel ripping through muscle, blade squealing, scraping against bone like fingernails upon slate. The roar that escaped her throat was monstrous, a cocktail of pain and fury that heralded the arrival of the beast.
  She snatched the Redcloak's hand in hers, the blood pumping from her torn forearm as they wrestled for control of the knife. Her knuckles popped and cracked as her hand contorted, shifting in size as her palm began to smother the Lionguard's. Whitley gritted her teeth, which were sharpening all the while, her gums slick with blood as the sweat beaded on her brow. The young soldier brought his other hand around, snatching at her transforming limb, trying to prise it loose as claws tore free from her flesh. His fingers splintered, crushed by her shifting hand as she ground them against the grip of his knife. He struck her across the face with his free hand, stunning her momentarily, loosening her grip enough to yank his maimed hand clear.
  The hunting knife fell to the ground, and the Redcloak dived for it, snatching it up in his good hand and lunging at Whitley once more. The girl was already moving, though, reaching for her staff where it lay nearby, grabbing it by a steel-shod end and swinging it back at the young Lionguard. As he dived at her, the quarterstaff arced through the air, striking him cleanly across the temple and sending him spinning away. The Redcloak went down hard, his head hitting the nearby rocks with an awful, wet cracking sound, his body instantly still.
  The bowstring sang, and the whispered words escaped Whitley's lips before the arrow struck its target.