conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about It's, Drantaax, Turai with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Thraxas and the Warrior Monks'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thraxas and the Warrior Monks
  Makri steps into the Avenging Axe, her sword at her hip and her philosophy notes in her hand. Perspiration runs down her neck. "It's hotter than Orcish hell out there," she complains.
  I grunt in agreement. I don't have the energy to do much more. It's hotter than Orcish hell in here too. It's as much as I can do to get my beer up to my mouth. She takes off the man's tunic she wears outdoors and tosses it behind the bar, then sluices some water from the pitcher over her face and neck. It runs down over her tiny chainmail bikini, a garment that displays almost all of her physique and guarantees a healthy flow of tips from the dockers, sailors, Barbarian mercenaries and other low-lives who drink in this tavern.
  I don't bother mentioning that I charge cheap rates. Everyone knows that already. Since I lost my job at the Palace I wouldn't say my life has worked out especially well.
  I raise my hand limply, motioning for another beer from Gurd, ageing northern Barbarian and owner of the Avenging Axe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Makri.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thraxas and the Warrior Monks
  Makri steps into the Avenging Axe, her sword at her hip and her philosophy notes in her hand. Perspiration runs down her neck. "It's hotter than Orcish hell out there," she complains. 
  I grunt in agreement. I don't have the energy to do much more. It's hotter than Orcish hell in here too. It's as much as I can do to get my beer up to my mouth. 
  Makri is due to start her shift as barmaid. She takes off the man's tunic she wears outdoors and tosses it behind the bar, then sluices some water from the pitcher over her face and neck. It runs down over her tiny chainmail bikini, a garment that displays almost all of her physique and guarantees a healthy flow of tips from the dockers, sailors, Barbarian mercenaries and other low-lives who drink in this tavern. 
  I don't bother mentioning that I charge cheap rates. Everyone knows that already. Since I lost my job at the Palace I wouldn't say my life has worked out especially well. 
  I raise my hand limply, motioning for another beer from Gurd, ageing northern Barbarian and owner of the Avenging Axe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Calia brushes this off. "I wasn't thinking clearly. Who would be? I don't know who killed my husband, but I'm sure it wasn't the apprentice. He was far too loyal."
  According to Calia, Tresius and his followers had been apprehended trying to steal the monastery's statue before they departed in disgrace. The statue had tumbled to its destruction from the walls. But Tresius had later returned with the intention of killing Ixial and stealing his followers. During this altercation the Cloud Temple was repulsed but Ixial, taken by surprise, was himself tumbled from the walls, suffering terrible injuries.
  The despair on her face shows she knows it's hopeless. Every healer, herbalist and apothecary in Turai isn't going to be able to put Ixial's twisted and broken legs back together. Nor could they cure the gangrene that'll kill him if loss of blood doesn't do so first. Even Sorcerers are powerless against gangrene.
  Calia is a little more forthcoming. She tells us that she'd been involved with Ixial a decade ago when he was nothing more than a poor young student living in a garret in Twelve Seas, reading philosophy by candlelight. She was in love with him then, and still is. When he went off into the wilderness to take up the life of a monk, she'd despaired of ever being happy again. Eventually she ended up marrying Drantaax, having no better prospects. Her parents were keen to get their hands on the dowry from a famous and wealthy sculptor.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Grosex was hanged last week. Calia is back in Pashish, missing Ixial more than Drantaax, I expect. At least she has Drantaax's valuable statues to see her through her old age.
  I look at the golden finger. Half of that will make a nice packet of gurans. I'm not doing so badly really. A few nice cases over the winter, maybe some lucrative work from the Transport Guild, or even the Honourable Association of Merchants, and I might yet make it out of Twelve Seas. If summer here is hell, winter's not much better. And in the Hot Rainy Season, which comes up in about a month, the streets turn to rivers and beggars drown in front of your eyes. I can hardly bear to think about it.
  I don't have to think about it right now. I pick up a "Happy Guildsman" jumbo-sized tankard of ale from the bar and lie back in the shade. Listening to Palax and Kaby playing music, I forget all about monks, killers and gangsters, and go to sleep.