conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about German, Germany, Fantasy with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The War of the Dwarves'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for the book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The War of the Dwarves
  The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of color. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded base of the valley, autumn leaves pale green, burnt orange, faded yellow, angry red, light-glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields—squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta, choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.
  She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. "I never tire of this view."
  The duke squeezed her shoulder again. "All this, and well-read into the bargain. Ario is ambitious enough, but he has no insight. I'd be surprised if he could read to the end of a signpost in one sitting. All he cares about is whoring. And shoes. My daughter Terez, meanwhile, weeps most bitterly because I married her to a king. I swear, if I had offered great Euz as the groom she would have whined for a husband more fitting of her station." He gave a heavy sigh. "None of my children understand me. My great-grandfather was a mercenary, you know. A fact I do not like to advertise." Though he told her every other time they met. "A man who never shed a tear in his life, and wore on his feet whatever was to hand. A low-born fighting man, who seized power in Talins by the sharpness of his mind and sword together." More by blunt ruthlessness and brutality the way Monza had heard the tale. "We are from the same stock, you and I. We have made ourselves, out of nothing."
  Orso had been born to the wealthiest dukedom in Styria and never done a day's hard work in his life, but Monza kept that to herself. "You do me too much honor, your Excellency."
  Orso smiled. "Why can my sons not mark my lessons as you have? I entirely approve. Hang only the leaders. And Cantain's head above the gates. Nothing encourages obedience like a good example."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Monza strained, every muscle trembling, but she was held helpless as a fly in honey. She heard Gobba grunting with effort in her ear, his stubbly face rubbing against her cheek, his great body warm against her back. She felt the wire cut slowly into the sides of her neck, deep into the side of her hand, held fast against her throat. She felt the blood running down her forearm, into the collar of her shirt.
  One of Benna's hands crawled across the floor, reaching out for her. Ganmark leaned forwards and calmly ran him through the heart from behind. Benna quivered for a moment, then sagged, pale cheek smeared with red. Dark blood crept out from under him, worked its way down the cracks between the tiles.
  Mauthis watched, frowning, slightly puzzled, slightly irritated, slightly bored, as though at a set of figures that wouldn't quite add.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about lifted, bulging.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Monza strained, every muscle trembling, but she was held helpless as a fly in honey. She heard Gobba grunting with effort in her ear, his stubbly face rubbing against her cheek, his great body warm against her back. She felt the wire cut slowly into the sides of her neck, deep into the side of her hand, held fast against her throat. She felt the blood running down her forearm, into the collar of her shirt. 
  One of Benna's hands crawled across the floor, reaching out for her. He lifted himself an inch or two, veins bulging from his neck. Ganmark leaned forwards and calmly ran him through the heart from behind. Benna quivered for a moment, then sagged, pale cheek smeared with red. Dark blood crept out from under him, worked its way down the cracks between the tiles. 
  Mauthis watched, frowning, slightly puzzled, slightly irritated, slightly bored, as though at a set of figures that wouldn't quite add.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She tore through a patch of bushes, thorns whipping and clutching. She rolled, and rolled, down the sloping earth in a cloud of dirt and leaves. She tumbled over a tree root, crumpled on a mossy rock. She slid slowly to a stop, on her back, and was still.
  Stones clattered down around her, sticks and gravel. Dust slowly settled. She heard wind, creaking in the branches of the trees, crackling in the leaves. Or her own breath, creaking and crackling in her broken throat. The sun flickered through black branches, jabbing at one eye. The other was dark. Flies buzzed, zipping and swimming in the warm morning air. She was down with the rubbish from Orso's kitchens. Sprawled out helpless in the midst of the rotten leaves, and the cooking slime, and the stinking offal left over from the last month's magnificent meals. Tossed out with the waste.
  A jagged, mindless sound. She was embarrassed by it, almost, but couldn't stop making it. Animal horror. Mad despair. The groan of the dead, in hell. Her eye darted desperately around. She saw the wreck of her right hand, a shapeless, purple glove with a bloody gash in the side. One finger trembled slightly. Its tip brushed against torn skin on her elbow. The forearm was folded in half, a broken-off twig of grey bone sticking through bloody silk. It didn't look real. Like a cheap theatre prop.
  The fear had hold of her now, swelling with every breath. She couldn't move her head. She couldn't move her tongue in her mouth. She could feel the pain, gnawing at the edge of her mind. A terrible mass, pressing up against her, crushing every part of her, worse, and worse, and worse.
  Benna was dead. A streak of wet ran from her flickering eye and she felt it trickle slowly down her cheek. Why was she not dead? How could she not be dead?