conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Raine, Kenzie, Although with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Spiral Path'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Spiral Path
  Makasa Flintwill posed uncomfortably. He had told her, "You don't have to pose. Just don't move around too much."
  She had said, "Fine. Good," but her posture remained upright, stiff, and painfully awkward. The upright, he was used to. But he knew Makasa to be a woman supremely at ease in her own skin, so the stiff and awkward was something he was making an effort to compensate for in his drawing. Makasa Flintwill was seventeen years old, with the demeanor of a woman of thirty—or maybe of a military general of fifty. She was five feet, ten inches tall, lean and muscular, with sable skin, dark-brown eyes, and short black kinky hair. On board the Wavestrider, she had kept her trimmed hair very short indeed, to match the shape of her skull. But they had been in Feralas's trackless rain forests for close to a month, and—though no objective observer could think of it as anything but still quite short—Aram knew his sister well enough to believe she must already regard the length of her hair as "completely out of control."
  Aramar Thorne was the captain's son, officially brought aboard Wavestrider as a cabin boy, but really there to finally get to know the father who had abandoned his family when Aram was six.
  While Captain Greydon Thorne attempted to teach his son everything from life lessons to swordsmanship to knowledge and trivia about the flora, fauna, and sentient species of Azeroth, Second Mate Makasa Flintwill took on the task of making a sailor out of a twelve-year-old child who had never before seen the ocean, let alone shipped out upon it. Aram was, he had to admit, a poor and resentful student to both of them. He flat out didn't want to be there with either of them and made no attempt to hide that fact.
  And worse, he had inadvertently come between Makasa and Greydon, whom she also regarded as a father. To say, in those first six months, that Aram and Makasa had not gotten along was practically the definition of understatement.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shagtusk, who had waded in farther than even the length of Makasa's chain, soon found herself overrun. The skeletons climbed over her, pulled at her, tried to drag her to the ground. They had no real strength, and she was practically all muscle, but they had the numbers—and soon she was barely holding her own.
  Hackle wasn't faring much better. The skeletons were unarmed, but many still had teeth and a few had claws. Hackle growled loudly as hyena jaws bit down on one leg. He shattered the creature's skull, but more creatures were coming.
  Makasa's chain kept all larger opponents at bay, and by tilting it upward briefly, she even clipped the wings of one of the skeletal harpies. It crashed to the ground, shattering into miscellaneous bones. But many of those bones were soon klik, klik, kliking back together, and the result began crawling toward her, beneath the arc of her iron swings. This and others would be upon her soon.
  And some of the skeletons circled wide—or sorted themselves back together beyond their first line of opponents—to attack Murky and Aram. A skeletal boar rushed at the murloc, its long, sharp tusks prepared to skewer Aram's friend like a fish on a spit. Murky pointed his spear at the thing but realized it would do him little good. He squealed out, "Flllur mgrrrrl! Flllur mgrrrrl!" and ran in a serpentine pattern that seemed to confuse his pursuer. It tried to cut left to follow him, and one of its legs snapped. It continued to drag itself after Murky on its three "good" legs, but Murky saw an opportunity. He ran around behind the beast and jumped, landing on his butt upon the creature's back, causing its bones to shatter and scatter beneath him. When Murky stood up, he was holding the boar's spine and swinging it like a club.
  This inspired Aram. A gnoll skeleton had rushed at him, and he had barely managed to parry its swipes with his cutlass. Now, sheathing his sword, he launched his entire body at the creature, knocking it backward onto the ground. As with Murky's boar, the bones scattered apart beneath him. Aram picked up a good, thick thighbone and swung it at the next skeleton—a legless human—that crawled toward him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Seeing a way clear, Aram stepped over to Murky and yanked on one end of the murloc's net with a slight spiral motion. His small green friend instantly tumbled free.
  In Outland, the prisoner wasn't nodding, though nothing would have given him more pleasure than to nod off and dream. But this week, the dreadlord had given the order that the Burning Legion's prisoner not be allowed to sleep. Thus, every time he had begun to nod off, a blasted imp would poke him in the ribs with a red-hot brand. The prisoner thought the searing pain of the brand was less of a torture than the forced wakefulness.
  But it changed nothing. By his own calculations, the prisoner had spent nearly two months chained in this deep, dank, dark dungeon. In fact, Xaraax had—in one way or another—been trying to break his spirit for over twenty years.
  So many people helped me complete this story. More than I could possibly list. But this, at least, is a start...
  At the Gotham Group: Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Julie Kane-Ritsch, Peter McHugh, Julie Nelson, Joey Villareal, Tony Gil, Heather Horn, Matt Schichtman, and Hannah Shtein.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Highlord, Xaraax, trying.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Seeing a way clear, Aram stepped over to Murky and yanked on one end of the murloc's net with a slight spiral motion. His small green friend instantly tumbled free. 
  In Outland, the prisoner wasn't nodding, though nothing would have given him more pleasure than to nod off and dream. But this week, the dreadlord had given the order that the Burning Legion's prisoner not be allowed to sleep. Thus, every time he had begun to nod off, a blasted imp would poke him in the ribs with a red-hot brand. The prisoner thought the searing pain of the brand was less of a torture than the forced wakefulness. 
  But it changed nothing. By his own calculations, the prisoner had spent nearly two months chained in this deep, dank, dark dungeon. Highlord Xaraax had been trying to break his spirit all that time. In fact, Xaraax had—in one way or another—been trying to break his spirit for over twenty years. 
  So many people helped me complete this story. More than I could possibly list. But this, at least, is a start... 
  At the Gotham Group: Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Julie Kane-Ritsch, Peter McHugh, Julie Nelson, Joey Villareal, Tony Gil, Heather Horn, Matt Schichtman, and Hannah Shtein.