Review Of ' The Lord Of The Black Sands '

“I want to know where they are and how many men are coming. Find out, and don’t fail me again,” He replied sternly. “In the meantime, what’s our plan from here?”

The heroic and glorified view of General Smith is first seen through the narrator and his use of enargeia, which leads to the reader’s first impression of a well-rounded man. The narrator

“Fine, my lady. A non-rumour has been heard of: an assassin is prowling the Darkland Kingdom,” Butch replied. His voice was ragged, jagged, as if it was a jigsaw puzzle ready to be fixed.

“It’s not everyday we get company around here,” I reminded myself, “we haven’t shown our chateau in ages.” As we walked down the elegant staircase, each step creaked one by one. My hand-held lamp with the bright, burning fire was in clutch as we walked around the dusty furniture until we saw some of my men. They were silent, but you could see the fear in their eyes - almost like the fear in Rainsford’s. One had the guts to come up, and offer another light looking for a way to impress me with his concern, but I quickly declined.

As his eyes traced down her body, he savored them. Round. Shapely. Beautiful. She wasn't like the average woman his eyes had learned to glaze over on the streets, and in her difference there was beauty. A whole lot of beauty. Bennett couldn't help but stare, and he could see her fidgeting and twisting beneath his gaze. The dominant animal inside had that effect on people; it was why he was so effective at breaking grown men.

From across the room, I felt his eyes upon me. Louis had us seated at a table near a window overlooking the slow flowing muddy river. Myles Laveau sat across the room, his dinner companion’s back was toward the room and to me- I was seething with a need to view her face. Why was I feeling this way, he was not mine… I had no right to be angry. I had Louis to my left and Boudreaux to my right, but wanted what was out of reach- at least for the moment. I knew I could have him again; Myles Laveau affected me the same way the flame-haired woman had, but unlike her, he made himself available. The simplest touch from him sent quivers through my pleasure place; just the touch of his eyes upon me had me quivering with desire for him, and

Uneven in shape, his derby cap rests upon his head at a point, only identified by his distinct suspenders and coat. Air lightens his loose jeans, which appear to fix like an inflatable bunch at his lower legs, where his larger than usual shoes oblige his feet to point outward, making him waddle when he strolls. Adjusting himself, he conveys a bamboo stick that holds his stance. Looking as if the once sweet life cruised him by, his clothing is worn out and his eyes dim, however, his mustache is short and trimmed, and his air is consistently polite. But, his high conduct is hitched with a freed feeling of opportunity and severance, dislodging him as an outcast dependent just on his most human impulses.

Trimmed closely at the neck, his silky black hair grew longer on top. A straight nose, dimpled cheeks and chin graced him with a look of nobility, but his tanned skin and muscular physique hinted at a tougher side.

"A lot of your men are dead my dear Count. Don't worry I assure you that when this army reach the Southern Isles, there will be very few of your men in it. We will need to make a lot of rearguard actions to protect our retreat and that means a lot of casualties."

In my opinion, the Americans were horrible to the Native Americans when they were trying to take the Black Hills. They made a treaty with the natives, saying that an American could not step onto native land without permission. Then the Americans broke the treaty, and blamed it on the natives. They chased the natives out of their homeland, gave the natives a reservation of land that they promised to never take away, and then took it anyway, killing thousands of Native Americans. Not only did the Americans kill native warriors, but they slaughtered innocent women and children as well, burning every teepee they came across. The Native Americans did not want to fight. They just wanted to live peacefully on their own land.

“Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. … It was a body capable of enormous leverage-a cruel body”

He was trying to distract the people from the plague that was going on outside of the walls and taking the lives of innocent people. No one would dare to enter the black room, however the prince has purposely made this room to express fear and death. The color black is related with evil, mystery, and power. He designed this room with “black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue” (Poe, L61).

His face was a strong – a very strong – aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temple but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale and at the tops were extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor. (22-23)

Boudreaux stood gazing out a large window that faced the slow moving river. When he finally turned toward me, he was brooding, his appearance, dark and menacing. His eyes were not the soothing moss green color I adored; they were almost black, threatening… The brooding look added even more mystery, maybe even a little hint of the danger I remembered from when I had first met him. I disliked him immensely back then. His blonde mane was untidy. It had grown to a little below his shoulders, but still looked as if it had been hacked off with a dull axe. The humidity of the edge of summer day had it twisted into rough, almost but not quite curls. His clothes looked disheveled, as if he had slept in them for days. His face showed worry, anger, and maybe… resentment. I wondered if he knew what I had done. Was that what was bothering him?

A spray of pale freckles, wide round eyes of deep blue, a straight nose, and full lips that I'd learned to hold in a sensual pout. The full effect, when curried, had been one of angelic innocence. The kind of face men enjoy brutalizing, simply to watch the tears fall and the eyes redden…to hear sobbing pleas of agony through swollen lips. I'd been trained to play that