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31

Writer's Guild / Re: Fibers

« on: June 25, 2009, 09:09:32 AM »

Anyway Nice story, I made sense of it in the end, though I can't reconcile anything in a typical yard with "Blackball trees", do you mean mushrooms? or a type of weed?

Blackberry bushes. I know, this part isn't really obvious, but still...

Thanks for your comments, everyone!

32

Writer's Guild / Fibers

« on: June 24, 2009, 11:18:10 AM »

A considerable distance had already been made from home when Micafor 5371 discovered the unnatural hill. The convex slope began suddenly, without a dividing region between the green vegetation and the hill's alien-looking fibrous wall. Of course, 5371's first reaction was to avoid this strange place - the breeze wafted a smell of alcohols and other chemicals toward her from the hill - but there would be problems at home if she came back from the expedition this early. Lying was out of the question; the Lady always knew all. A detour did not look like a possible alternative, either - 5371 could not see the end of the hill, which disappeared far away into the green foliage. Seems she had to go over it, after all.

She touched the bulging wall to probe the strength of the strands composing it, discovering that the whole thing vibrated ever so slightly. Despite this, the fibers turned out to be plenty strong to support her small frame's ascent to the top. The scents of the chemical cocktail turned from mildly annoying to near-dazing, and still growing in potency as she approached the summit - though she found something oddly fascinating about the smell. At last, throwing her hand over the edge, she pulled herself up to the top.

If a picture is indeed worth a thousand words, then this scene found a thousand pictures lacking expression. An endless plain spread before 5371, and upon it, a great multi-coloured monstrosity crawled back and forth. Its size defied all description, dwarfing the grandest Blackball trees two-fold in height and hundred-fold in girth. Its three limbs stood stationary when not crawling, with the exception of the fourth one - this one ran back and forth on the plain. The rogue limb ended in a curious appendage, its bottom teeming with the same fibers as the hillock's wall. Its movements matched the vibrations permeating the hill and the plain. The smothering vapour did something to her senses, wrapping the whole scene in a veil of dizzied mystery.

The spectacle made 5371 deaf to her senses, and only the desperate cries of pain from her feet rescued her from her trance. She looked down in a jarred motion, finding herself stooping in sand-coloured tubes - like the hill fibers, but many times thicker. Between those, little pools of acidic chemicals winked at her in the sun. She violently shook her legs to get the burning liquid off her, noticing only at the last moment a great engulfing shadow darken the world around her. Fearing the worst, she looked up.

The monstrosity, so distant seconds ago, now hung right over her. Its front limb rested some distance away, and the strangely fibered one came crashing down right next to her. A cascade of the corrosive fluid erupted from the semi-transparent labyrinth of fibers from the appendage. She tried to run then; a moot effort, for a wind stronger than any other blasted her right off the plain.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in a familiar area, a walking distance from home. Her leg was broken, but with effort, she could still move. Now there was no shame in coming back - for having lived through this ordeal, she had the chance to warn the Lady about the dangers of that area, hopefully making her reconsider sending any more scouts there. Unfortunately, 5371 would later discover that even that effort was moot: the scouts returning from the area next day reported nothing unusual but bent grass around the place where the plain used to be. The monstrosity and the mysterious hill-plain were never to be seen again.

________________________________________________________________________________


I don't understand, why do I always get stuck doing the crappy chores? First it's the dishes, then it's the dinner, and now I have to clean the damn carpet as well? I have a job, just like my parents, so why should I be doing this while they're watching King of Queens over in the living room?

Now, to make matters worse, a stupid ant crawled on the carpet. If that thing gets lost in the fabric and dies, I'm sure its ant buddies will come back to eat its corpse or whatever, I don't know. I've had enough ants in the house. Slamming the brush next to it in exasperation, I blew the insect off into the grass. Feh... better take the carpet somewhere else before even more ants come to get drunk off the smell of the cleaning agent.

--- --- ---

Wrote this on Sunday, after brushing my kitchen carpet (which still stinks, by the way). I saw an ant crawl over the areas which I already covered with the cleaning stuff, and the idea of stooping in acid kind of came to me. As a disclaimer, the second part wasn't really written from my point of view: I don't take a hostile attitude to performing household chores. I wanted the guy to sound like a stereotypical bitchy teenager. =)

33

Writer's Guild / Re: Ash

« on: June 19, 2009, 06:28:00 AM »

http://www.fotos.org/galeria/data/520/3Salvador-Dali-The-Temptation-Of-Saint-Anthony.jpg

The Temptation of Saint Anthony, by Salvador Dali.

It's kind of what inspired the machines in the story. Here you go!

Oh, also, Kai: they don't really live on the shambler - they just use it to get around. What I tried to get across is that they live up at the top as well, and the shamblers just kind of... well, shamble between several peaks ("...my arrival to the cliff-perched town of Spondekai...").

EDIT: Whoops, didn't notice your first post here, Kit. Thanks very much for your comments! To respond to some of your concerns:

Fishing: I inserted that as a sort of a way to show that the two guys on the machine don't really care about the surface. They're a little angry at the fact that they still don't know what made the machines, but there's more important things to talk about (like fishing in a grotto - which isn't really fishing at all, because the fish can't really swim away from them, being in an enclosed space and all).

Lava streams: Yes, I intended these to be the only link between the top and the bottom. The only thing that these two kinds of people have in common is that they can both see the orange glow from the lava. Now, it's important to keep in mind that the ash is not REALLY super-thick - the only reason why you can't see anything is because it blocks the sun almost completely, so effectively, the lava is the only source of light on the surface. However, I think you're right - I should've clarified that it's the sun that's not visible, rather than extremely thick ash.

Faint web: Good idea! Thanks!

34

Writer's Guild / Ash

« on: June 15, 2009, 09:31:23 PM »

My latest attempt at writing.

--- --- ---

The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town-outpost of Spondekai kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a mere web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me to these flows; the knowledge of how far away they are, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, as if from a living creature.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. It seems that I am not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams, after all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I engaged the conversation. "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash against its normal course. "

"Don't remind me," my guest replied. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulfur out of my hair."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow. Not unlike veins around a gray, withered heart, I mused.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I traveled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a fog horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the glowing ring of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. It's incredible how these machines operated with a degree of intelligence without any sort of pilot. Maybe the world would be different if we knew how they worked.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he answered. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team, he told me before it was even in the papers. Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them everywhere, and the closest thing anyone has ever found - aside from the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains, of course - are a dozen or such of useless trinkets, each capable of fitting in the palm of your hand."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred cycles."

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I suggested.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I chuckled.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to make the discovery of mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizeable catch.

________________________________________________________________________________


The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogenous din of the ashen wind. He has seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they built to shelter themselves.

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will open up another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal appendages of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of thin stalks with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing upon its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in extasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

As the Thing walked away, he waited for all the other people to finish gathering their supplies - there was no rush, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - all barely disturbed. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river - but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.

35

Writer's Guild / Re: The product of the hours 0.00 AM through 4.43 AM.

« on: June 12, 2009, 10:43:27 PM »

I'm very curious as to where this will go! Great read so far.

36

Writer's Guild / Re-written posts

« on: June 12, 2009, 10:12:38 PM »

Some of you may have heard me raving about Lovecraft, so I tried a little exercise. I found an old post of mine (REALLY old, don't mind the horrid writing) on the Dark Age Legends RP, and re-wrote it trying to stay as close as possible to a style similar to that of the great writer H. P. Lovecraft. Well, here it is.

------------------------------------   ------------------------------------   ------------------------------------  
ORIGINAL

Several hours passed. Armand finally found the sorcerer's hut, hidden deep in the forest next to Asgarnia. He carefully knocked on the door.

-"Who disturbes me? Show yourself, intruder!"

The door burst open, with no one behind it. Armand walked in, and just then he saw the Lilithian.

De Sade was sitting in a large armchair facing a hot fire. He was completely hidden by the chair, save for his hands, which were resting on the chair's armrests. From the look of the hands, de Sade had green leathery skin.

-"Archmage de Sade, the Sovereignty needs one last service. There is another Twilight Warrior, and he is wrecking all sorts of trouble in Asgarnia, a city we recently took over."

The sorcerer sighed heavily.

-"Again I am summoned to show insects the way to perfection."

De Sade finally stood up, and Armand nearly sat down. This guy didn't need magic to kill, his looks did the job perfectly. The Lilithian was dressed in black robes streaked with dark green lines, with a hood covering an inhuman face. His skin was very tight on his head, baring his teeth and giving it an overall appearance of a green skull. Though the eye sockets were there, the eyes were nowhere to be seen. The sorcerer also had a pair of small scaly wings, not large enough to be of any use. However, they seemed to have been cut from their original size.

De Sade seemed to look directly at Armand, and he felt a chilling cold creeping over his insides.

-"The Twilight Warrior is Alex. Barely enough for a decent challenge. Tell me, would a dragon swat a fly just because he could?"

Armand did not find the strength to answer.

-"Think about that. But now, the wind sings a strange melody... Someone is approaching."

The Archmage, nearly hovering over the ground, left the hut. Armand did not come up with anything more original nor useful other than to follow.

De Sade was right. There was a rebel walking through the forest. He did not appear to have sighted either de Sade, Armand, or the hut. Finally, Armand found strength within him to speak.

-"A-a-a-archmage, that there is a - a rebel, from the city we are occupying..."

-"His lesson today will be pain."

De Sade extended a razor-sharp talon towards the rebel, and the Asgarnian cringed, then fell down. There was a visible black pentagram on the ground around him, and it appeared to be drawing the rebel to it. Finally, the movements stilled.

-"But... but you didn't give him a chance! He didn't even see you!"

-"Sometimes, it is best preferable not to hear the serpent's rattle, young one. Now, Alex, was it?"

------------------------------------   ------------------------------------   ------------------------------------  
REVISION

Your brow raises in a mildly surprised, yet mandatorily stoic manner as I slowly tear the third and final hopeful's application papers in half. A warranted expression; forcedly retching regurgitated praise at the Warlock's parlour-worthy demonstration, the other judges leave me the sole voice of dissent at this badly executed jest of an election. Some audaciously argue me to be a derelict relic of a past age, citing my thus-termed "unreachable" expectations as a result of senile dementia. Instead of fruitlessly attacking my yet age-unwarped mind, they should read about - nay, they should remember, for he is studied in all military schools - de Sade, the Lilithian Archmage. I had met him once, a long time ago. Had the other judges, they too would condemn this pathetic exercise in sardonic nepotism wallowing in the miry puddle of undeserved commendations.

Many years back, long before I had even planned on running the rat race of military promotions, I served as a humble scout to the human war machine of then-Sovereign Kronos. Much of the continent fell swiftly to his unstoppable armies' hell-march, plowing through the reinforced stone walls of feudal city-states with little meaningful resistance. The technocracy of Asgarnia, a haven built by brilliant scientific minds and exiled military leaders, was one of the very few exceptions that refused to submit to the tyranny of the Sovereign. His living-and-undead legions rolled over it like a river would over an insignificant rock... but holding it proved to be a wholly different story, mainly due its protection by Alex - the Twilight Warrior. Faced with continuous defeats by this aggravatingly resilient foe, my commanding officer Damien Roth ordered me to recruit the aid of de Sade.

It has been explained to me that de Sade was but a well-chosen monicker - his true name utterable only by his kin, the magical reptile-men of Lilith. Fueled by a volatile cocktail of curiosity and fear for seeing a member of such a race, I sought the retired Archmage's dwelling in the tenebrous forests near Asgarnia. There was - I remember it clearly - a bitter rain that day, and the rest of that week, as if to make up for the droughts of yestermonth. As I ventured deeper into the forest, I made note of a subtle blight afflicting the trees. The arboreal plague progressively worsened with the depth of my penetration into the defiled heart of the woods. Distant ululations and deep bayings reached me through the incessant hammering of the rain on my helmet; this forest long ago found itself weaved into the local legendry as a lair of many unspeakable monsters. At times I fancied a shadow brushing just out of my sight, leaving behind a hostile aroma in the air and the dissipating sounds of fleshy wings flapping away and snapping the diseased branches. My knees weakened with each step in the grasping wet earth and my body shook with periodic tremors of anxiety; I grappled the hilt of my loaded speargun with white-knuckled terror. Mysterious encounters and curious sensations increased in frequency and vividity (though none came out to confront me), until the trees I passed degenerated to nothing more than gnarled skeletons clawing at the skies. At last the gray cloud-filtered sunlight dimly illuminated the place not meant to be beheld by human eyes: the shabby hermitage of the Archmage.

With an unsure posture, I approached the wind-rattled hut through legion of untended weeds. Furtive eyes spied me from beneath the cover of a makeshift cattle pen, and a strange thing for which I knew no name briefly slithered between the crude rock foundations of the shanty. As I reached for the door, the oppressive black serpent of Fear coiled about my throat. However, I knew that the proverbial serpent would grow infinitely bigger if I had returned to Roth without news of a successful alliance with de Sade; strengthening my resolve, I pushed the run-down door open.

A world of black arts revealed itself to me inside the deceptively small home. Wild-eyed, I observed wicked diagrams twisting on the floor and tattooing the walls; graveures of unspeakably violent scenes resting in a corner-laid stack; masses of ageless tomes collecting dust in an equally ancient bookcase. This unholy sanctuary was illuminated by the flickering glow of a wood fire on the other end of the room, the soft light of which was obscured by an imposing, though decrepit, leather armchair.

"Who..."

It was barely even speech - the sound was akin to some horrid abomination sucking air, as if awakening from an eternal sleep. A skeletal hand I did not note being there earlier slid off the rest, producing a sickening cracking of bone as it moved. I tried to reply, only to find Fear tightening its circles. What came out instead of my voice was an inane gasp.

"Speak, Sovereignty lackey."

His voice changed to a deep timbre boring into the core of my heart. Another tip gracefully shared with me prior to my trek was that the Archmage was not known for neither patience, nor calming an induced anger.

"Armand... Scout with the Sovereignty, Archmage," I finally managed to force out of myself. "The Sovereignty needs one last ser--"

"Alexander, the Twilight Warrior," the voice interrupted me. "Yes... I know of him... but he is not enough for anything in the semblance of a challenge. Would a dragon swat a fly just because he could?"

"Archmage, please! The Sovereignty needs you! Lord Damien hims--"

A sound which I can liken only to what a land-walking aspect of a whale would produce while breathing filled the room, shaking the various small vials and containers with questionable grasses and mushrooms.

"Roth..." The thunderous inhalation ceased. "It is strange to see him sacrifice his face before me for a worm like Alexander.... very well. I shall come to his aid."

More ear-grating sound of bone followed as I watched the hooded figure rise out of the armchair. His robes, themselves black as night, ran with faintly phosphorescent lines in similar forms to those of the wall-charted diagrams. The robes were sleeveless, giving them the appearance of a great hooded apron. True to his race's designation as magic reptile-men, his brownish-green skin occasionally sparked with an iridescent discharge to nearby objects. And then he turned to me.

My war-tempered eyes have seen much, but o, that monstrosity was branded into the gray matter of my brain for the rest of my life. His face - if I may brag to call it such - consisted of a queerly elongated human skull with a veil of green skin. I could see no eyes; only a swallowing darkness in the sockets. The lack of lips bared his teeth, giving him a perpetual morbid grin. Two opposing keratin growths protruded from his chin, much like the fierce talons twitching in agitation on his hands. Behind his back quivered what were once webbed wings, bearing terrible section scars of a devilish tool. Unable to stomach the blasphemous sight, I weakly fell upon my knee. He approached me, bones cracking at every step, rattling my sanity on its hinges.

"The winds of the aether sing an... inculpating melody," he hissed. I dared to look up - the blackness of his eye sockets were pointed right at me. I felt my heart miss a beat, and the glow of the fire somehow darkened in my eyes. "Do they not teach stealth in the Sovereignty? You were followed."

With a creak but without a touch, the door swung. Indeed, there was one Asgarnian wandering near where I first entered, looking for me, fruitlessly. My body had exhausted its fuel for surprises, I think - I had only the strength to blink when the Asgarnian's glance met that of mine, to no effect. He continued hounding the area with dumb determination.

"The ability of a human to know its surroundings does not come without great sacrifice. The human relies heavily on its eyes, and the eye is the easiest organ to beguile."

One matter that I found myself contemplating was the manner of the soldier - why does the fool not advance into a hiding place as obvious as this hut? The Asgarnian did not leave me time to linger for an answer; as he passed yet another time by the forest clearing, I spied a strange machine, obstructed in an unfortunate way by the tall weeds. Just then, the Asgarnian picked something off the ground and affixed it to the thing, which, at that event, began to glow with a sinister violet luminescence.

What happened then proved me wrong with my estimation of the limits to which my mind could be surprised. I was utterly stupefied when, after a clap not unlike the thunder, the machine produced a glowing portal before the hermitage. The Sovereignty was always aware of Asgarnia's technological prowess, but this shattered every previous limit that was discovered about their scientific might. Soldiers... tens of soldiers gathered in front of the meager shanty, paying no heed to the rain or the twisted trees. They followed me here, and I allowed them to discover de Sade. But while bending light around oneself (and even a building) is something that every Archmage knows, this point is where similarities between the Lilithian's genius and the Warlock's amateur cease.

While I was contemplating the greatest last words a man may utter before being savagely torn apart by angry rebels, de Sade kept himself busy with, at a glance, inanely waving his talon in the air before him. Before I could inquire about his sanity, the talon dredged a trail in the very fabric of existence before him - a glowing green diagram (not dissimilar to those he had charted in his home) lit up, following the imagined trail, sparking, like a fuse. Seemingly satisfied, he eased his talon down, allowing the trail to mark itself. In the meantime, the soldiers continued to amass. Upon reaching a number of about two hundred, the portal flared a moribund flash - the cloak failed - and every speargun was aimed at the Lilithian.

This is where the details get blurry. If I recall correctly, I heard the result of a nervous soldier's early twitch - the singing of a single spear in flight. But even if I am right, the spear reached neither me nor de Sade. For once the diagram reached a satisfactory level of complexity (which happened, likely not by means of coincidence, right after the portal flash), the Lilithian spread his hands outward. And then there was light.

A light brighter than all I have seen. A light of a thousand suns, spreading across all the world, flooding every place where the darkness once lurked. A light which, despite my best attempts to shield myself with the metal of my gauntlet, still burnt with the same brilliance. Perhaps there was sound, too - but if there was, it was too loud to hear.

When I awoke, I awoke to a clear sky. Not a trace of rain. No puddle anywhere. Not much of anything anywhere, truth be told. A grand field of glass stretched before me - with the forest bordering at a precise angle, allowing for a conic shape culminating at the hermitage - to the place where the field's edge met the horizon. With but one spell, cast in moments relative to its destructive potency, de Sade not only took care of the attacking troops - he also obliterated their gathering reinforcements far behind the portal. Far - ten kilometers away. Yes, you raise your brow to the right moment this time.

What became of de Sade later I cannot pretend to know. The Asgarnian situation was dealt with rather instantly, as Alex's protection became moot after almost half of the capable population of the city-state was gone. The Lilithian Archmage did not allow himself to be found again. Many things I held true about the world and its limits were shattered on that day, but the greatest part of this tale is right now: de Sade was not the most powerful of his kind, and, in fact, many others like himself still live in Lilith. So - if the Sovereignty's military wishes to restore itself to its former glory by appointing a new Archmage - we should look beyond our own horizons.

37

Writer's Guild / Re: Blood frame

« on: June 11, 2009, 02:20:47 PM »

Thanks, Lopez!

I didn't  realize I took the imagination switch thing from your story. It just kind of came to me when I was writing that section. The stealing thing - you're right - although the cell space was quite small, it still seems awkward to me (I wrote it when I was quite tired, and edited it when I was completely exhausted). I will look at adjusting that part.

The first question ("The door... opened?") was there to signify his confusion. I guess I could replace it with "Apparently, the door opened, because..." etc.

Also, there is one issue that's bothering me. Technical details are very important, but they can be fixed, and my style will (I hope) improve after a sufficient amount of reading / writing (Lovecraft ftw). What I would really like to know is, above all, is it interesting? There isn't much of a story so far, but does my writing paint vivid scenes? Are these scenes forced, or do they come off naturally? In other words, I can keep writing 'till the world ends, but if it's not something that is interesting to read, there really isn't any point.

38

Writer's Guild / Re: Blood frame

« on: June 10, 2009, 05:55:27 PM »

Updated part 3

39

Writer's Guild / Re: Blood frame

« on: June 09, 2009, 09:08:18 PM »

Part 3

I woke up to the sore complaints of my brain at its skullcase for being far too small. Vision still blurred, I tried moving, only to regret the decision moments later: my bandaged foot hurt, though I could not remember what reason it had to be bandaged for. Last thing I recalled was the Serpent's wake. As usual, following that was pristine darkness.

The crust of dried tears welding my eyelids shut gave way to a dim glow as I brushed my face off with my palm. My clothes were different - a black cloak draped on a man two feet shorter than whomever it was intended for, buttoned up, with no other features. It was only at this point that I realized that I had no idea where I was - somehow, my attire warranted greater attention than my immediate surroundings. These loosely followed the depressing colour scheme of my cloak: black metal walls glistening with a mysterious moisture, a series of dark red tubes lining the ceiling (probably the source of the aforementioned precipitation), and a featureless stone door with a single window. A surprisingly bright lantern burned in the corridors on the other side, but due to the disappointing size of the opening in the monolithic door, the chamber I was in received only a fraction of its light.

My captors were certainly nice people, having left me alive and all, but nevertheless, I had no plans of staying here. There was a warband for me to lead - the Zhott machines weren't going to feed themselves, and neither were we. Convinced that it was the dillies that bagged me (though the question of how they defeated the Serpent still remained - these bandages on my foot probably held the answer to that) and dragged me to some rogue Zhott faction, I began to look for a way out. There was no reason for Zhotts to keep slaves, except the rather gruesome one that I didn't want to think about.

There was a horizontal groove in the wall that concealed another vermilion pipe. Warm to the touch; a slight hiss after I put my ear to it. Surprisingly, it was also dry on the outside, which meant that the occasional droplet running down the uneven surface of the metal wall had to come from a different source. The pipe ran all the way around the room, ending up somewhere behind the stone door. I wasn't even sure whether that was a door or whether I was sealed in here alive - it didn't exactly appear functional, being little more than a giant slab of stone with no apparent seam between the floor and itself.  After failing to find any helpful feature in the slab, I heard footsteps and speech approaching from the corridor on the left.

Now, I figured, there is no reason to alert them. I returned to the cot I woke up on, facing the wall, closed my eyes, and waited. After reaching their peak - I heard them clearly now, one male, one female - the voices ceased, being replaced with shuffling. A metallic screech of a lever... a sound of liquid being sucked from somewhere. Then a very strange sound, something like what one would hear when walking over ice that's barely holding up. A sudden rush of air - the door opened? By the sound of their footsteps, I heard them approach me.

With utmost care, I relaxed my left eyelid a little, just enough to let a tiny stream of light through. Before me was the wall; moisture upon that. I looked to a larger droplet to see a warped reflection of my visitors.

Again, more black and vermilion. Long black coats, sleeveless, with dark red trim. I could only really see the woman in any detail; I couldn't tell their height, but she was definitely shorter than the man. His arm was resting on her shoulders, and she held a straight wooden staff in her left hand, parallel to the ground.

"Du-sett," the male voice said with a sigh. "De ikke vu su dorsett... derde... avo helle? Da helle unveldig, furdai!"

The woman replied with some other assorted gibberish. They were not speaking any dialect of Zhottite I knew of; their language did not even sound anything like Zhottite. After chattering for a few brief seconds, they turned to leave. And that's when I heard it.

The quietest sound of Arrinian steel grinding against the collar of a snake-leather sheath. You know how when you live with your parents, you grow to recognize your father's sigh, even if it was in a crowd? Or your mother's touch, even if you had just been blinded? The same story applies to weapons. For the long ten years I've had my swords, I learned every sound they made as I walked long treks through the otherwise silent wastelands. One of the people - probably the man, as I didn't see them on the woman - had my swords.

The cloak I woke up with held the merit of being very silent. I slithered out of the overly large garb (of course, they had to take away ALL my clothes except this, so I ended up naked), and quickly scanned the room. I noticed my swords immediately, held by the man in his right hand. I lept at him and pulled my weapons out of their sheathes.

After as little as a surprised gasp, the man's head tumbled to the ground. His still-standing, wavering body gugrled a dying bubble of blood out of his aorta before collapsing. It popped, showering my nude body with a red mist... I am the angel of death. The woman turned and tried to run, stumbling - yes, she was blind, and depended on that man to guide her, useless otherwise. But she committed the most mortal of sins by coming to my chamber, for she was an enemy! And I took my blade, and I drew it back, and I lopped it, and it flew like a silver arrow of an Aesgaard emissary taking souls to the place beyond the skies, and I severed her spine by piercing her neck from behind, and she collapsed, and, dying, she gurgled a languished ode of expiration, and I laughed, laughed, laughed...!!

It was quite fun imagining that. I know for a fact now that that fantasy had kept me from toppling over into the abyss - to which I was so close at times - for a saddeningly long stretch of my life. The painful truth was blocked out of my memory for quite some time.

She allowed me, I think - she let me draw the blades, for as soon as I moved, I noticed with but a corner of my eye (as I was focused on my swords at the time) that she stopped walking. The man noticed nothing up until the point where I reclaimed my weapons. The hands gripped the hilts tightly, I was well-rested. Two people couldn't possibly stop me, I thought then. But when my usually unblockable, undodgeable, absolutely fatal decapitating slash was deflected by a seemingly casual move of a blind woman's cane - oh, I should have known to apologize. If I did, perhaps she wouldn't turn to face me.

Mildly cursing my luck, I went to stab the woman for interrupting the execution. No combat stance, no infuriated scowl, absolutely nothing told me that she could fight - and yet, my stab, too, was deflected by a slight wave of the cane. Before I could recover from bewilderment, she struck back, smashing the cane's butt end into my forehead. Blood was drawn, leaking into my eyes. I angrily slashed her with my left sword, but this time, she put a little effort into waving that staff - the sword went flying across the corridor, tumbling, crying of embarrassment. Its ring against the stone did little to push me out of the resulting daze - which quickly turned back into anger. Blinded by rage and blood, I charged at her with a feral roar from the very bowels of my lungs. She tripped me.

She tripped me.

She slammed her staff on my bandaged foot, moving ever so little out of my way, and I fell down. Smashed my head into the other wall of the corridor, like a naked idiot. Though I was not yet in any danger (but a lot of pain), the sheer tidal wave of unspeakable anger that washed over me was enough to wake the Serpent from its slumber. But... it didn't come out. Now in a drunk, half-conscious state, I tried to pull myself back into the chamber, away from her, to see all of the moisture on the walls fill the room with a crimson glow. Thousands of droplets, spinning like wheels of sanguine fire from the tears in my eyes, taunting me... I think I heard the man laugh and clap before a half-strength swing of a staff across my cheek put me out cold.

40

Writer's Guild / Re: Blood frame

« on: June 06, 2009, 11:22:24 AM »

Ah, yes. Tenses. My favourite part of any language. :P

Yes, my problem with first person is that the only other time I wrote in first person, I did little in the way of describing actions, so I never really got a chance to juggle tenses like I did right there. The next part will be in third-person, though (and I hope to reveal a few things, storyline-wise, in it).

Speaking of the story: so far, I really don't have an ending or even a concise plot. I think of my writing as one of them violent Hollywood films; as in, there is little to see beyond the face value, but I'm sure that if you look hard enough, you'll find some other meaning or metaphor (which I would've worked in there unconsciously).

Again, thanks very much for reading and criticism, I really appreciate it.

41

Writer's Guild / Re: Blood frame

« on: June 05, 2009, 09:13:37 PM »

I only use these old characters as a base. I am writing under the assumption that no one knows anything about them. In fact, most of them are quite different from what they were in DAL - Gwen was a crazy swords-woman with five blades (and she was too awesome to use a cane), Wing was a psychotic cannibal, Hannibal was some weird assassin...guy, I never really got into him, and Ein was a slightly insane shapeshifter \ sigil carver. For the most of them, I only use their personalities for this story.

Thank you guys very much for your feedback.

42

Writer's Guild / Blood frame

« on: June 05, 2009, 06:29:18 PM »

Part 1

"There are twenty-five... no, five more have crossbows," Wing murmured off the top of the cliff. "Beautiful positioning, excellent form, but they are surrounding the village single-file - probably because of their smaller numbers. I doubt they'll be any problem, seeing as we've got a hundred men in the bush."

"They don’t need any more people," Gwen replied.

Wing looked up. Gwen was very close to the edge of the edge of the cliff, right next to him. The high winds combed her hair, but she stood firm, resting her cane in front of her.

"I suppose you're right," Wing said after a pause, and looked back down to the forest. "Aside from probably two or three Naturals there, the natives are defenceless against the better-equipped and much more skilled bandits."

He paused again. Despite having quite a bit of experience, he had trouble telling where the bandits were. Only the occasional gleam of a blade in the moonlight gave them away. Noticing the crossbow wielders was pure luck - a gust of wind happened to blow the village's ritual fires toward Wing, and he could faintly make out five silhouettes perched in the canopies of the trees against the glow of the flames.

"Wing," Gwen said, backing away from the edge of the cliff. The winds were getting rougher. "Tell me what kinds of Naturals are in that village."

"Yes, one minute," Wing answered, wondering as to the purpose of the question. If anyone of interest was down there, they would definitely appear in the Sovereignty's registry. Given that all maps available to him merely acknowledge the village's existence without giving any more information, everything pointed to the fact that this was just another tribal settlement.

He reached into his robe for the inner breast pocket, producing a pair of metal-framed lens. The lens, porous with many capillaries, had a syringe-like glass capsule attached with a split transparent tube. A dark red liquid shimmered inside the capsule. Securing the lens to the scout's circlet Wing wore on his head, he slowly sank the syringe's piston inward.

At first, the world became segmented into many pieces - much like looking into a broken mirror on a black surface - as the capillaries filled with the liquid from the capsule. The liquid didn't even completely fill the capillaries when the outer edges of the lens began to blur out of existence. Before long, all that was left of the lens was the metal frame. The flames in the middle of the village vanished, and the moon was reduced to no more than a pale grey shadow on the sky. Instead, the world bathed in a uniform red mist.

Right away, Wing's previous guess proved itself to be correct. There were three auras - black clouds with streaks of red - located in a triangle around the place where the now-invisible fire burned.

"Let's see..." Wing mumbled while scanning the village. "There are three. The one farthest away from me... looks solid... earth? No... jagged edges, pronounced vertices. That one is ice-based. The one across the first one - they are sitting in a triangle around the ritual fire - is all over the place, swirling... unmistakably, flame-powered... explains the fire. The leader, maybe?... Interesting combination... I'd think... wouldn't get along... block. That's the last one, walls and blocks, very regular and symmetric... seen it before, but..."

"Like Eva's?"

Wing slapped his head in feigned exasperation.

"Ah, how could I forget? Yes, that's exactly where I saw it. So, in the end, we have a fire Natural, an ice Natural, and a force Natural. None of them are particularly powerful - the fire one might stand his ground against one of our Artificers, but the other ones aren't even worth mentioning. Explains why this place is barely noted on the map. Even then, considering there's about to be a raid on it, we might have to erase it completely."

"In that case," Gwen said, turning around. "We are leaving."

With a small sigh, Wing stood up and dusted himself off. She's doing the right thing, from a commander's point of view. There's no need to sacrifice any more troops - the Sovereignty's military is already spread thin between defending against Zhottite invasions and smaller organized raids from the natives. He took off the lens and carefully pulled the piston from the capsule out as far as it could go. The lens became visible again as the liquid retreated from the capillaries and back into the syringe. After putting the apparatus away, he approached Gwen.

"Do you--?"

"No, I’m fine." Gwen's tone was uncharacteristically casual. "It seems we will not draw swords tonight. I can handle myself."

"Very well," Wing said.

They walked in silence toward the wall of trees at the top of the hill. The Chopped Mound, they called this place; reasonably so, considering that it was really only half a hill. From one side, it looked like a normal mound, but from the forest, it appeared to be an inaccessible cliff. Some Sovereignty philosophers devoted time to discovering how the Chopped Mound came to be, but none were successful.

"General, if I may ask," Wing interrupted the relative silence, which was previously only broken by Gwen's cane tapping the ground in front of her. For the last few minutes, he wore a concerned expression. "Were you a scout before your… capture?"

"I began my career at the Sovereignty as a scout, yes. You were wondering how I knew Eva's aura." She replied, and then stopped, turning her head to Wing. "Why?"

“It’s probably nothing, but I thought I saw the ice Natural’s aura sparkling a little.”

“Sparkling?”

“Yes.” Wing paid attention to Gwen’s expression – or, at least, what he could see of it from behind her blindfold-mask. She didn’t look very bothered. “I think something might be wrong with my Donovan Glass, but I thought I saw small strands jumping off the ice Natural and vanishing in the air. But they were not strands in the sense that they were nearly one-dimensional – no, they were not like that; rather, they had volume. Almost like fibres of some kind actually.”

“Fibres,” Gwen repeated with a tone of concern. “It would be best if you looked down there again. But this time, do it from a different place.”

After returning to the edge and setting up the Donovan Glass, Wing carefully strafed sideways, while looking at the source of the sparks. It wasn’t long until he stood back up and returned to Gwen.
“I’m not sure if you were looking for this, General,” he said. “I couldn’t identify it. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The fibres – it’s an aura. A bandit’s aura.”

Part 2

Pound, crash, pound, crash. It sounded like the dillies were making noise just for the sheer fun of it. No sense of notes, no harmony, no pace, no anything. Of course, to expect coherent music from savages is like to request an operatic choir from pigs. Personally, I think we're doing them a favour by putting them out of their misery. Getting paid handsomely for the three dilly Naturals doesn't hurt either, although I would've debated with myself coming here if we were only being paid for this. Fortunately, this particular dilly village is nice and stocked up with supplies. Beats overpaying those Zhottite gluttons for food - they're always too happy to take back the gold they paid us.

"Ein - we're ready," I heard Hannibal's hoarse whisper right next to me. "The crossbows are high, the swords are low, the stabbers are close. We counted fifty-two dillies, most jumping, smashing rocks, and hooing around the bonfire."

I looked into the center of the village. Just as Hannibal said - bunch of dillies were dancing around the fire in the middle, with three sitting cross-legged closer to the flames than the rest. There were whitestone lines on the ground, connecting the three. Bet dillies felt real proud of themselves when they figured out how to use whitestone to paint their weak excuse for art, the cliff overhead showing most of their expositions. Birds, horses, hummingbirds…

The three important-looking dillies in the middle, it seemed, were the Naturals. That one - the one with the blue ribbon on his fat arm - that'll be the first one that I'll put to sleep. As the Zhotts told me, there was a fire, ice, and force Natural here. The ice one would be the hardest to take down, seeing as few blades cut through those frost shields of theirs. Once he's unconscious, he won't matter; the other two will probably panic and show me a nice display of fireworks, giving me a pretty good idea as to what they can do.

"Have two crossbows aim at two Naturals - the two that aren't that one in front of us. If they start, hit the lower body only, do not kill them under any circumstances," I whispered back. "I'll get the fat one. The stabbers will pick off the out-wanderers, two crossbows can take down the dillies right next to my fatty. The last crossbow should watch anyone that sees me and put them down. The swords will only move if the dillies are expanding from the village. As soon as I bag my dilly, tell all lows to get down to the ground, and all highs to hold on to the branches."

I saw a nod from Hannibal with the corner of my eye, and began closing in on the ice Natural. The portly savage was smashing stone-headed clubs on a drum in front of him, as were the other two. Seemed really into it, too. That's good - his attention was low, and he shouldn't give the wire much trouble when it's on him. The fire hid the Naturals from each other's fields of view. Using the flames to my advantage, I crept along the walls of a wooden hut closer to him, while preparing the green-coloured wire. This was the best purchase I made from the Zhotts - I have never regretted a single silver I spent on it, not once (although I refuse to call it by their name. It's quite rude).

Without coming out from my cover too far, I tossed the Green - tied into a lasso loop - right in between two dillies passing by the Natural. The loop successfully landed on the Natural's neck. He certainly noticed the instrument of his quickly approaching coma, but didn't give it much thought - just brushed it off his neck, likely thinking it an artefact of the surrounding flora. But the loose wire stayed secure on his throat. I carefully fed the wire forward a little bit, to get it low to the ground - wouldn't want a dilly tripping on it and alerting everyone around him. Now that it was out of the way, I made my way back to the bush, favourably noting that several out-wandering dillies were already suffering from a mild case of capital dismemberment in the tall grass. Good work, stabbers. Very good.

Having placed myself more or less out of sight, I returned to my previous hideout in the forest. Hannibal was already back, grinning at me.

"They didn't start," he said. "And the crossbows, with all their trigger-happy fingers, managed not to shoot a dilly anyway. I'd imagine you already saw the fine works of Groth and Rudd generously painting the ground red, eh?"

"Everyone is a part of the team," I replied. "Everyone knows what they're doing. This is good. Now, if you don't mind..."

"Of course," Hannibal said and grabbed on to the Green. We nodded thrice in unison, counting down - and, with an eye-popping effort, pulled the wire.

The force of the snapping Green sent us flying into the bush, but we were too far away - and drowned out by the noise of the drums - for anyone to notice. The Natural forcefully fell backwards, knocking his drum on his head, struggling to get the loop of Green off his throat. After gagging for a few seconds, he stilled - just in time for other dillies to arrive. As he stopped resisting, the Green loosened up and fell off. If we dared to drag a Natural's corpse to the Zhotts, I think our partnership could be effectively considered over (and that’s putting it lightly – what I mean when I say that is “heads will roll”).

A few dillies tried to wake the Natural up - to no avail, of course. Loss of consciousness by asphyxiation doesn't wear off this quickly. Some of the women cried. The other Naturals also gathered around their fallen comrade.

“What say you, gentlemen?” I addressed Hannibal as well as Rudd, who just came back. His dagger was positively glistening with fresh blood. “We’ll take down one more Natural, and I’m pretty sure we can rush them. Otherwise, the dillies are going to start worrying about those over there.” I nodded toward the corpses in the grass.

“I’m in,” Rudd was the first to reply. “A little hungry, too. I’d almost go as far as to suggest rushing them now, but seeing as they’re all alert (especially the Naturals), I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Then it’s decided,” I announced. “I’m going to bag the force user, and we can charge them.”

For the most part, it was actually quite easy to tell which Naturals had what power just by looking at them – in fact, one could make conclusions even if one has never encountered that kind of Natural before. Ice users carried much extra weight to protect themselves from cold; their ability to conjure frost shields around them effectively killed any reason to dodge projectiles. Even a fireball rarely punched through a well-powered ice wall. Fire casters were rather like one of the two Naturals carrying the third one to a medicine hut – lanky for efficient blood cooling as well as tanned for flare protection, and quite muscular to dodge well: although packing a strong punch, they couldn’t defend themselves with their power alone. Seeing as they’re Naturals – people who are born with and who die with their ability and their ability alone – they have a lifetime to adapt to their gift.

Unfortunately, the dillies smartened up. They stopped their inane ritual – maybe because they finally figured that ten of them were missing, or maybe because they couldn’t continue banging their drums without the third Natural. Didn’t look like it was the former, as they all headed back to their huts, with the majority of them going to the medicine hut to attend to the fainted chubby. I used the opportunity to retrieve my loop of Green and reattach it to the rest of the spool. Meanwhile… the force Natural. It was the one that was not lanky; a woman, unsurprisingly. About three quarters of force users belonged to the fairer sex.

It was only another five minutes when she and the other Natural left the healing hut. They said something to each other before parting ways; being dillies, probably something about appeasing their hummingbird god by sacrificing dragonflies – you know, their chief competitor size-wise. Really, what kind of culture worships something like a hummingbird? Why do they even need Naturals in the first place?

Sneaking around and behind the huts, I quickly passed the Natural. It would be unwise to let her enter her house – if she had a trace of a brain, she would likely close off the doorway with a fraction of her power. Fraction as it may be, it was plenty enough to stop a normal man (or a normal weapon) from entering. Finding a nice spot in the shadow, I waited for her to come closer.

I didn’t have to wait too long. Her hut was in front of the one I was hiding in, the door facing me. Just as she turned her back at me, I threw a well-aimed rock at the back of her head. Letting out somewhat of a yelp, the dilly fell over. Maybe I need to stuff her deeper into the hut; make it look like she hurt herself. No one should know that I’m –

In retrospect, it was really good that I stayed close to the ground. If I did not, I would be a talking torso right now, for at that moment in time, a great sickle of flames swept right over me. Half of the force Natural’s shanty was gone; the other was burning. My hair got caught in the turbulence and was also set aflame. Although quite embarrassing, sticking my head into the nearest puddle of filth was better than being bald. Damn… how did he see me?

The booming gibberish of the fire Natural smoked the dillies from their meagre residences like a torch in a beehive. The dillies swarmed me with a surprising nimbleness. I was the focal point of a good twenty very pointy spears. The fire Natural – whom I took to be the tribe leader – began barking something at me. I didn’t really catch most of it, because… well, because the serpent began to wake up.

Here I was, shaking, dripping with a semi-liquid concoction of water, feces, and earth. And to think that my bleached hair so beautifully stood out moments ago. Maybe that’s why he saw me? I don’t really remember the rest of my train of thought. Motions started to blur, and I felt my blades slide out of their sheath. He was about halfway awake when I heard the Serpent’s Horn roll over the canopies of the trees and crawl up the great cliff overhead. The rest of the band noticed me and my state, I guess. Good Hannibal. Good boy, so very good. The horn just pushed me further into oblivion, and the last thing I remember – a little while after losing memory of my sight – is inhuman howling, likely coming out of my own chest.