The man made out of grist: March Writing Pledges

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SurreptitiousMuffin: Mar 21, 2010; ... all the pronouns

Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to the triumphant return of the CC writing pledge thread. Whether you want to put out 3000 words a day or 500 words a week, here's the place to do it. It goes like this: you put forth a pledge before midnight on March 15th in the following style:

I, [username], pledge to write X words every Y time period for the month of March.

If you fail, we mock you mercilessly but there's no other repercussions. If you succeed, we write shimmering odes to your glory or maybe we say 'well done guy' or something. Depends how I feel at the end of the month.

---

I'm starting a new job in a new country so I'm crazily overwhelmed and busy right now, which means my pathetic first pledge is this:

I, SurreptitiousMuffin, pledge to write 1000 words every week for the month of March.

The Walking Wounded

- SurreptitiousMuffin, 1000/week Progress: 3470/4000 (87%)
- EchoCian, 500/day Progress: 8050/15500 (51%)
- Honey Badger 250/day. Progress: 0/7750 (0%)
- Meis 250/day. Progress: 333/7750 (4%)
- Dr. Kloctopussy- 2000/week. Progress: 2000/8000 (25%)
- The Sin of Onan- 1000/week. Progress: 1140/4000 (29%)
- Jeza- 20,000/month. Progress: 0/20,000 (0%)
- Sitting Here, 15,000/month. Progress: 0/15,000 (0%)
- BananaNutkins, 7000/month. Progress: 1220/7,000 (18%)
- JuniperCake- 10,000/month. Progress: 0/10,000 (0%)
- Bairbater- 10,000/month. Progress: 0/10,000 (0%)

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at Mar 17, 2013 around 10:28

# ? Feb 27, 2013 16:42

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? May 24, 2013 04:53

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

I, Echo Cian, pledge to write 500 words every day for the month of March.

Man it's all fancy and formal and everything.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 16:54

Honey Badger: Jan 5, 2012; ^^^ Like this, but its your mouth, and shit comes out of it.

"edit: Oh neat, babby's first avatar. Kind of a convoluted metaphor but eh..."

No, shit is actually extruding out of your mouth, and your'e a pathetic dick, shut the fuck up.

I, Honey Badger, pledge to write 250 words a day for the month of March

Just got a new job so I might be shooting a bit low here, once I see how hectic everything is I might have to up it.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 00:59

Dr. Kloctopussy: Apr 22, 2003

I, Dr. Kloctopussy, pledge to write 2,000 words every week for the month of March.

And typing up old handwritten stuff doesn't count.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 01:38

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

I, The Sin of Onan, pledge to write 1,000 words every week for the month of March.

I make no promises as to their quality.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 08:43

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

I, Jeza, pledge to write 20,000 words in sum total during the month of March.

Because gently caress you, establishment.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 14:32

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007; Blood Queen of Thunderdome

I give myself the modest goal of 15,000 words for the month of March. Hopefully most of them about talking pigs.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 17:20

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

I, Banananutkins, pledge to write at least 7,000 words during the month of March.

Or longer, if the current chapter demands. None of it will contain spoken dialog.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 22:00

JuniperCake: Jan 26, 2013

I, JuniperCake, pledge to write 10,000 words during the month of March.

Let's do this thing!

# ? Mar 2, 2013 00:25

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

Off to a great start I see. Muffin, I think you forgot to mention that the pledge also involved posting the pledged words of crap.

To make up for missing yesterday, 1220 boring words of part of a scene that wouldn't get out of my head. I don't know how to write sword combat yet I insist on doing so.

quote:

I found Makiel at sparring practice just as he knocked his latest opponent off her feet. Three others sat on benches, already nursing bruises. The woman got to her feet with a shake of her head and a breathless laugh. "I know a few of our recruits who could do with a good spar with you."

Makiel smiled. "Swords bigger than their sheaths?"

"Something like that." She grinned and noticed me in the doorway. "Come to try him, too?"

"Ah, no." Makiel saluted me with his practice sword and I stepped inside. It was a large room, meant for training groups at a time, its only decor benches along the right wall, racks of weapons on the left, and a raised platform at the far end. Windows set near the ceiling let in light without risking it getting in the fighters' eyes. I nodded back to Makiel and headed for the benches. "Could anyone use some healing?"

Makiel wrinkled his nose. "Come now, I didn't thrash them that badly. Bruises build character!"

"Shade-touched, that man," another of his victims moaned. Tall, broad-shouldered - no doubt he'd tried to rush Makiel with brute force. The way he hunched over his ribs told me he'd discovered Mak's methods for dealing with a larger opponent.

I chuckled and checked his injury. Only a bruise, as Mak said, but I rested my hand on the area and healed it anyway. "You've no idea how many times he's handled men of your build."

"I do now," he groused.

I heard another deep chuckle. Only now did I notice Bacora perched on a bench on the platform. I straightened and nodded to him. He returned the gesture, but didn't speak, instead glancing toward the far end of the platform.

Makiel turned, too, and casually pointed his sword at the last man who stood there. "Still think you can take me?"

This one was the youngest of the lot. His answer was a snort as he ambled out to meet Makiel. I caught a wicked gleam in the woman's eye. This must be one of the recruits she'd mentioned. Had this all been arranged to use Makiel to put them in their place? I smothered a laugh. He would certainly do the job.

The young one stopped a few paces away and held his own sword out, a mocking imitation of Makiel's gesture. "Let's be clear now, I'm Liam and some geezer's not going to take me out so easy."

Makiel raised an eyebrow at "geezer," as did I; the boy looked to be about eighteen or so. I supposed Makiel had developed some stress lines since I met him, but surely not that many. But he said nothing, shifted into his ready stance with his sword pointed at the boy's torso.

Liam charged in with a slash. Makiel sidestepped and turned to keep his blade between them; but the boy slammed to a stop and sprang back, reversing direction with startling agility. Makiel angled his sword just as swiftly and Liam's blade slid off, sending him stumbling when Mak melted away from contact.

Makiel returned to guard point with a lazy smile as Liam recovered and glared at him. "Nice try. How about getting serious?"

Mak was in his element. Liam rushed, circled, tried all manner of tricks, but Makiel evaded or countered each one. Liam was energetic and surely thought he was being clever, but I'd seen Makiel use all of these and more.

When Mak responded to one charge by twirling out of the way with a dance step and slapped Liam across the back with the perfect timing to nearly send him headlong to the floor, the boy shot to his feet spitting fury. Bacora finally intervened. "That's enough."

The duel ended instantly. Bacora shook his head. "You're telegraphing every move you make, Liam, and your frustration only makes it worse. You're done until you've calmed enough to think clearly."

Liam spun toward the platform. "But-"

Bacora's expression hardened. "You are done, Liam."

The boy deflated under that iron gaze. "Yes, sir." He bowed reluctantly and slunk off the practice floor.

Makiel propped his hand on his hip. "That's all? What a shame."

"I regret that our best swordsmen are on duty at this time." Bacora studied Makiel thoughtfully. "They call you the Dancing Blade, do they not?"

Mak groaned. "Not you, too."

"It's a fitting nickname. You're quite the showman, but there's substance below the flash." Bacora seemed to make up his mind and rose from the bench. The rejects sat up straighter. "None here could match you, so allow me to test your skill myself. It has been some time since this 'geezer' had a good workout." He smiled wryly. I heard a choking sound from Liam's direction.

Makiel edged away as Bacora stepped down to take position across from him. "It wouldn't end well if I were to harm you."

"Nonsense. No holding back." Bacora picked up Liam's discarded practice sword and tested its balance, then sketched a salute and pointed the it to the floor. "I want to see your full capabilities." He waited until Makiel had settled into his stance and nodded once. Then he lunged.

Makiel skipped clear and answered with a lunge of his own, but Bacora pulled back and was well out of reach in his original position, point now raised to defense. Makiel's brow furrowed and he began to circle. Their swords angled and wavered, testing.

Bacora's sword dipped, and Makiel struck. A feint; Bacora flicked his blade up and slid Mak's off course, stepped in and stabbed. Makiel skipped aside, but Bacora was just as quick and caught him in a bind. Makiel twisted free with a grunt, deflected two quick swings, lunged - and froze when Bacora's sword pressed against his chest. Killing blow. I blinked. Bacora had twisted just a fraction, enough to get himself out of the way but leave his sword in place. If this were a serious fight, Makiel would have impaled himself.

They separated and stepped back to starting positions. Makiel readied himself without a word. Another nod, and Bacora again opened with a lunge. This time Makiel sidestepped and drove in with a barrage of swings and stabs. Their swords thunked dully as Bacora countered each blow and barely gave ground. But finally, he did step back; Makiel overreached and Bacora jabbed his chest before he could recover.

They reset. This time Bacora waited for Makiel to take the offense, but the result was the same. If Makiel made his victories look effortless, Bacora made it look natural. He simply won, and that was all there was to it. Makiel's lighthearted demeanor faded. He took disarmament, blows to the chest, shoulder and throat that would all be fatal or incapacitating, trips and falls that ended with a swordpoint at his neck. Each time he got up, and each time his frown deepened. He didn't like losing. He hated losing repeatedly.

Finally Bacora raised his hand as Makiel picked himself up from a full-length sprawl across the floor. "You're getting fatigued. Take a rest."

"Trying to spare me further embarrassment?" Mak snapped.

Bacora sighed. "The only embarrassment is that you're still holding back. You need not hesitate for my rank. Rest, and we'll try this again."

It occurs to me that using "blade" to refer to a blunted practice weapon doesn't actually make sense. Oh well.

# ? Mar 3, 2013 07:43

SurreptitiousMuffin: Mar 21, 2010; ... all the pronouns

Woop woop, where are those pledges at? Here's my 1000 for the week, crossposting from Thunderdome.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

The Bumper Book of Birds [1470 words]

My mum is a bird. She flew away when I was six years old - the same year dad taught me about thee-ving hoo-ers. �A hooer,� he said, �a hooer is like a magpie. It takes all your shiny things for its nest across town and never gave a drat- for a hooer, it was all about the shine,� he said. His eyes were red. He shook me too hard and then sent me to my room for crying. I never cried, not then and not since; hooers cry out in the night and make all sorts of racket,when reasonable goddam people are trying to sleep. My mum is a bird but I'm not.

I took up bird watching. All my books said that brave boys fight robbers and scary things instead of running away so I had to. We lived on the south side of town and I was told at school that birds fly south for summer, so I set up in the back yard with a pair of cheap binoculars to watch the sky. I saw blackbirds, fantails, plovers, tuis, big fat wood pidgeons that argued with the wind as they flew; I even saw a hawk once, though my book told me they stayed away from built-up ur-ban areas. The town was built much more sideways than up, so I made a quick note in the book: not unusural. I wrote in pencil so I could erase it if dad got mad. In three years of bird watching, I even saw a hawk but I never saw a hooer.

Dad kept a gun in his bedroom drawer. He showed me it when he had been drinking gin, which good boys don't drink. It was a cowboy gun, the sort that brave boys aren't scared of. �point thirteeee ate,� he said with a big smile, �blow the head of a bad guy clean off. It's my point thirtee ate that keeps hooers and siffs away, you'd better believe it.� I didn't cry when dad showed me the point thirtee ate but he sent me to my room anyway. Maybe dad was secretly a cowboy and needed to do cowboy business. Sometimes he looked like a cowboy and sometimes he looked like the man they dunk in the water trough.

More than hooers, I was scared of siffs. Siffs is like a disease that only affects kids- if the house is dis-or-der-ly, you get siffs and so-shell workers all over the place and then you get put in a house for other bad kids and never see your dad again. Hooers live in dis-or-der-ly places and so they've got siffs all over them. I liked living with dad because he let me watch TV and only shouted sometimes.

My bird book had pages on all kinds of bird but didn't have a page on hooers. It made looking for them hard: maybe I saw a hooer one time and thought it was a plover. Then I might write the wrong thing in my book and make it dis-or-der-ly, then I would have to leave home and never see dad again. I had a plan though: I could listen for their call. It's right there in the name! HOOers. HooooOOOOO. HooooOOOOO. If I knew they were coming, I could scare them off so they wouldn't bring siffs to my house. Every day I would sit out in the yard with my binoculars and my ears, making notes on all the birds that flew over and listening for even the slightest hooooOOOOO in the distance. Sometimes the Lumber Mill has a noise it makes when the Lum Bears get angry that sounds like awooOOOOO. The first time I heard it while bird watching, I started shouting -making a god drat racket- at the sky so the hooers would go away, then I realised I was being dis-or-der-ly, so I sat down in the yard and didn't cry.

The next day was saturday and there were no birds at all. I stayed the whole day and didn't see one. Maybe the lum bears scared them away, or maybe it was actually hooers and all the other birds caught siffs and got taken away. Is there a home for bad birds? I don't know. It's very hard to tell hooers and lum bears apart, specially if you've only ever heard one of them. The one I heard had a tin whistle stuck in its throat but the whistle was broken so it screamed like dad when he's been drinking gin and his neck goes all red.

There were no birds on Sunday either. Dad was watching TV in the lounge so I had to be out in the yard. The sheriff was off duty so it was up to Deputy Me to keep the hooers away. I starting to think the birds had been scared off for good when the world turned into noise. It came from every direction at one, the biggest god drat racket I'd ever heard. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. A war party of hooers! I couldn't see any birds but I knew they must be somewhere, hiding behind rocks and trees; that's where war parties of bad things hide. The only thing I could see was a big mess of smoke coming from over the lumber mill. The hooers and the lum bears were at war! Dad came running out of the house with a bottle of gin in one hand and the TV remote in the other, yelling about the god drat racket. He saw the smoke and went flat-white like paper. His bathrobe fell open but he didn't notice. He stood there all silent for a whole ten seconds with his mouth and his bits flapping in the wind. �Jesus,� he said. �Jesus,� he said, one more time. It was closer to a prayer than anything he ever said in church.

I followed him back inside. He was on the phone doing cowboy business, saying �the mill the mill the loving mill Jerry.� Jerry smelled like cat food and shook when he talked to people. Jerry probably had siffs- the one time I saw his house, it was the most dis-or-der-ly place I'd ever seen. He said he had cats but I never saw them. Maybe the so-shell workers got them. Jerry wouldn't stop the hooers! He might even be their friend. There was only one thing I knew that could stop hooers and siffs. I went upstairs and to get the point thirtee ate, like a good deputy. I had to stand on a chair to get it out of the drawer, because it was in the very top one. I pulled and pulled until it came open with a whumpcrack, spilling undies, socks and cigarettes all over the place. The point thirtee ate had been at the back of the drawer but it came knocking forward into the middle. All the clothes around it had spilled out, so it sat on the bare wood. I picked it up- it was so heavy I nearly dropped it. It didn't look like a toy gun or a cowboy gun. It smelled bad like a broken old car but it didn't make me cry.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

and under that, feet pounding up the stairs. Dad came in all red, his bathrobe flapping open. He still had the TV remote and I wondered if maybe he'd turned the volume up on the world. He saw me and started shouting. It must've been because I spilled his clothes and made the place dis-or-der-ly. The siffs were here at our door because I had been a bad boy. �I can fix it dad,� I said. He smiled, for the second time since mum left.

Then the world got even more loud.

***

Dad died on the seen. I don't know what that means because I didn't see it but the police man told me so. His car made a noise like hooHOOhooHOOhooHOOhoo so I bit him, because he was a hooer in disguise. Mum is a bird that looked like a woman and I knew the police man was only a bird that looked like a man. After that the bird-police left me alone. They called a nice lady who came in a beat up car with CYFS printed on the side. CYFS sounds like siffs like awooOOOO sounds like hoooOOOOO. She didn't look sick though. She gave me chocolate and told me it was going to be alright. The sky was perfect blue except the smoke.

My mum is a bird but I'm not. Not yet. One day I'll just say hoooOOOO and float off into the big blue. Until then, I'll be watching the sky.

# ? Mar 8, 2013 15:15

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

Everyone but Muffin sucks.

Speaking of, it's a shame that last prompt was such a mess, because I liked that story a lot. The narrator's voice works well aaaand I have nothing to critique. Congratulations.

So I don't clutter up the thread, my other writing for the week expanded on Predator, for those of you who read that.
March 3-4, 2780 words, most of which suck but it provides the missing context. About half was written beforehand, but it's better not broken up.
(Predator takes place here.)
March 5-6, 1230 words.

As for today's... I'm not sure what this is, but there's 750 words of it.

quote:

How many years?

They'd come in droves, once. Men and their ships, mostly, sometimes families with their children. Always the spirits. Smiles and laughter and tears and pain, all gathered over the years, the decades. The lighthouse shone from the darkest point of the world and beckoned them in. Don't fear, it said. You need not face what's beyond. You'll be safe. All of you, safe.

Years it had been, now, as he looked out on the white-foam breakers. Only the gulls cried over the crashing waves. The sky was darker than it had been so many decades ago. Those that came didn't stay, didn't share their stories with an old man whose bones creaked on the staircase. All that remained was the last ship at anchorage, unpainted and unnamed. Her captain had walked into the darkness without a second glance. Her sails and rigging hung in tatters now. She listed in every swell of the tide. Nothing to be done. Her captain had left her a decade ago, and he was the last to set foot on the barrens. None remained but the keeper, and he couldn't board her. A shame. She could have been beautiful.

Thunder rumbled over the keeper's labored steps. A girl brushed past his shoulder and vanished into the wind. He could see them clearly, now. He hadn't always. He might have asked why, but there was no one to ask. It wasn't hard to guess. The captain had seen them before he went off into the storm; the keeper recognized the look in his eyes. The only ones who wore that look were the ones who wouldn't be turning back.

He hadn't watched the captain go. Just climbed back to the lantern room and added more fuel to the lamp.

And that was the last. His light was forgotten, its promise of safety overshadowed by the lands beyond. No one trusted a beacon that steadily lost itself to the darkness it fought. So the keeper remained, with the thunder and the surf that crashed against the rocks below, and the silent spirits who never glanced his way before they drifted to the fog.

He'd wondered if the captain had been a fresh spirit. But the ship was still there, and he'd left footprints in the dirt. The keeper wondered how far those prints would lead him, but he went to the gallery to clean the windows and the trail blew away.

The spirits were thick today. They swirled out of the spray and drifted inland as the keeper hauled in his empty fishing nets. They formed shadowy patches across the ropes he checked for repair. He waved them on toward the lighthouse and the lands beyond. It had no effect, but he imagined it as encouragement. They had no business here. Best they moved on.

The sky rumbled, not so distant. A spirit was clearer than usual. The keeper paused to study it, the first human he'd seen since the captain went inland. It was looking up. He looked with it.

The fuel had run out.

They stared at it in silence until the spirit blurred and continued on. The keeper finished bringing in his lines, sliding rope through his callused hands. He rose with aching joints and carried the nets up the rocky path to the watchhouse, stowed them in the shed. He looked up at the lighthouse again, a tower that had weathered centuries of storm. He pressed his hand to its worn brick and sighed. A time comes for us all, old friend, the gesture said, without words.

They'd been forgotten. With this light faded, perhaps he would see the next one at night, the newest beacon of safety and hope. Perhaps that keeper still saw ships, painted and named, their sails billowing in the wind, full of stories and laughter that defied the encroaching shadow of the world's end. Perhaps that lamp wouldn't be forgotten and lost.

The keeper locked the lighthouse and the watchhouse. He looked out at the tattered ship with no name, the crying gulls and the foam as the waves broke against the rocks below. The spirits seemed solid, almost corporeal. They no longer vanished into fog. They had faces. They would have names. The captain had seen this, as well. Perhaps this was what had brought him so far, on an unfinished ship with no crew.

The keeper passed the lighthouse and walked into the darkness. It was time to find what the captain found.

# ? Mar 9, 2013 05:21

SurreptitiousMuffin: Mar 21, 2010; ... all the pronouns

OP updated. If you've posted them elsewhere, please link us.

Because it looks like I've got another crazy week coming, here's week 2's 1000, from my constantly in-progress awful fantasy novel.

quote:

If there was one guiding pillar in the life of Daven Pell, it was that those with class should make efforts to impress those without. That, white wine and a reasonable rate of fiscal return. Good things come in threes, after all. His father had reminded him of that every morning, among other things. If there was anything to be said about his travelling companions, it was that they lacked class. Well not said, since that was the least classy thing of all. It could certainly be thought though and it was being thought loudly. They'd forced him to abandon his litter almost as soon as they'd left the city and drafted his porter in as their go-to heavy lifting man.

He brushed some dark fibres from the fur trim of his coat and almost took the drat thing off for what felt like the hundredth time that day, until his father loomed from the fog of memory, thrashing the thought away. It's not for me, it's for them. It is selfless and charitable. They have probably never seen real fur in their lives. Well the trappers probably have. And the tanners. Probably the farmers too. Do farms do fur?

The sweating was healthy besides. He'd return to Sholes windswept and rock-hard, then the Guild Chancellor would take him seriously, oh yes. There had been a few years when a position on the guild small council had been all-but-guaranteed, until the commoners started getting sick and the men on the trading posts stopped reporting in. Men were replacable but their cargo wasn't, so Irim Pell with his pig-iron hair had sent his fat son out into the wild to make a man of him. Those were his exact words before the whole drat open council: "my fat son will make a man of himself," and how they had all laughed. Otho Bule had almost choked on a mouthful of particularly fine red, spitting it over the guildsmen in front of him and earning more than a few dirty looks, which he chewed up and spat back- Otho Bule could buy a hundred casks more and think nothing of it.

and there, in the middle of it all was Fat Daven Pell, wearing equisite robes of ermine and silk, dyed the reds and yellow the Pells had been calling 'house colours' since 'your money or your life' had become a bit too on the nose. The civilised man didn't need to rob because he had accountants. All the men there knew where the Pell money had first come from but nobody would dare accuse Irim Pell to his face. The one eye that remained held little humour and even less mercy. The colours were as close to a joke as he ever got and more than that, they were a provocation. His soft son was an easy target though and here was the big man himself shouting 'pull!'

That had been little over a month ago but the laughter still bounced around his head in the dead of night. It had been getting worse as time went on, as they passed more and more abandoned shipping offices. Some had been looted but often it looked like the looters had skipped town before the bureaucrats. Daven pelt a twinge of pride in that: Company Men did not rout easily. Having seen their reasons, Daven thought he might've routed too. There was something oddly peaceful about the wooden men. None were screaming or clawing at the walls- after the ravages of the disease turned them from men to beasts, the final stages bought them back around to something almost beatific; the sort of thing Daven liked to find in the bottom of a bottle.

The bottles had gone too. Confiscated by the dreadful blonde inquisitor with all the rings: with no absence of wood, the lunatics still needed something to burn. It was Old Country stuff, aged under the snow for ten years in oak casks and those sots had burnt it up to purify their drinking water. It was necessary -certainly- but it lacked class. It was worse than criminal, it was crass.

They stopped for the night in another trading post. Bananas, it looked like. Maybe a little nutmeg on the side. They had left in the middle of breakfast: one small piece of toast each and a bunch of bananas. The toast had gone black and began to sprout hair though the bananas were perfectly bald. They probably could've been drank, from the way they slopped across the table. A logbook was left open, though for pages and pages it read only rambling nonsense. The trees the trees good boys don't climb trees no no no no pick a fruit and blood comes out no no no no NO. The signature on the logs began neatly but as time went on, its curves became more loose until the word was a mere scribble. 'William Frost,' the first read. 'OoOllOop llOo' read the last. Of the late Frost there was no sign but two of his men were found in the bedrooms, completely petrified and wearing expressions of cherubic wonder.

What was the blonde Inquisitor's name? Dorman, Declan, something like that. On seeing the bodies, he'd ordered his men to drag them out into the clearing, douse them in lamp oil and burn them. Daven had a small flask of brandy he'd kept hidden from them and he patted it uncertainly, then felt silly and tried to pretend he was only fidgeting. Desmond shot him a look and returned to the grim work of moving the bodies out through the door. Daven almost thought to challenge the man, then thought better of it. Though the Inquisitior's weapons weren't made by a master craftsman, they had a worn, well-loved look to them. Not pretty things but they never needed to be.

In a hard bed that he barely had to himself, Daven Pell closed his eyes and thought about all the things he'd do when he got home. There were shouts, gold and very little laughter. He smiled and sleep took him.

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at Mar 9, 2013 around 07:38

# ? Mar 9, 2013 06:21

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

I did some more work on my lovely excuse for a fantasy novel. This is the start of the fourth chapter. Thrill as a teenage girl wakes up, gets dressed, and goes to work! (1104 words)

quote:

In her dream, Isseren stands alone in a meadow, under a blazing blue sky. Wherever she looks, there is nothing but fields of green grass, rolling on forever, empty of rocks and trees, flowers and birds. A soft breeze plays with her hair, only it isn't a breeze; it's her mother's hands. A voice murmurs in her ears, wordless and indistinct, and with a brief moment of sorrow Isseren realises that she's forgotten the sound of her mother's voice.

The moment passes like a cloud - there are clouds now, wispy and faint, and she can still remember the sound of her father strumming his lyre and humming to himself, trying to find a tune. Now her mother is braiding flowers - there are flowers in the meadow - and singing along with her father's strumming, but without a voice, Isseren still can't remember her voice. The clouds are rolling in, thick and fast, but her parents don't seem to see, and the trees are blocking out the fading sunlight, and the shadows are alive and full of unseen terrors. But they keep their distance, as her father's lyre and her mother's song shine a light through the growing darkness.

The path is growing more even, and the long-neglected paving of the ancient highways is starting to show through the mud - they must be leaving the forest, drawing nearer to the safety of Kaiapha's walls. Little Isseren fancies she can she, on the horizon, the light blazing off the golden roof of the sun god's great house on the hill. Her father laughs, and leans in to tell her it's just the last light of the setting sun shining off a cloud, and suddenly a crossbow bolt is sticking out of his neck.

Isseren stumbles in a daze through the next few moments, a blaze of fire and smoke, and the sound of her mother's screams. She closes her eyes, trying desperately to calm her mind as her dreams race through the bandit camp and the squalor of the slave pens, the laughter and the beatings.

When she opens them again, she is standing once more in a field of fire, to the sound of men and horses screaming. But this time, it's her captors who are burning and stumbling and dying as armoured men on horseback race through the camp. Little Isseren sobs and screams in terror, but ten years later, Isseren watches with naked glee as her tormentors are put to a well-deserved death. The nightmare is over.

And the dream as well, as a familiar figure canters over to the crude cages on the edge of the camp, where little Isseren is hiding amongst the corpses of her fellow slaves. She can't see his face through the dust and smoke, but as her future patron reaches down to start sorting through the bodies, she thrusts out a tiny, grubby hand to him. He draws back, startled by the sudden movement, then takes her hand gently and pulls her up onto his horse -

- and she was awake, staring up at the roof of her tiny room.

Isseren sat up in her bed and stretched her arms, blinking away the last remnants of her dream. Her apartment was filled with a perfect silence; the simple illusion she'd wrought to muffle the sounds of the Inner Seas' largest commercial hub rested on the windowsill, giving off a soft white glow. Other than that, the room was dark. Everything, in the pre-dawn cold, was still. There was nothing to do but think.

That dream had been with her ever since she'd taken her patron's hand for the first time. Lately, though, she'd spent whole weeks without dreaming it, which troubled her just a little. Unpleasant though it was, it was the last real memory she had of her parents, and besides, it was always good to reflect on the scale of the debt she owed to Lord Amyntas.

He'd ridden out with his men and butchered the bandits. He'd given the young urchin he'd brought back from the raid over to his men to train her in the arts of sneaking and spellcraft, moulding her to be fit for purpose, for which she was eternally grateful. As her patron, he paid for her apartment and saw to it that she didn't starve. All he demanded in return was her loyalty, and how could she refuse? She owed everything to Amyntas, everything to her lord.

----

There was a washing tub opposite her bed � a luxury most of the tenement-dwellers could not afford � but today, she did not use it, going instead to the vast wardrobe that took up half of her tiny apartment. None of the fashionable dresses, wigs, or make-up today; today, a threadbare sleeveless dress, a belt, and a pair of sandals.

Isseren appraised herself in the wardrobe's outsize mirror, a useful gift from her master. She was confronted with a skinny, poorly-groomed, tired-looking girl, with cheap clothes and close-cropped black hair. Someone's slave girl, out on an errand for her master � which was not far from the truth, anyway. It would even go some way towards explaining last night's bruises.

A master's mark carefully-painted on her shoulder completed the image. Isseren glanced out the window. Not much of the skyline was visible, but what little she could see was clear and cloudless. A good day, poo poo. No cloak. She'd need to get creative with hiding her knife.

Outside her apartment, the tenement block was empty, but not quiet. Carts rumbled on the streets outside, dogs barked madly at the coming dawn. Somewhere, a baby was crying.

Isseren locked her door � another luxury most of the other tenement-dwellers didn't have, although a determined thief could probably just kick down the door anyway. The other residents generally minded their own business, but it didn't pay to encourage snooping.

She could feel her knife scraping against her thigh as she descended five flights of narrow, creaking stairs. Dangerous to strap a naked blade so close to the skin, she knew, but not half as dangerous as someone like her wandering the streets of Kaiapha unarmed. Slaves were banned from carrying arms in the city, but no-one was likely to bother frisking a malnourished girl for concealed weapons.

Some of the more up-market tenement blocks could afford to hire someone to guard the door. Isseren's was not one of them. She entered the lobby to find the front door smashed in and Nysa the maid sweeping broken glass and potsherds off the floor. The wine shop had been ransacked, again.

e: forgot to add word count, because I am an idiot.

# ? Mar 9, 2013 09:27

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

Here's mine for the week.

1st scene of the 14th Chapter of a whalepunk novel in progress. Viewpoint character is a deaf-mute. There are supposed to be italics.

***

Cleavage. Milk-white and threaded with feint purple veins, nestled in the fur-lined roost of a whalebone corset. She was seated on a stool, leaning over his bed. Talking to him for some reason. Garret pretended to sleep as he read her plump lips through slitted eyes.

It's disgusting, she was saying. A grown man sleeping in a derelict tower like a little boy playing runaway. You aren't a child anymore, Garret Bryce. You have responsibilities. I don't care how traumatized you are, letting our House collapse all around you is unforgivable. You won't get an ounce of sympathy from me. Not one single-

Garret let his eyes close completely. She would go away if he waited long enough. He waited. He might have even dozed. When he opened his eyes again her lips were still moving.

-ing like a sodding Silver. Just look at this filth! Are those bird droppings on your bedspread? No one is going to take care of you, Garret, not when you keep driving them off. Scaring away the cleaning people I send over, for all love! They already believe the Keep is haunted without any encouragement from you. And those ministry friends of yours are unacceptable! I just saw one of them sunning himself naked on the roof of a servant's house!

The Duchess Evelyn shook her head. The motion caused her dark braid to sway across her bosom like a mountaineer's rope. She sighed, turning to stare out of the tower's arrow slit window.

She was quite beautiful when she wasn't talking, Garret thought. In her late thirties, large dark eyes, and dark hair that lightened to chestnut at the nape of her neck. Face powdered to a snowy perfect whiteness, save for the rouge on her cheeks and the light blue lipstick she wore. Whalebone earrings dangled from each ear, and on her fingers there were rings of woven baleen, bone, and silver. No dark metal. Her corset was worn on the outside of her sky blue dress as was the current fashion, white leather studded with thumb-sized scrimshaw ornaments depicting various sea creatures.

After a while she said, Are you punishing yourself still? You were nine. There was nothing you could have done. She returned to the stool by the bedside and sat, looking directly at him. Garret tensed, trying to control his breathing.

A single word from you and all that has been lost would be returned. They would come, she said. They have faith in you. You're his son.

But me? I have to fight tooth and nail just to get the simplest bill approved. Half the council in Brill refuses to acknowledge my position. The other Houses wriggle out of ironclad contracts because they know I don't have the support to bargain with them.

You want to live your life like it's an opera house tragedy, that's your business. But there are people suffering because of you, Garret Bryce, and the rest of us are tired of waiting. Either man up or die already. And I know you're awake so you can stop pretending.

Garret propped himself up on his elbows. The Duchess took a scroll tube from her purse and tossed it onto his lap. Garret lifted an eyebrow.

A proclamation, Evelyn said. I'll read it before the Court tomorrow. Increases tariffs on Corinall goods shipped via the Ambersign railway.

Garret watched her tongue bounce and flick between her teeth, fascinated but growing increasingly nauseous. Evelyn knew he hated to talk this way. Which is why she did it, he supposed.

Garret made his lips form a word. Why?

What does it matter to you?

Garret shrugged and lay back down, pulling the blanket over his head.

There was a sudden draft as Evelyn flung the blanket back. Garret realized he was only wearing a thin nightshirt, and there was little it could hide.

Evelyn appraised his discomfort with a thin smile. House Corinall doubled the cost of a single berth on all their ships. It's making travel difficult for those of our people who are monetarily...less endowed. The tariffs will send the message that we won't simply lie back and allow them to molest us...we can do it to them as well. But it can only happen with the Aureate's signature.

The Aureate is dead, Garret mouthed.

Oh stop it. You may not accept your rightful place, but the legality of the matter is settled. You may have appointed me, but in the eyes of the Court I am nothing. Do you want me to beg, Garret? She leaned forwards, eyes sincere and pleading; her cleavage jounced, an avalanche held back by a few leather clasps, an impending, rolling destruction from which he could not avert his gaze.

Evelyn seemed slightly surprised by focal point of his attention. Is that what you want?

Garret tried to shake his head but he was frozen in place. The mattress sunk deeper as Evelyn climbed in with him.

Do you want me to earn it, Aureate? Because I will. Her glossy lips moved, mere inches from his face, and her breathe smelled like whatever she'd had for breakfast. Coffee? Sweet bread? Nuts? Garret realized he could see the saliva on her teeth, a shining liquid transparency. His chest constricted; his stomach churned.

What would I have to do for your golden signature? she asked.

Get out, Garret mouthed.

Evelyn shook her head, put her leg over his, smooth, warm, gliding across his knee. You know, the Bryce family line does not have to end with you, Garret. You do not have to be the last. And it would be so...simple. I'll do all the work.

She ran her lacquered fingernails through the hair on his chest. This did not go white with the rest I see. What about...

Garret pushed her roughly out of the bed, gathering the covers and drawing them tightly around himself as he searched for the scroll tube. He found it and mouthed, Pen.

Smiling, Evelyn pulled herself off the floor and produced one from...somewhere. Garret shook the scroll out of the tube and unrolled, quickly glancing over the document to make certain it was only a proclamation and not another of Evelyn's schemes. Satisfied, he signed, and hurled the pen and scroll back to her.

Evelyn knelt down to retrieve them, balancing on her heels like a tightrope walker, the corset keeping back perfectly straight. Garret tried not to watch. Tried.

Swaying, precise steps took her to the doorway, where she paused to glance over her shoulder, a small smile curling her lips. She said, Until next time, cousin.

When she was gone, Garret lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting silently to himself. At one hundred, he tore out of bed and ran to the window. Servants were helping Evelyn into her carriage. The carriage pulled away.

Garret scrambled down the tower stairs and burst onto the path, bare feet slapping against the flagstones. He ran for the nearest servant's building and kicked the door open. Stumbled through darkened living corridors draped in cobwebs and smashed his shin against a fallen armoire and and went sprawling into a moth-eaten collection of House Bryce livery. Crawled on his hands and knees like a dog towards the bathroom where a copper tub so verdigrised it

***
And sorry, that's the stopping point.

# ? Mar 11, 2013 01:12

Dr. Kloctopussy: Apr 22, 2003

2000 word very rough draft for Thunderdome....

Detective Bower's train of thought, if it could be called that, was interrupted by a sudden silence. It took her a moment to realize that the recirculation fan in the corner of the room, which had been loudly shuddering in its frame all week, had finally given up the ghost. Bower kicked the malfunctioning fan. Then she kicked it again. And again, until it finally broke loose and clattered to the floor. She took a few shivering breaths until she calmed down. She went to her desk, opened the drawer, and removed a sealed envelope. She carefully undid the seal, pulled out the maintenance request form to fix the fan, and replaced it with a request for replacement, and put it back in her drawer to mail later. She propped open a window. It would be even colder in the office, if it was possible, but cold was better than dead. Air filtration, heating, electricity, all the vital systems of the Atlantis were slowly failing, left to rust, haphazardly repaired, surreptitiously repaired and rerouted by enterprising individuals, or maybe those who just wanted to stay alive. The space station was crumbling, and it was only a matter of time before everyone gave up on it and let it fall out of orbit and break up into flaming meteors. Ruth shook her head, what had she been thinking about again?

Oh right, Garrity. A fat, greasy, utterly disgusting merchant, dealing in pipes and fittings. He had arrived with a shipment of pipes and fittings to help repair the air filtration, circulation, and heat in the station, but a large portion of his merchandise had been stolen off the docks. According to the police press release, a group of Okhtors had been seen on the docks nearby, but Bower knew better than to think that actually meant anything. "Stolen materials further delay repairs; Okhtor involvement suspected" read the headlines. If it hadn't been the materials, it would have been something else, Bower grumbled to herself. The heating hadn't even worked right when she was a rookie. Anita down at the Farmer's Bureau had asked Bower to dig a little deeper, since the police investigation seemed to have trickled down to nothing. Bower liked working for Anita. She always paid.

Well, even if the Okhtors hadn't stolen the goods, they were likely to know something about it, both because they were the second most common species on Atlantis, and had networks throughout it's streets, and because they had been implicated by the police. They were surely conducting their own investigation. First step, then, was to meet up with her old buddy Dvinsk, though she used the term buddy pretty loosely. They'd had a few deals that hadn't managed to go too sour, and that was about as close as Bower came to having friends, with the possible exception of Alan.

Bower headed to Clicks�s place, the UFO bar. Apparently the visitors to the first orbital pleasure island had enjoyed their irony. The streets were dark and foggy. Fog in a goddamned glass-domed island; it was ridiculous. She walked under the flying saucer of fritzing neon. It didn�t look like anyone had redecorated, or dusted, since the bar had opened. She didn�t take off her coat or gloves when she went in. She noticed that none of the other patrons had either, though the compressed body heat did do some good, for those of the patrons who emitted it or were sensitive to cold.

Bower walked into the crowded bar and made straight for the bartender.

"What's up clicks?" she asked the Mantis alien behind the bar. A long time ago when she was a naive rookie cop, she had told the bartender she would like to call him by his real name. He had responded with an unreproducable series of clicks. Hence the nickname. The incident taught her an important lesson about trying to act like something she wasn't. Now she looked with a combination of humor, scorn, and pity on those innocents she saw attempting to enact, for example, an Okhtor elbow wave.

"Wanna beer?" Clicks asked through his voice box. "They're cold this time."
"Of course they're loving cold," Bower said, "everything is cold."
Clicks just clicked.
"How about a hot toddy?" Bower asked.
"What the hell is that?" Clicks rejoined.
"I don't know, I read it in a book. Anyway, as you so like to remind me, you're a bartender. Figure it out." She stalked to her usual table.

Dvinsk was already waiting for her. He stood up, towering a good three feet above her, and gave the fluid, upward elbow wave of the Okhtors. She eyed the pulsating green transmitter in is ear. Through the transmitters, all Okhtor were kept constantly informed of the fluctuating consensus of the Okhtor Council, a governing body formally made up of all Okhtors on the station, and elsewhere when decisions necessitated it. Much of the voting was done by proxy, however, so that some Okhtors could actually do something other than vote on proposals. Still all Okhtors were bound by the consensus, and disobeying had serious social, political, and possibly physical repercussions. Many Okhtors couldn't even seem to conceive of acting outside of consensus, though Bower had reason to doubt that Dvinsk was quite so strict as that.

"You are known, Detective," he said in the ritualistic greeting of the Okhtor. Bower felt a wave of relief wash over her. Another Ohktor had explained to her that if you were known to the Ohktor Council, it meant that there were consequences for harming you, something which she was concerned about given recent events and her current mission tonight.

She punched him in the arm as hard as she could, cop style. No chance of hurting an eight foot blue bear. Dvinsk grabbed her wrist and flipped her over the table. She had been expecting something like this, since it was how Dvinsk normally greeted her. He always won their sparring matches. They wrestled for a bit before he pinned her in a choke hold. She capitulantly tapped his arm, but he didn't relent. The other patrons were pointedly looking away, adamantly not interested in watching the only human in the bar get choked out.

"God drat it, Dvinsk, you win, I'm tapping, I'm loving tapping!" He gave her a look that could have been sad, if she could have read emotions in his otter-like face.

�You should not have gone back to the police, Detective,� he said. �The Okhtor council will not allow you to betray us.� And then quietly, too quietyly for the transmitter to pick up, �You disappointed me.�

�What are you talking about?� Bower spat. She quit tapping and curled in her knees to drive a solid kick straight into the sensitive reproduction nodules in a ring on the Okhtor's belly. It was a low blow, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Alright, that's enough." Her assistant Alan appeared behind Dvinsk, the whine of his taser gun powering up seeping meaningfully through the noise of the bar.

Dvinsk gave a hearty, if not entirely sincere laugh, and released her.

"Ho ho, Detective," he said. "It isn't like you to cheat."

"gently caress you," Bower rejoined, sucking for air. "Dvinsk, this is Alan, my assistant. Alan, this is Dvinsk." Alan still held the laser pointed at Dvinsk. "You can put the gun away, I think we're okay for now." Alan nodded and scooted into the booth.

"So, an assistant, eh? Could it be that the Detective has finally found someone she trusts?" Dvinsk wiggled his little otter ears meaningfully.

"Stop being ridiculous, Dvinsk," she said with a sour frown. "What the hell are you playing at anyway? I thought if I was known there were consequences for beating up on me."

Dvinsk flattened his ears modestly. "Maybe you know less than you think?" It occurred to her that consequences didn't have to be negative. In any case, it seemed like the danger was over and it was time to get down to business.

Bower was saved from having to control her reaction because at that moment a waitress appeared with a tray of steaming drinks. "Hot Toddys all around," she quipped cheerily. Bower eyed the drinks warily. There was no way Click's electricity allowance afforded him the ability of an electric heater. There must be an unlicensed open fire burning in the back somewhere. She shushed her old cop voice and reached for one of the steaming drinks.

"I�m investigating the stolen parts to the filtration system" she started in.

�We know.�

�Well, do you know anything about it?�
�Why are you working for the police again?� Dvinsk asked.
�Are you loving kidding me?� Bower exploded, �First you get me fired from the force, now you insist that I�m working for them?! Give me a break.�
�The police say Okhtor�s stole something. You are here, asking for a confession, no? Perhaps you think to take advantage of our past dealings. We do not appreciate it.�

�I�m not working for the police, I�m working for Farmer�s Bureau�informally of course.�
�Hmmm,� Dvinsk tipped his head back and pretended to be thinking, but Bower knew he was listening to the transmitter, waiting for this new fact to be discussed, debated, assimilated, acted upon. She patiently nursed her drink and impatiently kicked Alan in the shins whenever he started to open his mouth. Now was the time to let the process work, not to make small talk.

�Farmer�s Bureau is known to us,� he finally said. �They do not serve the police.�

�Hell no,� Bower agreed, �they serve themselves.� She waited.

�We don�t know anything about stolen parts.� Dvinsk�s tone remained even, but Bower knew Dvinsk well enough to pick up the tiniest stress on the word stolen.

�Do you know anything about missing parts?�
�No.�
�Parts in general?!� she said in exasperation.
�We purchased a shipment of parts from Garrity last week. He said the original customer refused to buy the entire original order, and he would give us a good deal.�
�Did he?�
�No, the parts are terrible, sub par, half-broken, made of inferior materials.�
Bower grunted.
�Huh, so he reports them stolen, and tries to get money from you and the insurance.�
�Exactly, and the police, well you know they don�t mind an opportunity to blame us for anything.� Dvinsk said, nodding.
�But he forgot about Farmer�s,� Ruth said. �They aren�t willing to look the other way when it comes to their money.�
"Humans always do feel the most clever when they are at their stupidest," said Dvinsk.
"Is that really unique to humans?" Ruth rejoined.

The waitress brought another round of hot drinks. Ruth took hers and felt it's comforting warmth against her stiff, cold, hand, and held it up in a toast.

"To old friends," she said, only a little sarcastically.
"To fairness," Dvinsk rejoined.
"To practicality," Alan chimed in under his breath.

They all drank. It tasted of rotting gasoline, if gasoline could rot, but it was hot.

"You'd think the police would be more interested in investigating something stolen from AtlantisCorp," Alan said thoughtfully. Bower rolled her eyes and Dvinsk shrugged.

The big blue alien turned to Alan, "You are known, Alan Grey," he said solemnly. Great, Ruth thought to herself, just what we need. More scrutiny from the Okhtor Council.
"Be well," he said to Ruth, with what might have been a smile.
"You're the only one who's tried to kill me tonight," she said.
"It's still early," he said, and the grin now spread from ear to ear.

Ruth huffed and pulled her drab olive great coat tighter at the collar. Her and Alan set off into the cold night, a dome of stars looking down at them through the dome of glass. If they wanted to stop Garrity, they had to hurry. If he left the orbital station, he would be out of jurisdiction of the police, though probably not the insurance company. And with the way things were going, he'd probably have no reason to ever come back.

# ? Mar 11, 2013 07:16

bearbaiter: May 30, 2011

I, bearbaiter, pledge to write 10,000 words during the month of March.

Maybe 2 or 3 of them will be good words! none of them will be good

# ? Mar 11, 2013 08:24

Meis: Sep 2, 2011; Even if I decide to kill someone, I'll make sure it isn't you!

I, Meis, pledge to write at least 250 words a day during the month of March.

New tactic I'm trying, do a little bit every day! Maybe I'll actually make progress if I keep track of this stuff.

# ? Mar 11, 2013 10:31

Meis: Sep 2, 2011; Even if I decide to kill someone, I'll make sure it isn't you!

Off to a good start. Decided to start writing a story I've had in my head for the past 3-4 years. Pumped out 333 words, which I will post here for posterity.

quote:

Tsuni, remembering the little game her younger sister liked to play, was identifying the crimes committed by the various metro passengers. The man in the business suit? Embezzlement, or fraud. The sweet-looking, short girl with the dyed hair and adorable hat? Arson. The cute ones are always arsonists. The vaguely thuggish looking dark-skinned guy? Probably grievous bodily harm- oh wait, that�s racial profiling. You know what? Maybe this guy was guilty of Embezzlement. Nobody suspected that beneath that roguish exterior lay a shrewd and morally corrupt business mind. The guy in the business suit was the violent one, it turns out. He was discovered cheating by his wife, and had to silence her. Tsuni smiled to herself. She�d have to remember that one, should her sister bring the subject of the �everyone-in-this-carriage-is-a-criminal� game up again. The thuggish guy was giving her a weird look. He probably thought she was smiling at him. She cleared her throat and turned away, feeling her cheeks burn slightly. It occurred to her it wasn�t really racial profiling anyway, it was just judging him based on his outfit, which is totally OK because it�s just regular profiling.

Her gaze moved to the window briefly, out at the ruins of the ancient underground city that the Janestown Metro was built in. It was only for a moment, and then she returned to focussing on some mundane object within the carriage. The view out the window did not interest her. Nobody was interested in those ruins. Even when they were discovered, back when the metro system was first built, there had been no news report on it. Nobody in Janestown even acknowledged the ruins existence in conversation. Somebody who had never travelled down there wouldn�t even know the ruins existed. And when they discovered them, they wouldn�t care. This is how it had always been. Tsuni didn�t think that was odd that this was the case, simply because she never really thought about it. That�s just the way it was.

So looking at this, I need to get into the habbit of spacing stuff properly, like in Klocktopussy's post. Thing is I never know where to seperate the paragraphs. Any hot tips?

# ? Mar 11, 2013 18:09

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

I don't have anything to post because I suck too so I'll do some quick crits instead and pretend I'm not entirely useless.

Also: I know these are all rough drafts that will be revised later if they're not just one-offs, but even so, there are things to keep in mind for editing and/or future notice.

Muffin

quote:

It was necessary -certainly- but it lacked class.

quote:

His soft son was an easy target, though, and here was the big man himself shouting 'pull!'

That had been little over a month ago, but the laughter...

Not pretty things, but they never needed to be.

The others could slide I GUESS but those read awkwardly without commas. Lacking the commas would give more of a rambling or perhaps panicked feel, which can work sometimes but not here.

The Sin of Onan

Opening with a strangely detailed dream for exposition? Check.
Pathos via tragic backstory? Check.
Character description via self-study in mirror? Check.
Somewhere a dog barked? Check.

These aren't bad, necessarily; the mirror bit made sense for Isseren to be checking to make sure she's dressed right, for instance. However, they are very pervasive fantasy cliches. Especially that dream. Even if it is important information, it's best not to do it in such an obvious infodump.

Your writing is good aside from excess hyphens (you don't need to make a compound phrase out of "carefully painted"), but beware the cliches. This may be useful to you.

BananaNutkins

What the hell is "whalepunk," why is the first word "cleavage," why are you (I'm assuming) putting dialogue in italics, why do you expect me to read it if you didn't bother to format it, and how do these characters both lip-read so flawlessly he might as well not be deaf or mute? Even if the italicized (I assume) dialogue is lip-reading, the characters are still obviously talking, regardless of whether Garret can hear them.

Despite my tone here, I like your writing style and I'd gladly read more of it with italics in place (or, better yet, quotation marks), but that bugs me, boy. It bugs me.

Dr. Kloctopussy

Comparing this and the version you posted in Thunderdome, I agree with Oxxidation's assessment. Wouldn't mind seeing the prose tightened up some more to see where the story goes, but as it is, it's just a prelude.

Meis

Separate paragraphs where a new thought starts. For example, here I'd break it up at "morally corrupt business mind. / The guy in the business suit" because she's going from a tangent on the thuggish guy to someone else. It's a bit hard to say here, though, because it needs to be tightened up a lot. Some tense conflict of using "is" when most of it's "was." The ruins are interesting and you have a nice setup that they'll be important, but you spend a long paragraph hammering the point into the ground with redundant sentences. Consolidate as much as possible in editing.

# ? Mar 12, 2013 06:37

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

Echo Cian posted:

BananaNutkins

What the hell is "whalepunk," why is the first word "cleavage," why are you (I'm assuming) putting dialogue in italics, why do you expect me to read it if you didn't bother to format it, and how do these characters both lip-read so flawlessly he might as well not be deaf or mute? Even if the italicized (I assume) dialogue is lip-reading, the characters are still obviously talking, regardless of whether Garret can hear them.

Despite my tone here, I like your writing style and I'd gladly read more of it with italics in place (or, better yet, quotation marks), but that bugs me, boy. It bugs me.

Thanks for the crit.

Couldn't add italics because I was posting on my phone. I use them for lip-reading rather than quotes whenever Garret is the POV mainly to be off-putting and to remind you he's deaf.

This is the first time there's been a long sequence where Garret reads lips (before its always been short three word lines or so) and one of my difficulties with this draft is definitely that Garret reads her lips too perfectly. I'd like to throw in some errors or more omitted words in the next draft.
Garret's been established as sort of a Sherlock-ish hyper-observant character, but this is taking it a bit far.

# ? Mar 12, 2013 11:48

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

I italicize on my phone.

(And it's a pain in the neck, so fair enough.)

Having him get stuff wrong would be interesting to read. Might make for some fun plot-related misunderstandings down the line, too.

2060 words makes up for missing the last few days. I think. Takes place before the Google Docs I linked. I seem to be writing this whole sequence backwards. This one's from Victor's perspective, like the first one I posted in the thread, to be clear. The others have Makiel as viewpoint.

quote:

My hopes of a good night's sleep in a decent bed were dashed the moment we cleared the forest. Two guards lay unmoving at the gates. Another draped over the wall like he'd dozed off on patrol. Smoke billowed from somewhere inside, but there was no sound of an alarm.

I hesitated, but Makiel urged his horse forward. "Weapons still sheathed," he reported. "No signs of a struggle." He looked up at the dangling guardsman for a long moment, then turned back to the gate that stood partially open. He didn't even try to call for assistance. Just waited for me to join him and rode through. I followed, swallowing against a dry mouth.

It had been a massacre without bloodshed. Men, women, dogs and even chickens lay sprawled on porches and in the streets as though they'd all simply laid down at once. The only sounds to break the silence were our horses' hoofbeats and the dull roar of the fire we'd seen from outside, a house slowly going up in flames. No prints on the road to indicate anyone had been through since the people had fallen. No breath of life save the four of us standing in dumbstruck silence in the middle of the street.

"How?" I whispered. My voice felt raw in the quiet.

Makiel swung from the saddle and knelt beside the nearest body. It was a young man wearing a blacksmith's apron. Makiel placed his hand on the boy's neck and recoiled, clamping the hand under his arm with a startled hiss.

I knew what that meant by now. "Cultists."

"drat them all to the Brother's pits," he growled. He took a breath and reached out again. This time he endured whatever resonant shock he'd first felt and made a quick examination, then pressed his hands to the earth. His brow furrowed. His fingers twitched, then convulsed into fists as he let out a rasping hiss through clenched teeth.

When he finally stood, the look in his eye could have split granite. "I can't break this on my own. It wasn't even a ritual. It just..." He drew a ragged breath. "We're leaving. Now." He swung up into the saddle.

I looked around the devastated town helplessly. It felt wrong to leave them here. "But-"

"We can't do anything, Victor!" he snapped, and I finally heard the hitch in his voice. His horse snorted and shuffled anxiously under his tension on the reins. "I can't do anything and neither can you! We were too late. Again!" His voice cracked and he sent his horse galloping for the far gate.

I was left no choice but to pelt after him. My mind reeled. I desperately wanted to stay, to bury them, to at least offer last rites - but even the two of us together couldn't bury an entire village. I gave my mare rein to follow Makiel's mount, closed my eyes and mouthed a silent prayer. May Lozus carry their memory, and cherish their innocence until this darkness is vanquished.

And poor Makiel! I didn't blame his haste to escape the town. His duty was to protect people from this magic, and he'd failed again. Never mind that we had no way to know this was happening, no reason to investigate the aether thoroughly enough to find it; that failure would torment him until he found the culprits. I wasn't eager to face another bloodbath - but with that image seared into my mind, I didn't think I could stop him, either.

And there lay the crux. I was sworn not to inflict violence on humans, but could people who would murder an entire village truly be called human? Such disregard for life, such cruelty was utterly inhuman - legacy of the darkness, Chanta's corruption on our souls gone rampant. Yet was it my place as a priest of Lozus and a Cleanser of the shade to pass my own judgment on those souls fallen too far? Or would I simply be giving in to the very same base desires, using the name of the light to justify my own darkness? If I simply stood aside and let Makiel take out his rage, would I be any less complicit in the act?

Morality was so much simpler for an Elementist.

We rode hard for perhaps two miles before Makiel reined back to a reasonable pace. His silence was a protective wall between us. If he didn't want to share his thoughts, then I probably didn't want to know them. With our slowed pace, my thoughts circled from moral conundrums back to the source. An entire town of lost lives, human and animal alike. Parents and children. The boy in the smith's apron must have been an apprentice. Where had he been going, off to work or running an errand, maybe meeting a girlfriend? What was it he wanted to create? So much vitality and human potential, gone. And for what? It wasn't even a ritual, Mak had said. Just...death. For nothing. I felt sick.

Makiel finally broke the silence and brought me out of my thoughts just as I was starting to wonder if I'd have to stop to make a trip into the bushes. "Whenever we meet those bastards, don't stand in my way."

The smith apprentice's lifeless face continued to stare back at me. And in Makiel's words, I finally reached an answer to my dilemma:

Whatever actions I took, I would never harm another for no reason.

I took a centering breath and managed a thin, humorless smile. "You'll have to beat me to them."

Makiel glanced back at me in surprise. He opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say cut off with a burst of vibration somewhere below hearing. The horses skidded to halts and tossed their heads, neighing alarm. Makiel covered his ears with an inchoate shout. I clung to my mare's neck and tried to keep her from throwing me.

I saw movement at the side of the road. "Mak!" It would be too late-

His sword whipped out faster than I thought possible. He cruelly jerked the gelding's head around and steel clanged off steel as he countered and riposted. I wasn't sure how he managed to stay in the saddle, but his attacker fell with a hole in his throat and Makiel charged the next two who'd emerged from cover with a cry of rage.

I got the mare under control in time to pull her away from another pair of swordsmen. I was out of time to question my new resolve. I pulled my staff from its holster and held it between us. They paused at that, clearly wondering what a priest intended to do to them. I gritted my teeth and swung it. The concussive blast knocked one off his feet and made the other stagger. I drove the mare back in and cracked my staff into his skull with all my strength. He dropped in a heap on top of his flailing partner and I winced at the wrench in my wrist and shoulder.

I checked on Makiel and found him fighting his gelding to hold his ground. These horses weren't trained for fighting. The first two lay in heaps on the ground, and now he squared off against a man with a spear. Makiel had his back to me with his assailant facing him - and, by extension, me. I raised my staff and flooded the focus. The man yelped and recoiled from the brilliant light; Makiel found his opening and dropped the man to join the other three.

He doubled back to me and the two men I'd taken. "We were expected. They've got us surrounded and I'd expect a roadblock ahead. Shall we make a detour?"

I held my staff at an angle that would let me blast the fallen swordsman again if I had to. "Do we have a choice?"

Another vibration upset the horses and made Makiel cringe. "No," he grunted, and whirled the gelding northward. "Come on!"

Someone jumped out of the way as we broke from the road. I realized once we were in the woods that he'd spotted a thin trail to follow. "They've got a singer there," he called back to me. "I'm not about to mess with that kind of power after what we saw at Barrow."

The anger was still in his voice, and with it, the pain. He hated being helpless. And if he was helpless against this, running was our only option. "Why north?" I shouted over the rush of air and pounding hooves.

"I'm hoping they won't expect it. We were bound for Patton, after all."

Patton. I swore under my breath, unthinking, and heard Makiel snort with a suppressed laugh. I wished I had something to throw at him. "You're a terrible influence."

"Certainly, blame the bard for foul language."

After a moment, I had to laugh, too. Ridiculous, to laugh at a time like this - but it was better than screaming. "If I just list the rest of the things that could go wrong now, would it stop them from happening?"

"Drake's teeth, Vic, don't say that! Don't discuss it, don't hint at it, don't even think it."

Patton was going to have to deal with its own problems. The singer's spell followed us. It grew fainter, but we couldn't escape it. They must have their own horses. We rode until the forest thinned and the Stormcrowns loomed above us, dark peaks against a darkening sky. The air cooled from chilly to frigid.

It was in the thinner forest, with our horses flagging after a long day of hard riding, that our pursuers caught up to us. Makiel reversed to fight off the first man, but more took his place. My staff was a distraction at best against human opponents. Makiel fought us an opening and we shot north again. I was tiring, as were our horses. Makiel wouldn't show his exhaustion until he was ready to collapse, but his sword arm sagged. He led the way into the mountains and hoped they would give up in harder terrain.

They showed no intention to - until the snowstorm blew up.

One moment, a light early spring snowfall; the next, a gust of wind turned into a howling gale and the world went white. Shouts from the Auralicists told us they'd been caught just as unprepared. "Just a bit more," Makiel called. "We can use this to head east and lose them."

But they persisted. I couldn't fathom what drove them. Were they simply so fanatical that they couldn't bear to let an Elementist get past them? Was it personal? There was no telling what skeletons Makiel had in his closet. This was a fine time for one come back to life. The snow piled up quickly, fouling the horses' footing. I tried lighting the way with my staff, but it was a beacon to our pursuers, and they were fresher than us. They overtook us again.

This time Makiel dismounted to fight. The snow made my staff's light even more blinding. We held our ground at first, but they hadn't been running and fighting for hours on end. The clash of swords began to lag. Makiel lost his footing and went to his knees. He desperately fended off one blow, but he wouldn't make the next - so I dove in and blocked it with my staff.

I tried to, at least. The sword tore through my coat and shirt and sliced across my ribs. Makiel found his footing and flung me away with a shout, caught the swordsman in a bind and kicked his legs out from under him. His finishing blow was more of a fall driving his sword in than a stab. I was too tired to even be disgusted.

Before we knew it we'd run out of enemies. This had been a group of outriders. I dragged myself back into the saddle and turned to Makiel, to see that his gelding had run off during the fight, when the last vibration struck.

Something was off. Makiel screamed and collapsed in the snow. The mare bucked and threw me from her saddle. I had time to feel the world seem to split for a bare instant - then all feeling fled.

# ? Mar 13, 2013 08:01

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

Echo Cian posted:

The Sin of Onan

Opening with a strangely detailed dream for exposition? Check.
Pathos via tragic backstory? Check.
Character description via self-study in mirror? Check.
Somewhere a dog barked? Check.

These aren't bad, necessarily; the mirror bit made sense for Isseren to be checking to make sure she's dressed right, for instance. However, they are very pervasive fantasy cliches. Especially that dream. Even if it is important information, it's best not to do it in such an obvious infodump.

Your writing is good aside from excess hyphens (you don't need to make a compound phrase out of "carefully painted"), but beware the cliches. This may be useful to you.

Wow, my first internet critique!

Thanks for the link, this is all good stuff and it's going straight into my bookmarks. Isseren's dream is supposed to serve a purpose beyond just exposition, but I'm not sure if this is the right place to talk about that. Good spotting on "carefully-painted"! In retrospect, I've no idea why I put that hyphen there.

Thank you very much!

# ? Mar 13, 2013 10:57

Meis: Sep 2, 2011; Even if I decide to kill someone, I'll make sure it isn't you!

Echo Cian posted:

Meis

Separate paragraphs where a new thought starts. For example, here I'd break it up at "morally corrupt business mind. / The guy in the business suit" because she's going from a tangent on the thuggish guy to someone else. It's a bit hard to say here, though, because it needs to be tightened up a lot. Some tense conflict of using "is" when most of it's "was." The ruins are interesting and you have a nice setup that they'll be important, but you spend a long paragraph hammering the point into the ground with redundant sentences. Consolidate as much as possible in editing.

Thanks! I'll keep this all in mind as I go ahead. I tend to ramble in initial drafts, getting good at consolidating stuff to remove redundancies is high on my priority list.

Neglected to write ANYTHING yesterday or the day before. To make up for it, I will do 750 words today, or 500 today and 500 tomorrow.

# ? Mar 14, 2013 12:08

SurreptitiousMuffin: Mar 21, 2010; ... all the pronouns

I continue to be poo poo at writing ~~fantasy~~. 1700ish. Counting it as 1000 for the week.

quote:

Chapter 3

The clouds over Sholes had a pleasant, bruised fullness, lending weight to the sky. Another storm was coming in off the sea and from the crick in Mikka's left arm, it was going to be a mean one. The market was packed to bursting; merchants, animals and refugees- always more refugees. The streets reeked of spices, poo poo and salt-sea air while fat flies buzzed lazily over living and dead meat alike. She made a careful note as she passed the Crab Gate; two guards, local boys, bored and making passes at any woman with the misfortune to meet their eye. Not that they'd give Mikka a second look: a giant woman with a bear's chest and thick gut, missing one eye and who knows how many teeth. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that covered her face and a thick coat despite the heat- not from shame but to at least play at subterfuge. If Flynn wanted to meet her in the Eminent Plaza on market day in broad daylight, she would at least do it on some of her terms.

She loomed through the streets and the crowd parted around her, everybody very carefully looking somewhere else. A brave vendor tried to grab her coat. "Lovely day, Sir. I got chicken-" he started, before one hard, blue eye shot to a pinprick and to his credit, he didn't jump back. "Chicken, M'am?" he squeaked. "No," she said. It sounded like a bullet hitting mail. "Thank you," she said, almost as an afterthought. The vendor fancied he'd pushed his luck enough and beat a smart retreat back to his stall, where a line was already forming, carefully weaving around the six-foot shadow in the middle of the road. She cleared her throat, spat and moved on.

Fial was waiting in a doorway, picking at his fingernails with a knife. He hadn't changed: tiny man, coffee-skin pocked with the scars of some disease he caught while 'exploring an exotic continent'. It's amazing how much exploring you can do with enough gold and a soft bed. He leered when the shadow fell over him, them immediately tried to take it back. A mix of horror and wonder fought across his face and it took him several seconds to bring his tongue back under control. "I heard you died in a cell," he said. It came out in one big spurt- same old Fial. "heard that a few times myself," she said. "Funny what people say. I'm on my way to see Flynn about a friend of ours, but on the highly unlikely chance that scumbag doesn't know his arse from his elbow, I've decided to ask around. Where's Des?"

"D-des? He skipped town weeks ago. Shacked up with some Order boys heading downriver. Deus Vult and all that," he said.

"That's it?"

"That's it," he said. "Woulda told you more if I could, Cap'n."

She made a move to leave, then noticed the little man chewing on his nails. He did that when he had a bad hand of cards.

"You sure?" she said. It was a quiet thing, almost kind. Fial tore some nail off with his teeth and spat it out.

"I'm sure. It's just, it's just - this is bad business. I'm no praying man but it don't feel right letting kin fight kin. You kill him, that's bad blood for six-"

"-seven-"

"-seven generations. Bad business. I say you find a fast ship and get the hell out of here. Nobody's going to follow you, not with the state of the sea these last few years. Get out of here and start over fresh. Des has poo poo for brains but he's a good man beneath it. Both of you deserve better," he said.

"That touches my heartstrings Fial, it really does. It's almost poetic, coming from you, but you're an awful poet,"

"Whatever you say m'am. One more thing,"

"hmm?"

"It's got to have you back in the land of the living,"

"Not the first time, Fial. Won't be the last," she said. By the creak in her bones, she knew the storm was almost overhead. "It was good to see you," she said. Fial nodded and went back to chewing his nails. Mikka didn't know what else to say, so she slipped off into the crowd, one shadow in an ever-growing mob.

***

Crossing the Bridge of Salt and Silt was like moving into a new world. The guard posted here wore white tunics, with a crimson sun printed over the heart. Why not a bullseye? Same end. Each one carried a rifle; shiney new breach-loaders when the men they turned away could barely afford shoes. They gave her a cursory stare-down while she fumbled in her pockets. "Papers?" said one. With her left hand shoved firmly in her pocket, she pulled out a few silver coins and slid them in the hand of the man with the most gold on his vest. He nodded sagely. "That checks out," he said.

"Sir?" said a younger one. He had the well-scrubbed look of a new recruit about him.

"Her papers check out," growled the officer. "Carry on, M'am. I'm sure you've business to attend to."

On this side of the river, the buildings were made of stone and the streets less crowded. The better class of merchant was busy putting covers up over his stall; they could smell rain better than any sailor. There was a sudden clopping of steel toes on cobblestones and Mikka ducked into an alley just in time for a squad of marble guards to thunder past, their faces completely concealed by white-stone angel masks. While most of the guards on this side of the river had an overfed look to them, these men were all muscle and the promise of violence. There was only so much coin in Mikka's purse. Only so much coin in the world, even.

A low rumble of thunder broke the sky, though Mikka had seen no lightning. Her arm ached and she felt a pressure building beneath her bones. The first drops of rain were light, invisible but for when they bounced up from the cobbles. More of a mist than a proper rain and the pain was still building. Break, drat you. Rain and get it over with.

The prim streets opened up into the market square. The carts were few and their pickings thin. Even the ivory-tower crowd were starting to feel isolation's bite. Flynn was leaning against a wall on the opposite side. He looked to be sidling, though he stayed perfectly still. Along with forgery, his one talent was to be in constant mid-sidle, trying to melt through the bricks. She stormed over to him, no patience for games. He saw her coming, nodded and ducked into a nearby alley. She followed, ears open to the sound of steel-toed boots.

Seeing Flynn again was like catching a cold you thought you'd beat. A big man with a small man's soul and a nose that had only been broken once or twice. He smiled when he saw her; more a showing of teeth than love.

"Tell me you've got something useful," she said.

Flynn frowned a little too much. "Not even a hello? Moon's turned six times since I last saw you, little bird. Why not a kiss for an old friend?"

He has too many teeth left. "Cut the crap. I've got gold, you've got information. You've already dragged me halfway across the city. I've got places I want to be," she said.

"and people to see," he said, "so I've heard. Such a pity when families fall apart."

"If I wanted a lecture, I'd ask for one. You want your money or not?"

"Already got it," he said. Her hand flew to her purse, still full and clanking. "What in the hell-" she began, as his fist drove into her stomach, sending her reeling back against the wall. Something broke and she shrieked with pain. A second fist made its way to her face but ducked aside and gave a little grin as she heard the crack of fingers against brick. He jumped back with a yelp and glared at her. All trace of mirth had vanished. "Why?" she asked, wheezing, desperately sucking back air. A rib, it's got to be a rib. "Sundogs offered more," he said. His right hand was limp at his side but his left had somehow found a dirk, which snaked back and forth. "They didn't specify what state, so I'd like it if you came quiet."

Sweet Green Lady, is there anyone left who isn't a drat traitor? She tried to dart back but a bolt of rain shot up her side and she stumbled. Flynn was on her, stabbing wildly at her belly, her chest and throat. She had a slight size advantage but he had a weapon and that trumps nine times out of ten. She threw her head back, took as deep a breath as she dared, then slammed it straight onto the bridge of his nose. She was rewarded with a nasty, meaty snap and the man fell back, screaming. A quick punch to the throat put end to that, though the man still squirmed in pain, each breath rattling his body.

She struggled to her feet. The cobblestones were slick with water, though the rain still barely registered. The pain in her arm almost pushed out the pain in her ribs. Little men with picks were breaking it open from the inside out. Steel toes on cobbles, as if from a distance. Her head was spinning, her cloak was heavy. She cast it off, took one deep, pained breath and began to run.

***

Every step caused a jolt of pain down her side but Mikka dared not stop running. Despite the rain-slick cobbles, she kept a healthy pace, eyes and nose open for the river. In the stinking summer heat, it was practically a bath- though you'd be safer to swim in it than drink it. Over the river was Lornside, where even a giant could get lost in the crowd. This place was too clean, too bright and open. A guard appeared on the roof overhead and took a shot at her, kicking up mortar and slivers of stone. She cursed and skidded to a stop, her bones screaming at her. The man was struggling with his gun, trying to reload without getting the powder wet. Another face appeared. It shouted when it saw her and raised its gun but she was already gone, darted off into an alleyway.

There was another guard there, smoking a cigarette. His eyes went wide and his hands flew to his gun, resting against a doorpost. The pain in Mikka's arm swelled in a crescendo, peaked and flared out. Here comes the rain. Then the world turned into water- a new sea appeared from above, almost knocking the pair of them flat. She curled her fingers and darted sideways just as the man brought his weapon around. Ducking inside its barrel, she twisted her torso around and slammed an open palm against the man's jaw, the weight of the blow lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the alley wall. His skull gave a mighty crack and he slumped to the ground, the cigarette still clasped firmly between his lips as the light went out in his eyes. poo poo.

While her mind went to the man's family, her feet had no such issue; grabbing the rest of her and dragging her off again through the streets. Lightning, then thunder; drums and the fire of war in heaven. She was soaked, though it was a familiar, comforting feeling. You don't become a sailor if you're scared of getting a little wet. Suddenly, the buildings fell away and the river lay before her. Her heart sang but her feet cursed as she went skidding over the edge and hit the water sideways. There was another crack and she tasted blood. A wave of nausea hit her. She tried to shake it off and kicked towards the surface. She saw faces over the water, welcoming hands coming down to pull her to safety. It was only as she broke the surface that the features resolved into a white-stone angel mask and she found herself slammed against the cobbled. The last thing she saw as the darkness took her was a gathering crowd over the river and not one familiar face. Not one.

Word counts updated. EchoCian is roughly on track, everybody else needs to put the boot in.

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at Mar 17, 2013 around 10:31

# ? Mar 17, 2013 10:23

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

I continue to be poo poo at writing ~~fantasy~~. 1700ish. Counting it as 1000 for the week.

Word counts updated. EchoCian is roughly on track, everybody else needs to put the boot in.

Actually, I finished another 3600 or so for my contest submission this week, then cut it down to 3000. I'm waiting to do the voice recording before I post it.

So...

Booya.

# ? Mar 17, 2013 16:42

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

Feast your eyes on more of my garbage. (1172 words)

In other news, my hard drive is dying by degrees, so I might have to fall behind a bit while I get it fixed.

quote:

Nysa gave her a wave and a harassed smile as she walked past. Isseren gave her a nod back, and asked, �What happened here?�

�Like you can't tell! Gordas won't get in until noon. What am I gonna tell him? He'll probably have it out of my hide, like last time.� Nysa angrily flailed at the debris with her broom. �Don't know what he expects me to do, Maira; fight them off with my bare hands?� Nysa didn't know Isseren's real name; other than her lord, few people did. 'Maira' was the name on her lease, so she was Maira to her few acquaintances in the tenement.

�You could always run away.� Isseren said, hovering in the doorway. It was a stock response among slaves, not that Isseren had any desire to run away from Amyntas' kindness. Nysa's master, on the other hand, was a loathsome prick of the worst kind, venal and cruel. In many ways, he reminded her of the bandits from her youth. Yet another reminder to be thankful to her lord.

�Hah! Yeah, and I could live in the woods and feast on acorns, like Kyras the Pious.� It wasn't very funny, but Isseren dutifully chuckled. �Looks like you could use a few acorns yourself there, Maira.� Nysa said, poking Isseren in the ribs. �You're as skinny as my broom! Have you had breakfast? I've got this morning's bread cooling on the rack... �

�No, no, I've got to go. Master calls. You know how it is.� She gave her 'friend' � if you could call someone that when you've never told her your real name � an apologetic smile. Nysa was a good woman, but more than a little mothering � especially since she was barely older than Isseren herself.

----

She left Nysa to sweep up the last fragments. Outside the tenement, she scanned the streets for anything suspicious. It was only just dawn, and the Meterra was already alive. Crowds of workmen, beggars, and slaves jostled for space in the narrow streets; children splashed about in the neighbourhood fountain under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Kaiapha's urban poor, rising to greet the day.

Isseren joined the human tide pushing and shoving its way through the shadowy streets. Her head was bowed, her eyes cast down, her face carefully expressionless. Among the crowds, she was faceless, invisible, one nameless stranger among untold thousands.

She was being followed. It was just an instinct, a paranoid twinge, but Isseren hadn't survived this long in her line of work by ignoring her instincts. Shifting one hand to the knife at her thigh, she made a show of stopping to adjust her sandal, surreptitiously scanning the crowd for her pursuer.

There was a man � little older than a boy, really � walking in the same direction she was going. She caught him staring at her for a moment, before he quickly jerked his head away, pretending to be engrossed by a colourful display of graffiti on one of the nearby shops. He was wearing a hooded cloak in the middle of summer, scurrying from shadow to shadow, and shying from every stranger's gaze like a nervous child. He was, in short, the least subtle tail Isseren had ever seen.

Which begged a question; why was he following her? In her slave girl disguise, she was a prime target for muggers, but she'd never met a mugger stupid enough to go about in broad daylight dressed like one. Perhaps he was a spy from a rival lord? A particularly incompetent one?

Well, she'd have to find out. Slipping back into the stream of pedestrians, Isseren watched from the corner of her eye as her follower concluded his critique of the Meterra's street art and set off after her. He didn't look like he'd last long in a fight, and he certainly didn't seem very clever. There was a narrow alley around the corner on the left. She had an idea.

----

The young man rounded the corner, to find his mark had vanished altogether. Anxiety turned to panic as he scanned the passing crowds � had she seen him? Was she hiding somewhere? No, she couldn't have seen him; he'd been very careful to stay out of sight and inconspicuous. Then where was she?

�Psst! Boy! Over here!�

There was an old, lame beggar sitting in a tiny patch of sunlight, at the entrance to a dark alleyway. He was staring straight at him, a knowing smile plastered on his toothless face. �Looking for your young lady?� he wheezed.

�Yes! Have you seen her?� the young man said.

�She went down that way, there.� The beggar waved his hand at the alley's mouth.

�Thank you, sir! Thank you very much.� The young man fumbled in his coin purse, dug out a couple of bronze bullocks, and placed them in the grinning beggar's bowl. As he made to enter the alley, the old man grabbed his trouser leg.

�A fine young lass you've got there, boy. Bit on the thin side, mind, and her titties are too small for my liking, but all the same. I chased after a few young ladies in my time myself, my boy. Girl like that, you've got to give her something to hang around for, if you catch my drift.� The old man cackled with glee. �You take an old man's advice, now, and give her a fine necklace and a good tumble, first chance you get!�

The young man grinned weakly, politely detaching himself from his wrinkled hands, and backing into the alleyway. It was narrow, reeking of piss, and full of shadows. He could barely hear himself think over the old beggar's cackling. He drew his sword and started forward, hoping to catch sight of his mark on the far side, and then the world exploded between his eardrums and he pitched over into oblivion.

----

Isseren dropped her plank and knelt by the body, dagger in her hand in case he was only pretending. No, he appeared to be unconscious, but breathing. Her blow to his head could have done anything, from addling his wits to cracking his skull to just really pissing him off. Not much to hope for there, in terms of interrogating him, but anything was better than being murdered by some lunatic kid with a sword.

Since she was a practical woman, she gave him a few judicious kicks in soft places to see if he was faking it. Apparently he wasn't.

Well. She'd dealt with her tail, all right. Now she just had to figure out what to do with him. If she took him with her, she could hand him over to her contact for Amyntas' men to interrogate. But dragging him through the streets without drawing too much attention wouldn't be easy. On the other hand, she was nowhere near so cruel as to abandon an unconscious man to his fate in the dark alleys of the Meterra.

# ? Mar 17, 2013 20:08

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

I continue to be poo poo at writing ~~fantasy~~. 1700ish. Counting it as 1000 for the week.

This was good minus a few turns of phrase that didn't work for me, and to a lesser degree the overall chapter structure.

Structure-wise its a bit weird to go from meeting a scumbag streetwise dude in scene 1 to a very similar meeting with a very similar guy in scene 2. Not a serious problem, but worth mentioning.

quote:

While her mind went to the man's family, her feet had no such issue.

Her feet didn't want to run to the man's family? Of course, I know that's not what you're saying, but its still coming off weird.

quote:

He has too many teeth left.

Liked this.

quote:

Her heart sang but her feet cursed as she went skidding over the edge and hit the water sideways.

Another weird feet personification thing. I think you were playing off what you had previously written, which didn't work for me, and so neither did this.

# ? Mar 17, 2013 20:46

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

Crits will come later. Crossposting this from Thunderdome. 996 words, which puts me 1004 behind schedule.

quote:

The entire South Quarter was ablaze when Marcus charged up the staircase of Stonebridge Manor. It was deserted; the only sounds came from the anxious chatter of his men outside and distant shouts that drifted in through the open doorway. Marcus charged to the last door in the hall, flung it open and hitched a breath. "Gods help me, they were right after all. What are you thinking?"

Alerio greeted him with a raised goblet and a lazy smile where he lounged in the window like a satisfied cat. "Ah, Marcus! So good of you to join me."

"Are you drunk or are you mad?" Marcus stalked across the room. "The South's gone up, the fires will consume this district before the hour's out. We have to leave!"

"Why the rush?" Alerio took a deep drink from the goblet and waved it toward the window. "Enjoy the view. You'll never see the likes of it again."

"I've seen enough!" Marcus took the goblet away and dumped its contents on the floor. Red wine spread splattered on the wool carpet. "Why are you still here? Rio-" He paused, staring at the noble's nonchalant poise, the detached way he watched the chaos outside. Horror crept into his voice. "Did you have something to do with this?"

Alerio snorted. "Arson? Certainly not." Now he turned from the window, unfolded himself from the divan with leisurely grace. He smiled, lips red from the wine. Marcus swallowed against a rush of heat through his body as Alerio slipped an arm around his waist. "You think in simplicities. Won't you join me?"

Marcus shied away. "You are mad. So help me, Rio, even if you're connected to the rebellion, I'll not abandon you to this!"

That earned a bemused glance. "If I were, would the end be any better?"

Marcus swallowed. "So you are connected to it." It was so hard to focus with Alerio this close, leaning against him, silk on steel. "I could put a word in. I could...I could find an excuse." He gritted his teeth, seized the man's shoulders and shook him. "Dammit, Rio, why? You knew what I'd have to do if-"

Alerio pressed a silencing finger to his lips. "Yes. So say no more." He took Marcus by the shoulders in turn, pressed him down to the divan and kissed him until they were breathless. When their lips parted, Alerio caressed his lover's face, cupped it in his hands and directed Marcus's gaze outside. "Just look at it, Marc," he whispered. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight?"

Marcus looked. Flames licked across the rooftops, vivid red against the smoke that turned the southern sky to starless night. It was entrancing, in its way, like an ever-changing sunset in the wrong direction - but Marcus knew there was more to the east, and soon to the north. Alerio could usually get him to see things in his odd way, but this was one scene Marcus couldn't reconcile.

He turned back to Alerio, all fine bones and lean limbs, long lashes and wine-red lips, consciously sensual in every movement and far too calm as the world turned to chaos around them. It was nearly enough to make him forget why he'd come here. The man he'd fallen in love with. A traitor to the kingdom. His voice cracked. "No. Nor will I again, if you don't come with me."

Alerio chuckled softly and traced a hand across his back. "Not what I meant." He curled against him and kissed his neck.

"This is hardly the time-" The kiss turned into a bite. Marcus gasped and pulled away, though he longed to give in. "Don't do this. I can get you out of the country."

Alerio sank back against the sill and stretched, tilting his head playfully. "My loyal little soldier, disobeying orders?"

Marcus forced himself to look away from that invitation. "For you, yes. Please, whatever you've done, I can keep you safe."

Alerio sighed. The levity faded. "And lose you, as well? They already know about me. Don't think they won't catch you."

"I'm willing to take that risk."

"I'm not." He sat up and spread his arms. "If you're so willing to burn along with me, then lay with me here! Otherwise, leave. I don't intend to escape. We would meet the same end either way."

Marcus stared at him. One of his men shouted up the stairs for him, but he didn't comprehend the words. "You intended suicide from the start?"

Alerio dropped his arms and quirked a wry smile. "Hell of a way to go, don't you think?"

Smoke and flames blurred in his vision. Marcus blinked back the tears. "You never were one to do things in half-measures."

Before his vision cleared, Alerio rose again, wrapped his arms around him. This time was a kiss of finality. Marcus felt it in the firmness, the near desperation. He choked back a sob and held his lover for the last time. Only when footsteps pounded up the staircase did Alerio step back and stroke Marcus's cheek. "Go, love. Be safe."

Marcus turned and walked out the door. He met his man in the hallway and shook his head, heedless of the tears that streaked his face. "Back to the horses. We're leaving."

Behind them, the notes of a violin rang out into the still air - sweet, lilting, utterly unsuited to the situation. So thoroughly absurd when destruction loomed on the horizon. So wonderfully, hopelessly brazen. Marcus pictured the nightmare alternative - his lover bound to a stake, blindfolded, bundles of sticks stacked at his feet. A traitor's death. He stumbled to the bottom of the stairs and buried his face in his hands. If Marcus were caught aiding a traitor, that would be the end for both of them. "He's right, drat him," he whispered.

He gathered his men and rode off, leaving the burning city and Alerio's reasons far behind.

# ? Mar 18, 2013 04:52

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

I slack off for over a week and I'm still double posting?

Some long pieces, so I put them in Docs.

Novel Ch1 WIP, 1900 words
March 25, 3080 words

# ? Mar 26, 2013 09:38

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

Well, it's the end of March, and I owe about 2000 words I guess. Since my hard drive only just got replaced, I've mostly been writing unrelated book scraps on a borrowed computer. Here is an attempt at part of a creation story (982 words):

quote:

When the world was as nothing, there were two great principles, underpinning all of the universe; we know them today as Chaos and Logos. Wherever the two meet, they clash, for both forces are each other's equal and opposite, and neither can ever overcome the other.

In time, each parted from the other, as oil must part from water. Chaos sank down, into the depths of the void, while Logos rose up into the heights. There each lay, blindly coursing through the world, never mixing, never changing, never becoming. And the world was in two, and it was two worlds.

Down in the depths, Chaos smouldered. It was the principle of creation, of endless change. When it had parted from the Logos, Chaos' weight condensed it into water, heaving and undulating to the whims of no tide, and as it sank further it became earth, lying barren beneath the waves.

Chaos' thrashing in the lightless depths created strange happenings and impossible creatures, flashing into existence one instant and vanishing or changing beyond recognition the next. It was a force of madness and random generation, unhindered by logic or purpose.

Far above, Logos coiled its way through the sky. It was the principle of order, of reason and rationality. The insubstantial Logos had gravitated to a realm of emptiness, far from the weight of Chaos. It rarefied as it rose, into a layer of air, and where it reached the edges of the world it dispersed further, becoming fire.

Each flicker of Logos in the upper atmosphere was an idea, a half-formed thought with no brain to think it, a law imposed on a world with nothing to order and no need for laws. It was a force of thought without sentience, logic without mind, purpose without meaning.

And so, in the time before gods and mortals, there were two worlds; the skies above and the seas below. There was no land, no sun, moon, or stars. The storms and the waves flailed and struggled in an endless war, but in the burning heights and the cold dark depths, Logos and Chaos were utterly separate and irreconcilable.

Though full of matter, the world was empty. The light of the upper fires was blocked by storm clouds, and so the seas were dark. The land was trapped under the roiling waves, and so nothing could grow. Life was mindless and mind was lifeless. The universe was a void.

So, perhaps, it could have remained forever. But, as we mortals know, nothing lasts forever.

----

It is the nature of Logos to impose order. Although the random ideas that criss-crossed the sky were a product of the Logos, that very randomness was anathema to it. Over untold ages, it blindly forced the scraps of thought into patterns, and spun the patterns into a great lattice, a web of ideas and desires. This web was the first soul.

The web had weight, more so than the Logos that spun it. It fell through the sky like a feather, through layer upon layer of billowing cloud, coming to rest in the heart of the storm. Its questing tendrils stretched far and wide, snagged by winds and lashed by rain, ever reaching out to discover new things.

Although it could not truly think, it could perceive its surroundings, and it strove desperately to become. Barely able to move or act, it drifted among the clouds, curious about all things, but incapable of comprehending them.

It was especially curious about the great ocean that raged beneath it. It could go no lower than the cloud that housed it, but one day, when the clouds became fog that rolled across the churning sea, it drifted down with it, going lower and lower until it could reach out and touch the waves.

As it reached out, it dragged threads of the Logos along with it, bound up in its essence, insulated from the tempest of Chaos. The tendrils of soul reached down, and brushed against the water. And Chaos flowed up from the water, into its lattice. The two elemental principles touched, but they did not clash. Their violent natures were mediated by the soul, and, for the first time in Creation, they merged.

There, at the point where mind, life, and soul touched for the very first time, they became One. And that One took shape, and clothed Itself in matter, and It was the Great God. And It named Itself, and the name It gave Itself was Nomon.

----

First, Nomon was an eye of light, sitting at the crux of Logos and Chaos, observing the world with its newborn mind. But the eye could not move; it could only watch. And Nomon yearned to be a part of the world.

So then It became a snake, made of mist and rain, one that could swim through the air as easily as the water. Free to move, Nomon danced through the sea and the sky, weaving a rainbow between the broken worlds. But the snake could not shape a world, and Nomon desperately desired to do more than simply observe.

So Nomon made Itself a new form. It reached far, up to the heavens, and grabbed a tongue of fire; and It reached down to the abyss, and scooped up a handful of earth. With these, and with the air and water all around It, Nomon made a creature of two arms and two legs, a round head and a trunk of a body. It made the form that we mortals now wear.

Nomon's new form floated in the seething water, staring up at the storm-darkened sky. It saw the two parted worlds, and the emptiness of the universe. Driven by the Logos that formed Its mind, one thought burned in the Great God's head; the need to set the world in order.

And so Nomon began the task of Creation.

Here is the start of chapter 3, in which people are superstitious and a young student experiences self-doubt (854 words):

quote:

There was a rumour going around.

It had all started � or so it was later said � in the city's vast docklands, where an Oryntine merchant ship had sailed into the harbour, bringing with it lurid tales of catastrophe from the east. There, in the shadow of the city's twin enormous lighthouses, each flanking the harbour mouth like mighty sentinels, the story had been seized upon with great relish by the sailors and stevedores, the merchants and money-changers, the beggars and thieves, and from there it had spread through Kaiapha faster than a summer fever.

It swept like wildfire through the taverns and the marketplaces, the factories and the guildhalls, where they breathed new life into the story by cheerfully inventing a fresh horror every hour: Oryns in flames; Souni demolished by an earthquake; an unholy plague ravaging the Sabakhi Empire; each new disaster more terrifying than the last.

It percolated amongst the poky, unlit rooms of Kaiapha's maze of towering, teetering tenement blocks, where the poorest of the poor traded apocalyptic tales over their bowls of beans, their unleavened bread, and their cheap, sour wine, frightening each other to sleep with visions of demons and plagues.

It wafted up to the colossal House of the sun god, looming over the city, its vast golden dome reflecting the splendour of the heavens, where the priests with their long white robes and their dyed-blond hair imperiously dismissed all this talk of demons rising in the east as no more than a base lie, bred of the ignorance and superstition of the foolish masses.

It swirled through the colonnades and porticoes of Kaiapha's ancient Academy, where they weren't so sure about that, and where students of every discipline under the sun gathered in the halls to gossip and bicker about signs and portents, theories and dogmas. Historians argued with sorcerers and philosophers debated with astronomers, a thousand theories and speculations growing and cross-pollinating like strange mushrooms in the compost heap of academia.

It reached the opulent villas high in the hills surrounding the city, where the mighty aristocratic clans that ruled Kaiapha with an iron fist received the rumour of a demon summoned back into the world with suspicion and scorn. Kaiapha's lords and ladies were generals, admirals, merchant princes; a hard-nosed and practical lot, with little patience for old legends.

So they paid it little heed at first, preferring to focus on weightier matters of state (and their own petty squabbles). But as more and more bad tidings rolled in, and more and more voices demanded something be done, they relented. A motion to address the issue of the demon was put forward in the Assembly, to be voted on by the Grand Prytany on the first full moon of summer. Twelve days' time.

----

For his part, Amares watched this laborious inaction with a numb sense of dread. When the learned Masters of the Academy had begun to track the portents of a demon entering the world, disbelief quickly giving way to horror, Amares had been there with them, pouring through archives and dusting off ancient books of half-forgotten Imperial lore at the behest of his tutors.

Near the end of winter, well before the first rumours had started spreading, the aether had suddenly gone mad, tearing at itself in terrible spasms. Carefully wrought charms had collapsed, spells ran wild, learned sorcerers fell into fits of madness and agony. Then, after a few brief moments, the madness vanished. The aether returned to its usual course. The world continued to turn.

Such a trembling of the foundations of the world demanded investigation. What was it? Why did it happen? Could it happen again? After much debate, the Council of Masters had drafted many of the students, Amares among them, in the search for answers. Every strange flux of the aether was examined. Entrails were read, stars and portents were charted, old grimoires were studied, all with the aim of finding the cause of this great convulsion.

Finally, as the summer began to set in, the assembled Masters solemnly concluded that a demon had indeed returned to the world. There was much disbelief, even among the students who'd been working with the Masters, but it was agreed that the risks were too great to ignore.

The drafted students had been sworn to secrecy, a solemn oath which utterly failed stop the rumour getting out. At the Council's orders, every sponsored student, Amares among them, had scurried off to bring the Council's official warning to their patrons. But the rumour was far ahead of them, racing through the dark and narrow streets of Kaiapha, growing with each telling, taking on a life of its own.

Even as he was being ushered into his patron's study, Amares still wasn't sure if he believed it himself. The prospect seemed so unlikely, the evidence so circumstantial, the whole situation so desperately unreal, that Amares could barely convince himself it was true. And if the days he'd spent in research and deliberation with the great scholars had failed even to convince himself, what hope would he have of persuading his master?

And here is the start of chapter 8, in which Amares stands in a crowd, hot, hungry, and going deaf (528 words):

quote:

It was midday on the day of the full moon, and the Mystenaria was full to bursting. Petitioners and concerned citizens of all stripes, waiting impatiently to hear the Prytany's decision on this thing or that, rubbed shoulders with a horde of buskers, beggars, and street vendors selling panzerotti, honey cakes, and sweet yoghurt. The shouts of agitators and cries of merchants merged with the sounds of flutes and mandolins to produce a truly deafening roar. An enterprising troupe of actors had even set up a stage of sackcloth and wooden boxes, performing some bawdy pantomime to a jeering crowd.

�Free Souni! Expel the barbarians! FREE SOUNI!� A particularly loud bunch of Souniote refugees and Kaiaphan hawks had clustered around Mahanis' Column, shouting out their demands for the whole plaza to hear. �FREE SOUNI!�

Standing close to the back of the Academy's delegation, sweltering in his blue apprentice's robes, Amares had to crane his neck to see the steps leading up to the Republic's vast Prytaneion. Well, no wonder; he was a head shorter than almost everyone around him.

�Honey cakes! Honey cakes, only three doves! Get 'em while they're still hot!� A cake-seller had wound had way over to the gathered students and masters, his cries eliciting a groan from Amares' stomach. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, but since he'd left all his money with the Academy exchequer, all he could do was agonise about his hunger. Ah, well, better to go hungry than get his pocket picked.

The soaring arch that served as the Prytaneion's gateway was flanked by two huge legionnaire statues, each thrice the height of a man, their massive sun banners limp in the still summer air. In their shadow stood a company of real legionnaires, somewhat diminished by the size of their marble cousins (though admittedly less spattered with pigeon poo poo), keeping the crowd well clear of the steps.

One of the actors, in a garish noble's outfit and outsize comedy mask, was shouting to the audience. �Oooh, I wonder where my darling Alaena could have run off to! If you see hear, do shout out, my dears!�

�SHE'S BEHIND YOU! SHE'S HIDING IN THE WELL!� the audience yelled back.

�No she isn't!�

�SHE IS! SHE IS!�

�She bloody well is not! Why would she hide from her one true love?�

�Because you're an arse!�

�I heard that!� The actor stamped his foot and wrung his hands, his foppish mime of protest drawing gales of laughter from the crowd. Any minute, any moment now, someone was going to get hit on the head with a bladder on a stick. Amares' attention drifted away; he preferred real theatre.

Every so often, a herald would appear on the balcony over the arch, shouting out the Prytany's latest resolutions to the crowd below. The assembled citizens met his words with cheers or murmurs. Occasionally a petitioner or two would be let in to give testimony to the councillors; they would then be swiftly escorted out. By ancient decree, it was forbidden for the common people to hear the Prytany debate or cast their vote on a motion.

Echo Cian posted:

I slack off for over a week and I'm still double posting?

Some long pieces, so I put them in Docs.

Novel Ch1 WIP, 1900 words
March 25, 3080 words

Yeah, this thread is a little deserted. At least I have an excuse

I really like the atmosphere you build up in that first chapter, it feels very dark and also quite real in terms of what your character is saying and thinking; I liked that last line especially, very noble and determined. This is nitpicky as gently caress, but it bothered me slightly that the bard's reassuring music only rid the Cleanser of his fears for all of two paragraphs. It also seemed like we got very little info about the POV character or the setting, but I suspect that's intentional and I'm making a fool of myself for pointing it out. This is probably completely useless to you.

Don't know if it's kosher to ask this, but is this based on a RP setting you came up with/played in? I note there is a bard who magically inspires those who hear his music, and your Cleanser feels very paladin-esque so far. I'm just getting kind of a D&D vibe here, I guess, and I haven't read the second piece you posted yet, so I may have misapprehended entirely.

# ? Mar 31, 2013 02:02

BananaNutkins: Aug 26, 2004; I'll split you open and I don't even like coconuts.

The Sin of Onan posted:

Yeah, this thread is a little deserted. At least I have an excuse

I hit my target 7k yesterday, but the section I wrote includes lots of science-y stuff that I would like to get reasonably correct before posting.

One of the big issues--designing a boiler for a steam engine that requires no furnace and runs on chemical fuel that interacts with water. And I have to design the chemical interaction in such a way that doesn't negate what I've shown in previous chapters or have unforseen effects on the world or the economy.

Another--my protagonist is deaf, and this segment requires a lengthy discussion with his scientist friend. This intially threw a kink in the scene until I came up with a decent solution.

# ? Mar 31, 2013 16:08

bearbaiter: May 30, 2011

Well I really overestimated how much time I would have this month for writing! I only made it to 2500 words but I've been having trouble with writing for fun lately and this has helped me a lot with that, so I guess it wasn't a total failure, except that technically it was.

My writing is pretty bad so I'm just going to link the google doc: doc

I'll probably do a daily or weekly pledge next month because I realize I am not consistent about writing every day, or even just regularly, and that's a big problem.

# ? Apr 1, 2013 07:10

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Having had three people in a row ask me when I am going to finish Bucket List, I guess I'd better get to it. Words, why will you not write yourself? Why you gots ta hurt Daddy like that?

I'll say 1000 words a week through April, deliverable by Midnight Sunday NZ time.

# ? Apr 1, 2013 21:47

The Sin of Onan: Oct 11, 2012; And below,
watched by eyes of steel
we dreamt

BananaNutkins posted:

I hit my target 7k yesterday, but the section I wrote includes lots of science-y stuff that I would like to get reasonably correct before posting.

One of the big issues--designing a boiler for a steam engine that requires no furnace and runs on chemical fuel that interacts with water. And I have to design the chemical interaction in such a way that doesn't negate what I've shown in previous chapters or have unforseen effects on the world or the economy.

Another--my protagonist is deaf, and this segment requires a lengthy discussion with his scientist friend. This intially threw a kink in the scene until I came up with a decent solution.

Unless it's critically important that they be absolutely accurate before you can continue, I wouldn't worry too much about the technical details of your steam engine at the moment. You can always redo that stuff later.

If you put it up you might be able to get a sciencegoon to take a look at it, maybe?

bearbaiter posted:

Well I really overestimated how much time I would have this month for writing! I only made it to 2500 words but I've been having trouble with writing for fun lately and this has helped me a lot with that, so I guess it wasn't a total failure, except that technically it was.

My writing is pretty bad so I'm just going to link the google doc: doc

I'll probably do a daily or weekly pledge next month because I realize I am not consistent about writing every day, or even just regularly, and that's a big problem.

I liked your ideas! You are a little too florid though, and this is coming from a man who has pretty big wordiness issues of his own.
Take this with a grain of salt, because I struggle with this sort of thing myself, but I think an action scene should be a bit faster-paced? I think your god concepts are cool, but we really don't need to hear so much about their outfits, weapons, or innermost thoughts when they're in the middle of murdering each other. You don't need an adjective/adverb for every noun/verb, and it will make the pace go faster if you keep your descriptions fairly simplistic.

sebmojo posted:

Having had three people in a row ask me when I am going to finish Bucket List, I guess I'd better get to it. Words, why will you not write yourself? Why you gots ta hurt Daddy like that?

I'll say 1000 words a week through April, deliverable by Midnight Sunday NZ time.

Woah, are we doing April pledges already? I'll try for 2000/week this month. Or maybe we should have a new thread?

# ? Apr 1, 2013 22:48

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

The Sin of Onan posted:

Woah, are we doing April pledges already? I'll try for 2000/week this month. Or maybe we should have a new thread?

Go for it! I'll come and repost this in an April thread, I just had a brainfart looking at my control panel.

# ? Apr 2, 2013 03:47

bearbaiter: May 30, 2011

The Sin of Onan posted:

I liked your ideas! You are a little too florid though, and this is coming from a man who has pretty big wordiness issues of his own.
Take this with a grain of salt, because I struggle with this sort of thing myself, but I think an action scene should be a bit faster-paced? I think your god concepts are cool, but we really don't need to hear so much about their outfits, weapons, or innermost thoughts when they're in the middle of murdering each other. You don't need an adjective/adverb for every noun/verb, and it will make the pace go faster if you keep your descriptions fairly simplistic.

Thank you for the critique! Most of my writing experience comes from a really dumb RP forum thing I used to write on so these kinds of things seem normal to me when they shouldn't. I'll go through it to in the next few days to trim the fat and keep your words in mind going forward. Thanks again!

# ? Apr 2, 2013 05:14

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# ? May 24, 2013 04:53

Echo Cian: Jun 16, 2011

The Sin of Onan posted:

I really like the atmosphere you build up in that first chapter, it feels very dark and also quite real in terms of what your character is saying and thinking; I liked that last line especially, very noble and determined. This is nitpicky as gently caress, but it bothered me slightly that the bard's reassuring music only rid the Cleanser of his fears for all of two paragraphs. It also seemed like we got very little info about the POV character or the setting, but I suspect that's intentional and I'm making a fool of myself for pointing it out. This is probably completely useless to you.

Don't know if it's kosher to ask this, but is this based on a RP setting you came up with/played in? I note there is a bard who magically inspires those who hear his music, and your Cleanser feels very paladin-esque so far. I'm just getting kind of a D&D vibe here, I guess, and I haven't read the second piece you posted yet, so I may have misapprehended entirely.

Thanks. Some of those things will be addressed when the scene continues. I'm trying to avoid infodumping since the first time I tried writing this it ended up 70% exposition, but maybe I'm skimping too much on it.

I've never played D&D.

I imagine it'll flow better once I can start showing off the setting's magic properly.

sebmojo posted:

Go for it! I'll come and repost this in an April thread, I just had a brainfart looking at my control panel.

Have a new thread.

# ? Apr 2, 2013 16:38

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > The man made out of grist: March Writing Pledges