Index of Poetry:
Ocean of Fire (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg100175.html#msg100175)
Song of Wanderers (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg100175.html#msg100175)
Musings in Moonlight (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg100175.html#msg100175)
Hourglass (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg130084.html#msg130084)
Snow in Autumn (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg165919.html#msg165919)
Ink (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg175621.html#msg175621)
Index of Stories:
Cog's Backstory (Probably to be revised)
Chatper One (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg104503.html#msg104503)
Chapter Two (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg106154.html#msg106154)
Chapter Three (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg127542.html#msg127542)
The Epic of Golcat
Chapter One (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg139249.html#msg139249)
Chapter Two (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg157958.html#msg157958)
Other Short Stories
Eldorado (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg165035.html#msg165035)
Veneer (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg201394.html#msg201394)
Sunshine (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,2431.msg224469.html#msg224469)
Eh. Might as well, says I. Here be some of the prose and (mostly) poetry of Cogidubnus. Ye 'ave been fairly warned.
Ocean of Fire
Dun Golden Hills of bright burnished sand
Brown Earth's small tribute to the seas
The sand an ocean dried up on land
and shifting waves, light on the breeze
with scattered rocks and silver stones
shipwrecked upon the sands and time
chalky bits of the earth's own white foam,
a spray of bricks in arid brine
The desert, it hides old places there
Beneath the ever-flowing waves
of the who and what, and the why and where,
is known only now to the desolate blaze
One day, the seas shall give up their dead
and tell stories of those who on sand bled
Song of Wanderers
When men were young, long ago
I found a stream that had no end
and decided that I'd follow, so,
I thought I'd walk just past the bend
The road I gave my weary heart
for my comfort was the vaulted sky
of wind and thunder, I was part,
desolate, hushed and whispered 'why?'
I walked in rain-slick mudded grass,
trod through gently waving flow,
I saw a songbird, colored brass,
and listened to it's song, liquid, slow
In mountains high I tasted north
of highland cold and snowy might
The Song of Skies, the sun drew forth,
and drifting snow the heart of sight
Musings in Moonlight
Silvered moon in lucent eye,
Star, and moonbeam scattered sky,
Frosted tree and winter's bite,
Inside, the light: Outside, the night-
An Ivory sliver lights the sky-
A crescent moon, in wondrous eye,
I drink of warm and liquid fame,
Draught of foxglove, and wolf's-bane
In the sky, a change is there
A bloody stain, a hideous tear
A bloody moon in bloody sky-
A bitter taste on my tongue lies
That seems to be enough for now.
Well, the forum has warned me that old topic is old. This in mind, I hope llearch won't ban me for doubleposting, and posting in an old thread.
I understand leniency is the word of the day in art threads?
In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.
Moon and Fire
Chapter One
A grey sky hung over the seaside city, the chalky white stone contrasting greatly with the sky and the green-blue sea. Brittle wooden docks jutted out defiantly against the sea, sticking out from the city in all directions. Wind swept spray up from the docks and threw it as a fine mist into the faces of those who gazed out over the waters. Those who watched for pleasure seldom stayed, although there were always some who waited for ships to stop, refreshing supplies and cargo as they brought passengers from one side of the Sea of Storms to the other. The grey pall from the sky fell on the sea as well, the grey-green constantly reflecting the melancholy skies.
The Island was a rock of limestone and chalky earth, and was situated between the cliffs of two continents. The lands converged there, and though the island had always wanted by each of them, its autonomy had always been ensured by it's surroundings. The seas there were far too wild for any armada to sail; any fleet foolish enough to try and brave the narrow channel would be destroyed utterly, by both rock and wave. The cliffs were no help to any attacker either, being too far from the island to mount an attack of any significance, and the constant winds formed by the storms would render large artillery completely inaccurate, if not ineffective. The cliffs also served to protecting the island itself from the excessively bad weather, and although wind and rain were simply a fact of life there, the city had never been washed away. The eternal storm was a blessing more than a curse - it kept even wizards at bay, for no wizard was mad enough to try levitating across the void between the rocks, either by themselves or with an army. The Island was was a place unto itself.
It's people were a unique folk of transients. It had been founded as merely an intermediary place for ships to drydock, or wait in shelter for the storm to settle enough to move on. Eventually, someone had the foresight to leave behind a group there permanently, and the Island's true history began there. The unique geography kept it safe from large-scale interference, and like most places that evade the notice or authority of the larger nations, it became haven to those who had no place to return, and no place to go. It became a place of in-between, a place of sleep, a place of rest and peace, even unto the times of today. It was a place of transients, people always moving on, or moving back, yet going nowhere in particular, or going nowhere at all. Trade was important, but it was hardly the Island's lifeblood – those who lived permanently on the island made their living providing lodging and food for those who passed through. The people peddled sleep and rest – and this they did well.
The place would have been Mediterranean in feel, but for the sea – no calm, warm and happy ocean lied there, but rather something cold and mournful. The houses themselves were made with varying degrees of skill. Some were roughshod, little more than rough stone lied on atop another; others had slatted pieces of rock fitted together to form buildings and stores, although the best of them had bricks and mortar of the stuff. Most, however, were made merely of cobbles and gravity.
In one such building, the smell of cooking fish was strong, and around the back a rather flimsy looking deck sat above the grey-blue sea. Sitting at a table was a single man, clothed in black and looking out silently over the sea. He wore a pair of shades lined in silver, and his hair seemed to be starting to gray, although from the ends to the scalp, going from the red-brown that hung down to his shoulders to a silver: yet for this, he was young, no more than 20 from looking. His coat was black, and leaning on the table was a drab, brown-hilted sword, tied with a rust-colored cord at the sheath. He was waiting for his fish.
The man who watched him grinned, and his eyes faded from a purple glow to their natural gold. They were slitted eyes – cat's eyes. He walked softly on the deck, the old wood strangely silent beneath his feet. He stood still a little distance away from the man.
"Yes?" the man in black said, unmoving. His gaze never left the roaring sea.
The other man grinned, and strode into the open chair across from him, eyes twinkling. "My, what good ears you have! There aren't so many anymore that hear footsteps that make no sound." he said, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand, looking straight at the man in black. "It makes one wonder."
The man narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean." he said, carefully.
"Oh, I think you might. Tell me, did you hear my feet? I don't think you shouldn't have.", the tiger said.
"If I've insulted your sense of stealth, I apologize. I assure you, next time I won't ask why you're behind me." the man said, his words somewhat sharp.
"No, no, you misunderstand. I know my feet didn't make a sound." he said, his eyes suddenly glimmering. The tiger's hands made a subtle gesture, and his fingers twisted as if seizing something. The saltshaker shook from across the table, and did it's best to make itself available to him, flying through the air.
The man stared at the tiger for a moment, and then turned back to watching the waves. "You didn't make a sound." he said finally, pausing a moment. He looked at him from the corner of his eye. "The wind. It blows from the east. That way." he said, pointing behind the man. "You were blocking it."
"Of course!" the tiger said, grinning and setting the saltshaker down. "I should have known. Still, disappointing. If you had heard me, it would have indicated an precognitive gift of some sort." The man's teeth glinted in the light. "Of course, precognition isn't really a known attribute of werewolves, is it?"
The man stared silently at the tiger. He seemed to squint for a moment, and as he reached to take the shades off his face to rub his eyes, he moved his other hand to the sword that leaned by his side. The tiger opened his mouth to speak, when he noticed. It clapped shut, and he raised a hand in defense. Cog stopped moving the hand, and simply set his shades down on the table. Yellow eyes stared back at the tiger's golden ones.
The mage relaxed, and leaned forward again. "Come now! I didn't think you'd kind who would kill so easily." he said, suddenly standing and grinning. "Although, in a way, I was somewhat hoping you were...Oh, worry not, I'm not here to 'burn the cursed one'." he said, muttering in distaste. The man in black narrowed a single eye.
"Very simply, I need someone of your particular...skill." the tiger said, walking back and forth. The man in black raised an eyebrow, but the tiger waved a hand. "No, not like that. I need someone who is proficient in the more...physical aspects of combat." he said, pointing to his sword. "But of course, as a man of dedicated aesthetic, I have little gold." he said, obviously lying. The rings on his fingers, and the ornate, silken robe on his body told spoke of a great deal of gold indeed.
The man in black decided not to object. The tiger continued.
"So, I need someone who would appreciate the kind of help an accomplished wizard can provide." he said, his voice inflecting somewhat with a touch of pride, a smirk plastered on his face. He leaned in close to the lychanthrope and whispered in his ear.
"I'm sure there's something I might provide for you, Mmm? A night of the full moon means something entirely different for you, eh?" he said, laughing softly. He whispered in the man's ear. "Surely, an exchange could be in order? I can make the wolf silent, and the moon nothing more than a pretty silver ball..."
The man in black suddenly frowned and grabbed the tiger's neck, pulling his face down into the table and then right in front his his own. Black shades slid down the ridge of his nose to reveal burning yellow orbs that stared right through the man.
"Are you stupid?", he said. His mouth contorted, and one feeble human canine suddenly lengthened, an inhuman growl escaped his throat. "A cure? Just how stupid do you think I am? Do you think I don't know how the wolf works? Do you think I NEED a cure? That I WANT one?" he said, tightening his grip. "That I would even believe that you can cure a race?! It's one thing to offer, but it's another thing to think I'd be so stupid as to believe you." he said, throwing the man back into the railing. The tiger smacked into it with a dull thud, and coughed as he regained his balance. When he had caught his breath, he stood straight again. His former mocking demeanor had left, and was replaced by something ugly.
The tiger bared his teeth as he spoke."You misunderstand me, sir. I don't mean 'cure' you. We both know that's impossible." he said, again obviously lying. The man in black kept silent. "I can give you something that might help on those long moonlight walks, doggy." he said, taking a seat again. The man looked down, and pushed his shades back up his nose. He turned to stare out at the sea, and the white limestone cliffs. The tiger kept quiet for a moment, then continued.
"A book." he said, grinning ear to ear. "The last writings of a certain Weretiger, of the Chiba clan."
The man in black flinched involuntarily at the name, and reluctantly turned to look at the wizard. "...Chiba." He said. "Reizeskshan Chiba. The Twin Daggers of the Tiger's Eye." he said, recalling that his title. "Legendary for his speed." he said, his eyebrow raised. "And his willpower. He was able to stand in moonlight as easily as he stood in sunlight, they say."
He looked at the wizard quietly for a moment, than laughed. "You expect me to believe that you have his last writings?" He shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back. "So what if you do? How could it possibly help me?"
The Wizard grinned at the man, and scooted close to him.
"The writings are titled 'Musings in Moonlight', little doggy."
The man bristled at the wizard's words, but he kept silent, musing. He finally spoke, whispering softly.
"Even if you do have it. What is this service you want?", he murred. The wizard merely grinned all the wider.
"What's your name, doggy?" he asked. The man's mouth twisted in distaste. "Cogidubnus. Cogidubnus Mithlome."
The wizard extended a hand, and the grin on his face faded just slightly.
"Arcturus Lein, Archmage Emeritus of the township of Parch." He said, and made a minor flourish with his hands, standing and bowing. "Supposing I did have those writings, I'd need no great service from you at all, little doggy. You see, I have a problem with a certain individual who trespasses on my lands..." he said, inwardly laughing at the fool.
Lying did come so easily to him.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on April 03, 2007, 12:25:39 AM
I understand leniency is the word of the day in art threads?
No, the word of the day is "mockery" - "leniency" was three weeks ago... :-]
Quote from: Cogidubnus on April 03, 2007, 12:25:39 AM
In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.
Rather less humourously, you interchange "tiger" and "man" - or, indeed, "werewolf" and "man". This is not general usage, and tends to confuse those who aren't expecting that everyone is a fur anyway... That may or may not be your intent, but I thought I'd mention it. I'd suggest using "fur" instead of "man", or something of that bent. Anthro, perhaps.
Secondly, you use "the man" all the way through - sometimes, this is less than completely clear as to who you meant...
Thirdly, you might want to try breaking the story up, by placing breaks between the paragraphs, or grouping the paragraphs - not normally used in books, but on the forum, it stops it looking like a huge wad of text, since in books, the lines are much shorter, generally speaking - about 80 or so characters, whereas web tends more towards 120+ or so
Quote from: Cogidubnus on April 03, 2007, 12:25:39 AM
The place would have been Mediterranean in feel, but for the sea – no calm, warm and happy ocean lied there,
... I think you mean "lay there"
Glad to help...
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on April 03, 2007, 04:19:11 AM
Quote from: Cogidubnus on April 03, 2007, 12:25:39 AM
In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.
Rather less humourously, you interchange "tiger" and "man" - or, indeed, "werewolf" and "man". This is not general usage, and tends to confuse those who aren't expecting that everyone is a fur anyway... That may or may not be your intent, but I thought I'd mention it. I'd suggest using "fur" instead of "man", or something of that bent. Anthro, perhaps.
Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. :<
Quote from: BillBuckner on April 03, 2007, 06:32:47 AM
Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. :<
Well, does he mean "man" as in the specific "great ape descended apparently sapient hairless homo sapiens sapiens"? Or is he using it in a more general form of "anything reasonably intelligent that might have crawled out of a jar" ?
The latter, whilst accurate, isn't in general usage, and is likely to confuse people. If that is his design, then that's all to the good, but, as a writer, he should be -aware- of the effects he is creating. I'm not saying he -should- change, I'm merely noting where -I- would do it differently, and -why-. Given that, he may decide to exacerbate the effect, and I wouldn't argue at all. After all, it's his story. :-P
Nice work so far. I would agree with Llearch with respects to 'man'. I avoid using it to describe someone in my stories, although I have used it in dialogue here and there.
e.g. "This man has been murdered by a sniper on the roof of the central bank and you must find the perpetrator at once. I will not have people taking pot shots at my citizens."
I'd say that it's too early to use it. Once you've established whether there are humans in your universe (and I don't know whether it's set in DMFA or your own world) it becomes more obvious, but using it in the first chapter is perhaps a little premature.
If it's in Furrae, consider using the word 'Being'.
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on April 03, 2007, 07:12:26 AM
Quote from: BillBuckner on April 03, 2007, 06:32:47 AM
Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. :<
Well, does he mean "man" as in the specific "great ape descended apparently sapient hairless homo sapiens sapiens"? Or is he using it in a more general form of "anything reasonably intelligent that might have crawled out of a jar" ?
The latter, whilst accurate, isn't in general usage, and is likely to confuse people. If that is his design, then that's all to the good, but, as a writer, he should be -aware- of the effects he is creating. I'm not saying he -should- change, I'm merely noting where -I- would do it differently, and -why-. Given that, he may decide to exacerbate the effect, and I wouldn't argue at all. After all, it's his story. :-P
It flows better. :B
Llearch would be correct, in that it's probably confusing. I don't mean it to be, but neither do I want to outright say 'Anthro' or 'fur'. I somewhat feel that English, though lacking in a gender-unspecific pronoun, provides very good gender-specific ones, and that 'the man' works well enough.
As Bill said, it flows better.
As far as it being a wad of text, yeah, I noticed that when I was posting. There seems to be a strange absence of a double-space button on the post screen. And, formatting doesn't translate too terribly well. I probably will comb through it and put spaces in at some point.
It's set in my own universe. Although, to be honest, I did catch myself writing being once, but, it's not set in furrae. Notwithstanding the pretense of humans or not, I still think I'll use the term man.
Thanks for all the comments, guys! I'll try and make what I'm talking about in the future more clear.
Ch. 2 – In the City, out the Storm
Arcturus's offer was simplicity itself. In exchange for a book written by Reizeskshan Chiba, Cogidubnus would would kill this man haunting Arcturus's lands. Assassination was certainly not beneath Cog – and certainly not for what the Mage promised. He would have done far more to gain such a prize – not for ink or leaves, of course. The book was worthless to him, but for its author, and its subject.
The mage knew this, of course, and was rather pleased with himself. The werewolf had completed his plan nicely – his only missing element had been someone desperate and ignorant enough to do what he asked without investigating further. When he parted with the werewolf, it had been with a grin on his face.
He had left with Cog two items of import, however. A parchment containing a map to his lands on one side, and a list of directions on the other. The second item was a letter of introduction to one of the captains currently docked in the Harbor, one Horatio Aiile. Arcturus had urged the wolf to make all haste, and left himself after that.
Cog had no idea was going to get home, nor did he care. He simply ate his fish in silence, with only the wind for company. When he finished he left a silver coin on the table, and headed for his room. His possessions were sparse, and largely ready for travel - he gathered his belongings and headed for the docks. The ship left today, or so the mage had said, and if he missed the boat he would have to charter another himself – something that would take more time and much more money than he had. He did have a few chores to take care of before he left, however.
Paying the inn for his stay, he made his way to the docks. He had only two stops between him and the ship – one to a merchant of dried goods, and another to a lesser-known outfitter for oil and papercloth. He had no idea how long he would be gone, and rust was always a danger on the sea. Best to be prepared, after all.
* * *
The docks, in contrast with the rest of the city, was a boisterous center of activity, perhaps the only such place on the island. Constant loading and unloading of various smallgoods and a veritable horde of passengers embarking and disembarking gave the impression of utter chaos, and of frenzied, calamitous tidings. Captains' stood either mourning the eternally foul and treacherous waters, or bellowing orders to their crew, both telltale signs of their beleaguered status. Cog merely walked through calmly, sidestepping the crowds as neatly as he could, his pack swung over one shoulder and his face betraying his...nonplussed attitude. He generally avoided crowds when possible, but sometimes such things must be endured. His face relaxed, and he sighed in relief as he spotted his destination, grateful that finding the ship would be no great ordeal. In scarlet, bold letters upon the side of one of the ships was written the "Azure Rose", the ship that Arcturus had bid him sail upon, and he navigated the crowds until he reached the vessel.
He could see the captain on deck, directing the flow of goods on and off his ship, and although his voice was no less loud or commanding than the other captains, it had a certain amount of cold imperiousness about it that spoke of a deep calm and confidence, and probably no little bit of arrogance mixed in. Cog observed the ship for a moment before calling out to the captain. "Captain Aiile!" he yelled out, cupping one hand to his mouth as he yelled. "I seek a charter!"
The captain spared him only a passing glace, raising a single eyebrow and murmuring something to his first mate. The burly man nodded and began to direct traffic in his stead, the captain gracefully descending the gangplank and approaching the were.
Up close, the fox seemed even more refined than he had seemed from afar. He wore the dress of the old sailors, a blue coat over a white shirt and black pants, and a pair of knee-high leather boots completed the ensemble. At his belt hung a polished saber and dagger, and a holster behind the smaller blade held a dully gleaming firearm. The blue of the coat was a brilliant contrast to his white fur, and his blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail. He stared at Cog with brilliant green eyes, and made a short bow.
"My time is short, and you seem hardly the type to afford the services of a ship. I'll see the money before I see anything else." he said, his voice curt. Cog nodded and fished inside his jacket the envelope that Arcturus had given him, and handed it to the captain. The man sighed, and opened it quickly, ripping the letter out and scanning it quickly. He would have preferred banknotes, something he could simply view and confirm, but as he continued reading he began to slow down, and a smile spread across his face. He nodded, and placed the letter in a large pocket upon the side of his coat.
He nodded to the wolf, and began walking back to the gangplank, motioning for him to follow. "Yes. That will do nicely. Your passage has been arranged. You can expect landfall in a few weeks." he said, walking up the gangplank. "Mr. Weston! Make up a cabin for our guest! We have new passenger."
He looked down at Cog, and grinned. Money was certainly to be made with this one. A lot of money...
* * *
The voyage over the sea went much as sea voyages do. Slow to the point of plodding, implacably monotonous, and harshly grueling for those who crewed the ship. Though it was not one of Cog's favorite memories, the beginning of the journey had not been so bad – the storm that eternally sulked and raged about the island made for very choppy seas, and the time at first passed quickly with the aid of sheer terror and excitement. The rest of the voyage, however, was one grand vista of the ocean after another, a green sea that sparkled out in seemingly infinite direction. The boredom was magnificent.
Cog had not thought to bring even a book with him, and as passengers were not allowed on-deck, he didn't have the space to practice his swordsmanship. The cabins on the ship were efficiently made, small and compact. Lacking any sort of stimulation besides wave-watching, he found himself at a loss for something to pass the time. He found himself repeatedly polishing and oiling his blade to pass the time.
The only reprieve was during meals, which he ate with the captain and the one other passenger on the ship, an extremely dull accountant who spoke little, and when he did deign to speak, it made one wish he hadn't. The captain, however, seemed an interesting sort, but to Cog's frustration and infinite dismay he kept to the confines of polite civility, making small-talk and changing the subject when he deemed it prudent, or the topic controversial. Getting him to talk for any length of time about anything interesting, or anything about himself, was an exercise in futility. Cog found himself going increasingly mad the longer he stayed on the ship. He decided he would bring a book next time. Or a pen. Hell, a rubber ball to bounce against the walls would have provided adequate stimulation.
But despite how much it felt like eternity, the journey did not last forever: the ship finally made port several days later. Landfall was made at the port of Huad, another coastal town, situated on the granite rocks that outlined the continent, a deceptively rocky coast that belied the lushly forested inland.
To his relief, Cog was allowed to stand on-deck on the day of his departure, and though he resented his practical imprisonment in his cabin, he saw the logic in it. The main deck was only slightly less frenzied at sea than at port, and passengers underfoot could cause myriad problems.
When they finally made port, however,and the necessary inspections and clearances by customs had been made, Cog was finally allowed off the ship. To his surprise he was escorted off by the Captain himself, who expressed to him his wishes for good luck in his further travels. He left saying that he had other business to take care of in the city, and disappeared. Cog slung his pack over his shoulder and made his way into the city.
Finally off the damned ship, he followed the directions on the back of the map and headed for the 'Eyeglass Tavern'. Arcturus had indicated 'further instruction' awaited him there, although he had not been kind enough to provide any sort of concise direction to it. New to the city, it took him some time to locate it. It was, of course, situated much closer to the docks than he had expected, and thus he found himself doing a great deal of backtracking. Upon entering the establishment, he saw the mage himself sitting at one of the tables, enjoying a meal of gravied lamb and a brandy. He waved the wolf over.
"Cog, my lad! Good to see you! Your trip was not too uncomfortable, I hope?" the tiger said, a grin suffusing his features. A bit of gravy was clung to his chin.
His false sincerity, however, grated on Cog's nerves, something he had not thought possible after such incredible boredom. The mage continued to amaze. Cog sat down heavily, his face a picture of distaste. A few seconds passed in silence, and he was finally forced to answer the him. Formalities must be observed, after all. "I'm here. Alive. Good enough then, I suppose."
The tiger nodded. "Good, good. Glad to hear it. But now that you are here we can really begin." he said, gulping down another bite of lamb. He swallowed loudly, and continued. "The man I spoke of earlier, the trespasser – his name is Giles Monterrey." The tiger watched carefully for any sign of recognition. Cog didn't react at all. He grinned inwardly and continued. "A vagabond of the blackest sort. He has terrorized my lands for months now, demanding tribute from the villages surrounding my tower."
Cog put his face in his hands in case he couldn't hide his smirk. The last comment made quite a bit of sense to the werewolf – demanding tribute, and likely giving the farmers an excuse to pay less in taxes, likely. The tiger simply kept talking. "He is feared as a 'master' arsonist. The people fear he will burn their villages to the ground. Now...it would simply not do for me to kill this man. I am, after all, a man of peace."
Cog couldn't keep a snort from escaping him, but the Tiger didn't seem to notice. "Killing him is out of the question, for me. So, I found myself in need of a mercenary. That, good man, is where you come in." He grinned and held up his fork in the air. "Kill this man! Save my people, and, earn your reward!" he said, his voice dramatic. Cog simply cringed inwardly. He shook his head, and managed to keep himself from grimacing. Shifting one leg, he stared at the man from behind his shades.
"Truly, a hero's quest." he said, his voice deadpan. As he kept speaking, he kept his voice soft. "I'm sure your people are in torment, and likely you wish to resolve this as quickly as I do. Where is the vagabond now?"
The Tiger held his fork in the air for a moment, and brought it back down to his dinner, stabbing the meat left on his plate. "Yes, yes. To the point. Fine." He said, his voice short. He seemed somewhat put-out by Cog's lack of enthusiasm, but his attempt at keeping a cheery attitude were worthy of applause, or of a mild sickness to the stomach. "Last seen, he was thirty miles out east, well into the wilderness. You should be able to see my tower form outside the town?. Simply walk towards it, and when you reach the first village, turn towards the smoke."
Cog quirked an eyebrow. "The smoke?" he said, his voice incredulous. The tiger simply nodded. "Yes, the smoke. Oh, and take this." The mage opened a pouch at his waist and handed him a single, silver hounds-tooth. In comparison with the rest of the somewhat fetid and hot tavern, the piece of silver was ice-cold. He held it in his hand for a moment, staring at it. It didn't warm in his hand, but simply sat there like a piece of ice. "When you find him, you might need it. 'Till then little doggy!" The tiger said, putting his fork down.
With those words, Arcturus's stood, wiped his mouth, and disappeared. Simply vanished into thin air, leaving his empty plate and the silver tooth in the werewolf's hand. He closed his fist around the charm, letting the chill permeate his hand. He sat at the table for a long while before getting up and finding a place to stay. Damned if he would spend his first night off that ship sleeping on a rock.
Good stuff. Back to the business about 'man', have you considered filling in the species? E.g. 'cat', 'feline', 'canine' etc? This is something I tend to do without thinking, but it occurred to me after I noticed that you didn't seem to mention what kind of a creature the captain is.
Of course this opens up the 'Argh... what kind of creature do I make this character?' problem which has plagued me ever since I started CJP...
You make a good point. There are anthromorphs, and adding the specie is probably a good idea. Leaving it out leaves too much ambiguity.
I've made a correlating edit. I also forgot indicate the brilliantly contrasting fur color. Whoops.
In this case, I had decided the species, but I'd forgot to indicate. Although, yes, it is somewhat difficult to decide sometimes. I knew what I wanted from Horatio, but, well, other things might cause problems...eh well.
nonspecifics, you can use other identifying features - eg, "the crewmember" or the like, as an identifying feature. It just gets confusing when -both- parties to the conversation are referred to as "the man" - although this is not a problem specific to your writing, so don't feel I'm picking on anything here... :-]
Llearch is, of course, correct. :3
I'll try and keep that in mind as I write. I used to simply paragraph break all the conversations as they happened. Perhaps I should do so again.
Of course, I could just do as the good box advises, and make sure to tell the reader who it is that's speaking. :rolleyes
After speaking with Bill, he assures me that posting here is not bad. I don't particularly trust Bill, mind, but I suppose it's not a grand ruse to get me banned. :B
So, the next chapter. Apologies about the length between posts- real life issues got in the way for quite some time. I did, however, get off my ass and do some writing while my compatriots wakeboarded. The lake is a surprisingly good muse. Enough excuses. My shame! For all to see!
*Edit - I hated the way I formatted this before. Changed for legibility.*
* * *
Ch. 3 – Happy, Happy, Growing Fire
Arcturus's tower could indeed be seen from the town, and following sleepless night in a rather unclean bed, Cogidubnus began his trek with all deliberate speed. Not that he was afraid of roaches and spiders, but they made poor company in bed.
The journey was largely uneventful. Being a port town, the roads leading to and from Huad were decently patrolled, and the wilderness surrounding it was largely uninhabited. Cog wasn't too incredibly worried anyway. He didn't carry his blade for show, after all.
He'd found the first town a few days after setting out from the city. The people seemed nice enough folk, although they treated him with perhaps a little more suspicion than he would have liked. Still, he only had to mention Arcturus's name, and they pointed him in the right direction, as well as providing him food and drink in exchange for his coin.
When he complained about having to pay, considering he was saving their village and all, they merely smiled politely and complained of hard times
Still, they let him buy some food. Cog decided to label it a victory.
The next leg of his journey was little more difficult than the first, although he still ran into no real troubles. The smoke Arcturus had spoken of was easily visible during the day, and Cog had ample time to rest during the night. He could hear various things moving around him in the brush, but he paid them little attention. He knew he didn't smell like prey. Being a were did have some advantages. He smelled wrong, and animals tended to avoid him because of that. Not that he was complaining. More than one pack of wolves had passed him by during the night.
The end of his journey came rather quickly, however. As he neared the smoke, the trees and foliage gradually grew thinner and thinner, and he very soon he found himself merely walking through fields rather than a forest. From there, the source of the smoke was apparent.
Right in the middle of the field was a very large column of fire. And, sitting right in the center of the fire was a spear, planted tip-first into the ground. The faint outline of runes could be seen behind the curtain of flame, and fire licked from the arcane lines to the haft of the spear and back. Not very far from it was a large tent.
Cog grinned. Finally, he thought. Days and weeks of endless boredom, discomfort, and irritation, but the goal was finally in front of him. Kill this poor bastard, and the book would be his. The secret that Chiba had discovered would be his. The Wolf would be his.
He would be free.
He reached into his pocket, and removed the houndstooth that Arcturus had given him. The trinket was ice cold still, despite his body heat, and Cog rolled it about in his hand for a few moments. He had no idea how the damn thing was supposed to help him. He peered at it for a long while, pressing on it in different ways, but to no avail. The thing merely sat like a lump of ice in his hand. He looked at the thing with a bit of irritation, and simply let it sit in his palm. Perhaps it was self-activating.
The roar of the fire masked his steps nicely, and Cog approached the tent softly, walking slowly. He took care to stay away from the burning pillar of fire, though he could barely feel the heat from that bonfire. He shrugged, and stopped next to the edge of the tent. Bending forward, he put his ear to the canvas, listening.
He grimaced. The fire that masked his steps also served to mask whatever else might be in there. If anyone was indeed in there. His face skewed, and he took a step back, sliding the sword from his scabbard.
He may not be able to pinpoint a target, but it wasn't like he was dealing with a very large space. Bringing his sword to one side and setting it level with his hips, he moved one leg backward and adjusted his hips to the side. The effect was something like cocking a gun. Taking a breath, he straightened his whole body forward and swung, his entire body propelling the sword forward. It cut through he tent about as easily as it had the air before it, the cloth slicing neatly instead of ripping, not even slowing down at the poles supporting the canvas. The wind that seemed to eternally blow about there flipped the cloth into the air and carried it away, revealing a rather untidy sleeping area and a few bits of used camping gear. Cog cursed and pursed his lips, and returned his sword to his sheath in the blink of an eye. He'd just have to go find him now, then. He turned to begin his search.
The next instant, he felt a sudden draft blow opposite the wind, and he dove forward. He had barely thrown himself forward, when a massive explosion ripped up the ground behind him, flipping and propelling him over and onto his back. Bits of dirt and half-melted rocks pelted him as he rolled to one knee.
Standing and grinning before him was a mountain of a man, clad in full plate stained black, and carrying a small animal in one hand. Nothing about him indicated how he might have caused the explosion, excepting for a bit of smoke curling up from one hand. A golden salamander decorated the breastplate of his armor, and his blue eyes stood out in sharp contrast to his soot-blackened face.
He dropped the animal. "I was usin' that tent, ya know."
Cog snarled and lunged forward, rising off one knee and propelling himself at the armored figure. The armored man's grin faded, and he took a step back. Too late. Cog's particular style of swordsmanship, Iai, was in large part an art of anti-assassination, and emphasized speed more than anything else. This also made it very handy as an assassination art.
Cog covered the small distance almost instantly, and he drew his sword and struck in a single, fluid motion, his sword a flashing, silver blur. The glittering line was aimed at the unarmored head, in an attempt to possibly blind or maim before a killing blow could be struck. It would have worked, too, but Cog had no idea what he was dealing with.
An instant before his sword struck, the ground again erupted before him in a shower of debris and fire. It threw Cog into the air and backwards, and he hit the ground with a large thunk as yet more rocks and dirt fell on him. He heard the armored man call out to him.
"Hey, now, we've only just met!" the armored man said. Cog rose, his adversary still grinning, both of his hands now curling with smoke. "God's but yer fast." he said, cracking his neck with one gauntleted fist. "Don't see too many who hit like that, now, not for a few decades..." he murmured, shaking himself a bit before stomping forward.
Cog kept his face stoic. The armored man's grin faded a little bit, and he raised his hand. "You'll understand that I'm taking a little offense, what with you tryin' to kill me and all."
He lowered his arms to his side, his voice losing it's mirth. "You've got about...oh, twenty seconds to get out. I'll not be saying it again."
Cog nodded to the man, standing up straight, as though he was about to leave. The man relaxed his guard for an instant, and Cog lept forward again, grabbing the hilt of his blade, but stopping just short of the man and throwing himself back. As expected, a gout of flame erupted in front of him. Cog hadn't really quite expected the source, however.
The black-clad man wasn't using anything clever, really, just his fists. He certainly didn't look like a mage, but the swirling flames in his hands indicated otherwise. He was simply throwing the fire from himself, in the form of very large, exploding balls. Cog's face soured – this didn't really bode very well for him. He preferred to take mages and the like out from the safety of right behind them, with a clean swipe to the head, before they knew what was going on.
Cog thumbed the little tooth Arcturus had given him. Despite the rather oppressive heat created by the pillar of fire, it was still ice-cold. He rubbed it a moment, not quite sure how to use the thing, and simply held it in front of him. The armored man raised an eyebrow and brought his other hand up.
The armored man wasn't wasting any time. The hand was already swirling with fire, and it took only an effort of will to send it flying for the Iaidoka. Cog had no time to react – by sheer luck, the little tooth was the first thing to contact the flames before they exploded.
He was launched back again, but was untouched by the fire – the flames simply slid off him. As he slammed into the ground, he winced as a rock bit into his back. He was really getting tired of being knocked down. A little behind the ringing in his ears, he could hear the booming laughter of his opponent.
"Doggy has a few tricks! Not that a little frost magic'll help ye much, but eh." He laughed. Cog stumbled to his feet, the little tooth in his hands still cold. "The name is Giles. I make it a point to introduce myself to opponents who last longer than twenty seconds. Save's me a lot of time, understand." the armored man said, sliding up to the column of fire.
He grinned toothliy, and stuck his hand into the roiling inferno. The salamander on his chest glowed brightly as he reached. The fire did not touch Giles, his arm leaving a trail as it burned upwards.
His hand closed around the spear in the middle, twisting and then breaking the spear up out of the ground. The column of fire instantly faded, and as Giles swung the spear in front of him the head began to glow a bright, hot orange. A slight hiss could be heard, and a little blood trickled off its tip.
"A course, yer twenty seconds is up now, so I'll not be saying it was nice meeting you." he said, suddenly flipping the spear into a ready position at his side, almost dragging along the ground as he charged at Cog, fires beginning to swirl in his other hand...
Nice chapter, Cog! And a pretty neat story so far, very well done. Keep it up. :3
Good work, keep it up.
This is, after all, prose and poetry.
Hourglass
A darkened room, by gaslamps lit,
or by some incandescent glow,
where, outwaiting the hours I would sit,
and watch the world grow old and go
and watch petals, from a pewter vase,
make rings of flowers upon the glass
like withered, yellow clocks that tell,
what days and hours, now lost, befell
But I - I sit in peace, and watch
as all around me turns to dust
The timeless keeper of time I stand,
and drip the timeless grains of sand
Interesting and entertaining as always. I find your writing often leaves me wanting to read more, something that only a handful of authors have been able to achieve over the years.
well done a joy to read as always Cogidubnus
I know, I know, I should finish one project before starting another one. A friend asked me to write him a story, however, and I (perhaps foolishly) said yes. So, here 'tis. Chapter one.
For those of you not familiar, this is set in Elswyr, of Elder Scrolls fame. A fanfic! Jubilation.
Ch. 1
Torval
Fire.
Fire, burning and consuming, a waving skirt in the tall grass, the wind blowing with it clouds of ash and heat. Smoke, blown high by the prevailing wind, stood as a dark harbinger of the death soon to come. If one stood in the correct place, one could smell the sweet smell of the sugars in the cane fields burning, along with the more bitter smell of charring grasses. Much farther in the distance, one could see the beginnings of a large forest, across a sparkling, blue river.
The Kahjitt in the city were just becoming aware of the impending danger – the smoke in the distance becoming too pronounced to ignore. Too late, unfortunately: The fire, blown by the easterly wind, was blowing straight for the little town, a ring of fire bending across the plains and to the banks of the river. The only reprieve lay in crossing the river into Valenwood.
Straight into the arms of the waiting Wood Elves.
The Elves had set up camp just across from the town. Parties of bowman, waiting in both the trees and on the ground waited for to run for the river. Arrows stuck in the ground gave the far bank a bristling appearance, volleys upon volleys of arrows ready for the archers to rain upon the fleeing Kahjiit. Their faces were grim with anticipation. The fire burned, and the Kahjiit would be driven here. There would be no Torval, not anymore.
In the city itself, the panic had only begun to rise. Kahjiit streamed out out the city, some running for the plains to try and find a gap in the fire, and others running for the Valenwood border, to cross the lifesaving river there and thereby escape fiery doom. Those who made for the plains quickly found that the fire was, indeed, a complete circle. Those who tried braving the inferno died, the smell of burning bodies joining the charred smell of burning grassland.
Those who ran for the river fared no better. The Bosmer's arrows were swift, and their hearts stone – weeks later, masses of arrow-marked kahjiit bodies would wash downstream and into the southern seas, most of them completely stripped clean.
Of the few Kahjitt who survived the destruction of Torval, very few ever went on to be anything more than refugees from that land. Among them, however, was Za'Riijah, a female Kahjitt, and her yet unamed kitten.
Skirting past the ashen wastes of what was once vibrant fields of crops, they made their way to the closet available city - Senchal.
* * * *
Senchal
Unlike any other place in the world, Senchal was ruled and not-ruled, a place of order and a place of unbridled freedom. While law ruled those who adhered to it, the true master of the city was gold, and sugar – always, always sugar. Anything one wanted could be gotten, for a price, and to those who knew how, any experience was not out of reach. It was a smuggler's paradise, a glorified bay of pirates barely held in check by the rule of the Mane.
Of course, the little kitten did not know this. It knew merely that its mother was warm, that it was hungry, and that it hadn't slept on something soft for weeks. To tired to cry anymore, the kitten merely lay in it's mothers arms, dozing exhaustedly in the haze of arid smoke that seemed to continually fume around the older Kahjiit.
When it awoke, however, things had changed, and not to its liking. Two strange men were talking to her mother, talking and hissing loudly in turn, and waving bright, shiny things around in their hands. She cried out her distress, and her mother seemed to tighten her grip on the poor child. The two men continued to brandish the shiny objects, until one of them put them away and pulled out a handful of shiny objects.
Her mother's grip slackened, and the baby quited for a moment. It opened its eyes to see the man hand her mother a handful of shiny, golden things, and set down two little purple bottles. Her mother stiffened and then slackened, a slight mewling sound coming from her, and taking a rattling breath seemed to clutch the child closer. The child began to wail again, discomforted by both the strange men and the sudden pressure applied on it.
Za'Riijah let out a mewling wail again, and felt her body begin to shake, not only with the monstrous proposition in front of her, but the telltale shakes of skooma withdrawl. She had a pounding, excruciating headache that was only going to get worse. Her child's crying wasn't helping either. She gasped, her vision suddenly going double as a fresh wave of wracking pain quivered down from her brain and into her toes, and felt of bit of blood trail down her chin. She'd bitten her tongue.
Unfortunately for the child, Za'Riijah was already into withdrawal. And she knew, like all Kahjiit, that skooma addiction could not be cured. Blocking out the sounds of her child's crying, she handed her to the grinning dark elf and practically lunged at the little bottles, unscrewing the cap and downing almost all of it in a single gulp. It wasn't long before she was in the pleasant dreamland of a skooma high, the tears on her face already drying.
The baby would never remember these events, save for impressions and a lifelong dislike for the smell of skooma, and so it would never remember the face her mother made as she handed her baby over as a slave, for three-hundred septims and two vials of skooma.
* * * *
As soon as the baby grew old enough to walk and speak, she was fitted with a slave bracer, and was begun to be taught her role in life. Normally, slaves taken by the Sugar Knives, as the drug dealers were called, were again sold to a third party for a substantial profit, and a slave bought for less than a third of what she was worth would indeed bring a profit. They had a different role in mind for the young cat, however – even as a baby, she had shown herself to be uncannily bright, and they had need of a young one to train.
Golcat, as she was known, for the relatively small amount of gold she had been bought for, was to be given to Ja'Khaij, the gang's chemist. The elderly Kahjiit would make use of her as a lab assistant, and through doing so would train his own replacement. He was old, and his time was nearing an end – by the time the little Kahjiit was ready to take over the processing of moon sugar into Skooma, it would be time for him to retire, or simply have died from age.
This wasn't to say hers was going to be an easy life. Lessons would often involve being in close proximity to corrosive chemicals and noxious fumes. Ja'Khaij, who had worked with the chemicals for years, possessed an extremely emaciated, raspy voice, and had a terrible, sometimes bloody, cough. Alchemists who worked with the kind of materials he did didn't tend to live long, and they would be no kinder to the little Golcat.
Golcat grew up with a rasping, hollow voice, and possessed a minor little cough of her own. Throughout her life, she would have troubles breathing. Her training as a Alchemist, however detrimental, was also in addition to the more menial tasks normally given to slaves, such as taking care of the hovel she and Ja'Khaij called home, cooking, and generally being at the entire gang of thug's beck and call. She grew up thin, lean, and eternally smelling of moonsugar, alchemical supplies, and sweat. Though by no means was her life easy, it was far better than the fate of some slaves bought by the Knives of Sugar – she never had to worry about being used the way some were, nor having to suffer the awful fate of a drug mule. She lived with the old Alchemist uncomfortably, as more a disfavored child than a slave
The bracer never left her wrist, however, the metal band a nagging, constant reminder of her true state. It rankled at the young Kahjiit. While she dared not ever express her dislike openly, like most slaves, she would sometimes daydream about escape.
In the meantime, however, she continued to live with the Ja'Khaij, and to be taught how to make the skooma that gang sold so voluminously.
* * * *
Today was a little different than most. The light that filtered through the slatted windows of the little room I called home was still dim with the early-morning Senchal sun, but it still seemed...
I bolted upright in bed and opened the slats a little further. The sun was practically fully risen – I had overslept by at least an hour. Stumbling out of bed I threw on the dirty clothes that the old s'wit
graciously allowed me to wear and padded into the main room of the hut, hoping beyond hope that Ja'Khaij hadn't awoken early this morning to see me not preparing breakfast.
I exhaled. He hadn't, and I still might make it through the morning without a beating. I opened the little cupboard that contained out supplies, and setting a few pieces of sweet bread Ja'Khaij had bought last week on the counter, and took the single match allowed me every morning and began to light the stove. I had to be careful – if the match was wasted, it wouldn't matter how early I woke up. Breakfast would be cold, and I would be sore the rest of the day.
I took a piece of wood from the pile beside the stove and placed it inside, the coals still just slightly alive beneath the cold ashes. I lit the match on one the the faintly glowing embers and held it beneath a smaller twig.
It lit. I exhaled, stoking the flames, and began to prepare breakfast. Buttered toast and a few pieces of meat was generally how Ja'Khaij liked to start the day. From the look of it, he was going to sleep in this morning. I shrugged, a little irritated at the old man. Sleeping in was a cardinal sin for me, anyway. Fetcher.
I grabbed a broom and began to sweep the trash dotting the dirt floor of the little hut into a corner. I'd take it outside later. There were places where one could dump trash, but the bay was closer, and gave me five or so minutes to enjoy the sun. It was, perhaps, one of the few indulgences I had.
I sometimes suspected that Ja'Khaij could smell the saltwater on me, but he'd never said anything. Sometimes the old man could be tolerable.
I finished sweeping and flipped to toast, and reached into the cupboard for the flask of Mazte Ja'Khaij kept in there. The codger had spent some time in Vvardenfell, apparently, and had become enamored of the local drink. I poured a measure of it into one of our clay cups, crinkling my nose at the smell, and set it on the table, next to his chair. Ja'Khaij swore by it, but I sometimes wondered if the stuff wasn't used somewhere to remove varnish.
To my astonishment, the smell of sizzling meat still didn't rouse the sluggard from his bed. I grimaced, taking the just slightly cooked bits of sweetmeat and lavishly buttered toast, and placing them on a plate next to his glass of mazte. I sat down on the floor and waited for the old man to rouse.
When he still didn't rouse twenty minutes later, I began to get worried. I knew that Ra'Jiirah would be coming to meet the old fetcher at a little before midday, and that the druggist still didn't have all the skooma ready to be handed over yet. It still needed measuring and packaging, and Ra'Jiirha would probably beat the old man if he was too lazy to have gotten everything ready by now. I sat there for twenty more minutes, waiting.
I stood. The old man would probably beat me for this, but...
Entering his room was strictly forbidden. But then, so was oversleeping. I carefully eased the driftwood door away from the wall, intent on waking the old man softly.
The damn door squeaked louder than a mewling kitten. I knew this, and despite how carefully I tried to open it, it still screamed into the early morning air. I cursed, and simply threw the door open, uncaring. Maybe it would wake him up for me.
What I saw confirmed that Ja'Khaij wasn't sleeping.
Ja'Khaij was curled into a fetal position, fangs bared and his body twisted unnaturally. A pool of blood covered his mouth and chest. Years and years of slow erosion to his lungs and throat had finally caught up with him, and Ja'Khaij had drowned in his own blood last night.
"Oh."
Of course, at the time, I didn't feel much of anything at seeing the old man dead. It was...too different. A foreign concept. I vaguely felt the notion that I should be shocked, or disturbed at seeing him dead. Even if it was just a dead body, I should feel... something. I felt nothing, however, except for a sudden rush of adrenaline. I would realize what had just happened later, and largely be the happier for it. But at that moment, I simply felt numb.
It was only an hour past dawn, and I had five hours before Ra'Kiirah would be coming to collect this weeks product. And I also knew that I had a sudden, refreshingly unrestricted access to the alchemical supplies.
When Ja'Khaij wanted to teach me, he'd bring an alembic and a mortar and pestle into the main room and watch me there, sometimes actually letting me do real work with it. I was supposed to take over for him one day, after all. But at all other times they were kept in his room, a place that I was strictly forbidden to enter.
There was a good reason Ja'Khaij had kept the equipment locked away. Skooma, in it's basic form, was an extremely mild acid. An extremely expensive acid, if one wished to use it for corroding metal, but an acid nontheless, and a foolish slave with enough moon-sugar, time, and knowledge might be able to melt the bracer off its arm.
Three things I suddenly had in droves. The idea hit me slowly, an over-shy guest in my mind. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to entertain it either. It was impossible. It was unthinkable. But, yet...wasn't this what I wanted? This was golden. Getting another chance like this...
I would have to act quickly. I ran out and got a stick from the stove and light it, and ran back into the room, lighting the alembic, and grabbed a stoppered bottle to pour into the glassware. Eight similar
bottles dotted the desk, and crates more were set into the wall, all of them pure skooma. I poured two into the Alembic and set down to waiting, grabbing Ja'Khaij's uneaten breakfast and running back into the room.
It felt odd, eating his breakfast next to his dead body.
Perhaps it was the excitement, or perhaps it was the fear I had of Ra'Jiirah suddenly bursting into the little hut, but the two bottles seemed to take ages to boil down to the consistency I wanted,
pudding-thick. I poured in eight more bottles, getting it down to the consistency I wanted. I had eight bottles of skooma in the little jar, which was about how many I thought I'd need - I then poured as much water as I dared back into it, filling it to the brim, and set a distillation cap on top of it. A I placed a smaller jar under the catch, and waited.
It took another hour before I saw what I needed to see. A slight bend was beginning to develop in the glass arm of the distillation setup – which meant that it really was a strong as I was going to need it. I turned off the flame, and stared at the little glass cup, about halfway full of hyperrefined skooma. Taking a rag, I gingerly grabbed the top of the vial and held the mixture over my arm. I saw the glass bottom begin to bend, and clenched my teeth.
Though I would later come to realize that I was lucky the mixture didn't simply explode, or burn my arm off, I was at the time only fairly certain that it was going to hurt like hell. And it did.
The skooma began to drizzle out the bottom and react with the slave bracer almost instantly. The fumes nearly gagged me, and made a hellaciously loud sound, like a dozen eggs being fried in a pan at once.
I coughed and tried to keep the smoke out of my eyes.
The skooma started to come out faster and faster, the smells and sounds getting far worse, and I nearly choked before I felt a scream burble up from my throat. My hand was on FIRE. The bracer still hadn't been eaten through yet, though...
The keyhole. The damn keyhole. I'd poured the acid straight into it, and my wrist was now being nicely chewed up. I bit back a scream and tried to keep any more of the liquid from dripping down there. It didn't work entirely too well, although now more or less acid seemed to make little difference.
Between the smoke, the sounds, and the burning pain, I felt like it took an eternity to burn through that bracer. Considering how much of the skooma I had, though, it couldn't have been any more than a minute. I can still remember the yip I let out when I saw the little band of metal give a sudden jerk, and fall away from my wrist. I literally threw the ruined alembic into the wall and the old bracer with it, and ran into the kitchen for fresh water. My hand still felt like a nest of fire ants had decided to burrow into my skin, and they were starting to dig tunnels.
Water didn't seem to help it. I panicked briefly, and in desperation I grabbed my former master's glass of mazte and poured that onto it. It was one of the most painful things I've ever experienced in my life, the feeling of that alcohol mixing with the acid on my hand. I know I screamed. Sometimes you get lucky, though – no one seemed to question Ja'Khaij's beating the little slave girl again. My yowlings were dismissed as a particularly brutal one. Still. The mazte, although it intensified the pain for the moment, caused it to begin to fade away a moment later. It would still throb for weeks, but the acid was no longer trying to show me my insides. I would forever after have a hairless patch on my wrist, however, in the perfectly odd shape of a keyhole.
Things moved quickly from there. I stole the bloody robe that Ja'Khaij had been wearing, and hiding my maimed arm inside it I simply left our little hovel. It was the last time I would ever see it – not that I wished to. Staying in Senchal would have been suicide. But getting out of the city could have been no simpler. Cloaked as I was, and without a bracer to set of magical alarms at the gate, I was free to pass through, no questions asked.
And so I did. And, as I walked out of the gates, I shivered. It was the first time I had ever seen the dunes outside of Elswyr without a wall or bars between myself and the sands. I dared not take a moment to gaze at them, however, and looking at the sign I tried to deduce what direction to go. I was illiterate at the time, but I did know how to read two words – my own name, and Rimmen.
My slave bracer had been from Rimmen, and the name had been etched into the metal. The place was famous for it's slaving.
I thought a moment. It was, perhaps, the one place they would expect me to try and avoid. Looking at the sign carefully, I traced my hands over the symbols to make sure, and began walking down the sandy path towards the distant city.
End Ch.1
I take absurdly long times to write. This is something I wish was not true, but the more and more I write, the more and more it becomes apparent.
The Epic of Golcat Ch.2
The Kahjiit are slavers in Rimmen.
Not that there aren't Kahjiiti slaves. And not as though the Kahjiit are the only slavers – the Dunmer, the Altmer, the Akaviri, and those damned smooth-skin lizards, they'll all make a slave of you if they can. Anyone who can find a rusty bracer and a lock will make a slave of you, if they can.
I made sure they couldn't. Never again.
In some ways, I'm not entirely sure how I made it to Rimmen in the first place. The sands between Senchal and the Farthest City are indeed warm, and fugitive slaves are not an unknown sight. If the bounty hunters didn't get you, many, many others certainly could. Merchants, pilgrims, and wandering guardsmen with only a passing interest could easily recognize the tattered form of a runaway slave. Beleaguered, exhausted, and ragged were all marks of the bracer. This could also be easily mistaken for poverty – more often than not, it was the other way around. From experience, those who were simply beggars kept their hands and forearms in plain sight, lest they be mistaken for a slave hiding a bracer in its sleeves. And how much more careful one has to be around trading lanes or large cities!
The sand was hot. Every step I took burned deep – I don't think I quite understood what a trip across the desert was, when I started. Not as though I'd ever had a chance to learn about the warm sands, but...
The excitement of escape wore off after a few hours, leaving only a cold tightness in my gut. Senchal was far behind me, and yet not nearly far enough - by this point, they would have found the druggist's dead body. They'd be looking for me now, and when they didn't find me in the city they'd really start trying to find me. Slaves were expensive, and bounty hunters could make a nice profit bringing escapees. It wouldn't be that hard for them to find me either: I looked down at my still-throbbing forearm and winced. The heat was starting to make the wound itch, and the coarse fabric of my robe wasn't helping soothe the irritation. I resisted the urge to scratch the raw flesh.
If I didn't find some sort of way to...escape, something, some way to keep myself hidden and alive, I might as well turn around now. I looked behind myself lamely, then back towards the open road and down at my feet. I cringed, and started walking a bit faster.
Hobbling. If they caught me now, they'd break both of my feet and fuse them back together wrong. Standard procedure with an escapee – keep it useful, but make sure it can't run anymore. They wouldn't hesitate either. Alchemists don't need their feet, after all.
In my fear, I became foolish. In an effort to hide my own tracks, I moved off the relatively cool dirt road and onto the burning, glaring sands. The pain of having your footpads burnt and scratched with every step, the particles digging into the crevices in your feet and in your toes...it wasn't as bad as a beating, not nearly as bad at first, but it got pretty damn close. Walking was a torture. Only later would I realize walking on the open desert was probably unnecessary, and probably even detrimental. A single pair of tracks wandering into the sand was just as strange as a ragged and confused-looking individual hiding her wrists. Even so.
I was lucky in one thing: I was running in the complete wrong direction. For a slave, Rimmen is the last place you should want to go. It is for perhaps this reason that they never hunted for me in the right places, a little distance off the road to the Farthest City.
I was stupid, but luck smiled on me. Or maybe Sheggorath did. Either way, before water became a problem I happened upon my first sugar plantation, complete with a working well and irrigation system. I wasn't welcome, of course, but I didn't exactly ask. The brackish, filthy water at the root of the moonsugar plant was foul, but it kept me from dying of thirst, and thought the root of the sugar-stalk is bitter, it was more nourishing than the sand, at least. The Sugar itself, I did not touch – I have never been fond of it. Some Kahjiit say that they feel...connected, through it, that they feel connected with their brothers, and with all the Kahjiit. I have never felt such – the sugar makes me feel... lost, and very small. I don't partake.
I suppose many things exist in this world, but I know many would consider a Kahjiit without a sweet tooth one of the strangest.
It was a one-week journey. Stupidly, luckily, and almost haphazardly, I made my way to Rimmen. I left only a few broken canes of sugar and bloody footprints behind me.
* * *
-Rimmen
I reached Rimmen the night of the sixth day, my arm red and inflamed with the promise of infection, my mouth parched and my stomach empty. After passing thorugh the gate, the magical ward proclaiming I was not a slave, I breathed a small sigh of relief, glad to at last be out of the desert and into a city. This was my first inkling of the nature of Rimmen – had only gotten to he inhaling part before I choked on fetid air, and what I saw next drained me of any desire to relax.
Filth and squalor do not describe the streets of Rimmen. Poor, squamous, muddy, disease-ridden, infested and bloody begin to. I saw people, there, kept in pens like livestock. All races. Argonians, Kahjiit, and all the others. Cages, built from the sticks and rubble of whatever building had recently fallen down around its own muddy foundations, the broken remains holding yet more broken remains, the weeping shells of former people. Now simply bodies of despair and brokenness. As a slave...I had been fortunate to never see such – I had been beaten, degraded, and seen terrible things, but nothing like this.
A dunmer, covered in sores, shifted on his chains, blood and pus leaking past the iron shackle, and stared at me as he sat in his own filth.
His eyes terrified me.
So, as calmly and quickly as I could move without running, I tucked my arms into my sleeves and walked, keeping my hood up and my head down. Looking straight ahead, I kept going and didn't stop until I found myself in front of the first building I could find without a slave-pen in front of it. Wooden, rickety buildings surrounded it, this one building of stone and mortar oddly out of place. It appeared as a palace to me, although it wasn't bigger than a small house. I couldn't read the words on the front, although I could make out a faded, grimy eye.
I found out later that entering from the north was one of the less-savory ways to enter the city, but at the time I thought I'd stepped into a city of hell.
I tried the lock, and to my infinite relief it was open. I practically leaped inside, slamming the door on the inside was and then slamming it shut a moment later, not even bothering to look around before entering. My face froze for just a moment as I faced the door. I must look insane.
Too late now.
I took a breath, and turned away from the door. Staring back at me were three sets of raised eyebrows, each one turning their gaze towards me and away away from a more immediate task. A red-robed, voluptuous Altmer woman, a blue-robed Breton, and a Argonian in a fairly sturdy outfit of a shirt and pants all looked up at me incredulously. The Breton seemed to be occupied reading something, a tome in one hand and a quill in another. The Argonian was with him, a stack of coins in his hand. Perhaps paying the Breton to read something? Was reading really that hard? The Altmer woman was siting calmly at the desk in front of me, engaged in reading something else.
"I told you ve should have locked ze doorrs.."
"Shut up, Skink." the Altmer said, setting her book down. The Argonian simply blinked at her and shrugged. She looked at me with a bit of concern in her eyes, her brows knitting together and a single tooth biting her lip before continuing.
"Are you alright, dear? Do you need something-"
"Tell it to -leave-, Zath." the Breton spoke up, giving the Altmer a look. "You're too soft with them, you know? I don't like it any more than you do, but in Elswyr the law is the law, and-"
"We should at least ask it was it wants!" the alter responded calmly, her eyes somewhat large. The Breton rolled his eyes again, throwing up his hands, and continued to read from his book. It was fascinating, watching him – I couldn't read. As he continued, he would add or take a gold coin from the Argonians hand, or from the table in front of himself.
"What do you want, dear?" the Altmer said, making me flinch. I opened my mouth to speak, and then stopped.
What did I want?
Her eyes saddened just a bit as she looked at me. "I'm sorry, dear, but the Mages Guild can't help you. We must obey the laws of the land, wherever we go, and that includes slavery too-"
"Not a slave!" I rasped. I looked around the room quickly, inadvertently meeting the eyes of that Argonian. My gaze instantly darted to my feet, and as I looked at my bloody feet on that dusty stone floor I suddenly cursed at myself. Gathering my strength I raised my gaze back up.
I was not a slave.
The Breton looked up at me again, his eyebrows arched, and with a silent look at my hidden wrists and then at the Altmer he returned to his reading. The Argonian beside him looked at me strangely, his eyes appraising.
"Oh, my dear..." the Altmer said, her already large eyes widening. "I know it's hard, my dear, but things can't continue this way forever. The Emperor-"
"Not A SLAVE!" I rasped again, a flower of anger opening up inside me. I wasn't a slave. I was not. I would never go back to that again - I couldn't go back to that again. Bloody feet, terrible food, cold nights and an exhaustion in my very bones, I would take over slavery a thousand times over. Nothing was worth the beatings, the constant threat of being sold to someone worse, the...
These people treated me like a person, even though they thought of me as a slave. At the time, I didn't realize it, but they were the first to really do so. The old druggist, may he rot in hell, sometimes slipped up and did the same, calling me by name and generally regarding me as another person. Perhaps a side effect of living in that cramped three-room shack – it wasn't like he could just ignore me. But these people, they cared: but perhaps cared is not the right word. They respected me. Even the Breton, as much as he was resigned, didn't simply ignore me as refuse to be swept out. I was living refuse, deserving of at least a little consideration.
I could never go back to being a slave again.
I was tired, bloody, and my arm throbbed faintly with the promise of infection. But will all the hunger, and the pain, I still was free. Myself. And every time I thought about that cold bracer clasping about my wrist, I hard a difficult time suppressing a growl.
"Not a slave." I rasped softly. The Altmer's expression grew puzzled, her head moving backwards just imperceptibly. Her eyes drifted dover to the Breton fellow. When he very carefully didn't respond, the Altmer swallowed, and turned back to me. She settled herself, and took a deep breath.
"What do you want, then?" she said. Her voice was polite, but didn't quite have that sympathetic tone anymore. Somehow strained. Never having seen a person of a delicate temperament before,
I couldn't know that she was simply nervous as hell at this suddenly bold Kahjiit slave. To me, the woman seemed like she was taking on that low, carefully controlled voice that Za'Riijah would use before he lost all patience. If he wasn't mollified, a beating would follow shortly.
The tone itself was almost painful to me, freezing my thoughts and then thrusting my mind into dazzling activity.
What did I want?
"Alchemy." I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "I...I am here about alchemy." I coughed.
All three of them looked up at me, Skink and the Breton looking up incredulously from their book. The Altmer's gaze was almost pitying again.
"You're here about the-?"
"Down the first stairway on your right. You'll be wanting to talk to Ambrose about that." the Breton said, interrupting the Altmer and pointing down the hall.
"Faulk, don't-"
"She's here about alchemy, Zath. And Ambrose is out alchemist. And he is down the hall, first stairway on the right." he said, giving the Altmer a glare. He turned his attention back to the ledgers, pointing at something and nudging the Argonian.
"These expenses here, Skink, aren't accounted for, I know it, but I'm almost be certain they were for a set of soulgems we needed to fix that nasty business with super-scamps. That, or it was the refurbishment cost for the summoning room. That incident with the surprise hunger. I'm never going to get that desk back out of oblivion..."
I was dismissed. The Altmer, Zath, just gave me a weak, timid smile, and looked down at her desk absently.
There was nothing to be done, then. I turned, feeling oddly exposed somehow, and walked down the pretty wood hall, and took the first right down the flight of stone steps.
* * *
The thing thing that strikes you first about walking into that glorified dungeon was the cold. It wasn't a light chill, or the cool dampness of the underground – it was a well and truly freezing cold. A light coat of frost glazed over the floor-stones and crawled up the walls, the cold made me aware of every step I took. The temperature difference between walking on hot sand and ice is almost painful by itself.
I sniffed: the air was very, very dry for the seaside Rimmen. Above, the ground had been mud and slush, but down here all I saw were small icicles formed by dripping moisture hanging from the cracks between the ceiling stones. The very moisture in the air seemed frozen up in those crystals, and it made the air almost difficult to breathe. If one closed one's eyes, one might think you were in Skyrim, and not the land of shifting deserts.
I walked in slowly, my feet crunching on the frost-covered floor, and I reflexively wrapped my robe tighter about myself. The room was quickly sucking the heat off my body. I felt my clothes around me begin to chill, and I felt the air even begin to work on the heat trapped beneath my fur – within only a few moments, I felt that I had lost all the heat of the sands and the sun above me. Whatever made this room so chill worked quickly, and as I began to shiver I stopped, staring at the walls in sudden awe. Swirling designs and shapes flowed within the frost of that room, little more than a trick of the blue, eternally-glowing light at the corner of the hallway, but I had to move my head but a little to see thousands and thousands of sparkles and lights dance before my vision – to a slave who had never been outside Senchal, let alone Elswyr, the sight of ice was strange and fantastic.
I had an academic knowledge of ice, and I had seen the great ships that carried blocks of it from the far north unload in the harbor, but my knowledge stopped there. I had never seen it myself. My first sight of it was to me memorable, but for far more reasons than simple novelty.
I started to shiver in earnest, and having only a thin robe and my own fur, I couldn't possibly stay down there long – in all truth, I may have been fine, but I had never known anything but the constant and unremitting heat of Elswyr. Anything less was already cold to me, and conditions of ice and snow bordered on the physically adverse. I would learn to stand the cold, but then, it was too different. I started to walk briskly, the rough warmth on the pads of my feet leaving little trails of refrozen frost in my wake. The hall turned sharply from the stairwell, and it opened into the basement proper.
Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of small jars, red-clay each one, stood in innumerable rows upon the far wall, each one neatly labeled in small black print that declared the contents. To the side, upon the leftmost wall, was a table cluttered with alchemical apparati, at least two alembics boiling and a alchemical oven baking as a smallish, black-haired dark elf worked quickly at the mortar and pestle, green-robed and with his back to me. Above me, and fairly covered with ice, was a swirling, glass-covered ball of white, occasionally peering out with cold, azure eyes at the world outside it. It seemed to stare at the alchemist below most of all.
I sniffed again, rubbing my nose at the burn caused by the cold. The dry air was terrible for scent – it made the nose almost numb, and impossible to smell anything. The scent of ectoplasm, the leftover stench of the dead, and steaming wolfsbane, however, are overpowering enough to make things that don't have noses gag. I could feel the stench crawling up my nose from across the room.
That seemed to be the Ambrose that Faulk had been speaking of. I coughed softly, sucking in a breath of cold air that turned my cough into a true hack.
"Just a damn minute!" the elf suddenly exploded, his arm doubling the speed that he was mixing with, and turned his head to regard me. Glowing red eyes stared into my own, eyes filled with the typical Dark Elf disdain for anything that isn't a Dark Elf, and all life in general, and giving the mixture a final stir he set the mortar and pestle down to turn and glare at me fully.
"Now what the hell are you here about!" he said, his eyes narrowed and a frowning darkly. I found my voice suddenly gone, and stood there shivering for just a moment.
"I...Faulk said to see you. About alchemy."
The Dark Elf frowned deeper, if that was possible, and turned back to his table. He dumped the mixture he'd been working on into a beaker of water kept unfrozen by an open flame, and then leaned against the table and looked at me. His red eyes were appraising, although the rest of his features seemed to be simply confused.
"You saw the sign, eh? Slaves are ineligible." he said sharply, his red eyes glittering in the cold light. How or why a dunmeri kept the temperature so gods-cursed cold is a mystery to me, but this creature of the ashlands who migrated to the desert apparently preferred to live in a tundra. Shivering, with my feet slowly aching from the freezing mud and slush from the outside caking and coldly biting into them, I stood there silently for a moment.
Still a slave. Poor looking Kahjiit without a name, with a burned arm and a bounty hunter looking for it, still worthless to keep around and dangerous to allow in. A slave, a piece of runaway labor that would bring far more trouble than it was worth – just a pair of arms and legs. Better to send it away, make it someone else's problem, make it someone else's fault for harboring an escapee until the bounty hunters came, and broke its ankles and drug it back to its masters. Nothing to be done about it – in Elswyr, the drug lords were King, and even the Mane himself respected their power. If the slave was theirs, there would be hell to pay. Better to just ignore it.
It'll go away eventually.
And indeed, the Dark Elf's eyes had slackened a bit, his mouth pursed in disappointment. He opened his gray mouth to speak. And as he was about to speak and proclaim my utter doom, kick me out into streets that would have eaten me alive then, a second blossom of fire sprouted within me. I had finally broken.
I looked at the dunmer with as much venom in my eyes as I possibly could, and growled deep in my throat. The dunmer's eyebrows rose, and without preamble set both hands to hanging loosely at his sides, a classical mage's stance.
"I don't recommend your trying to kill me, slave." he said, red eyes suddenly as cold as their surroundings. "I promise that -I- won't kill -you-. I will drag you back to the pit that you crawled out of, though, and personally demand of your master a beating the likes of which you've never felt. Or you can stop with this -nonsense-, and I can forget that I ever saw..."
"NOT A SLAVE!." I screamed at him, baring fangs. I bared my arm, showing the slowly-infecting key-shaped burn on my arm, and practically shook it at the mage. "Do you see a bracer around me arm? Do you?"
"What damned business is it of yours where I come from or what I've done?" I spit. "I came to see an apparently arrogant fetcher of a dark elf about alchemy, and instead I'm accused of..." I fumed, my claws bared. "Of...being a slave. Bastard!
I showed him one clawed hand. "If I could, Dark Elf, I'd rip those pretty red eyes out of your skull."
A sudden silence descended. I don't think I would have actually ripped his eyes out, but slowly my anger faded as I realized what I'd said. The dark elf stared at me silently, his face unreadable, and with a cold dread I realized that I'd probably just sealed my own fate. He'd turned me into the city authorities, they would report me as a lost slave, I would be imprisoned, a shackle placed back on my hands, and a sledgehammer and a plywood board would insure that I'd never run away again...
Somehow, I managed not to display my horror. Ambrose was still silent and unreadable, a statue, as icy as the frost around him. I kept his eyes, and hoped that dark elves didn't have the hearing to listen to my heart hammer away inside my chest.
About five seconds passed, and the dark elf smiled.
"Not a slave. Good." he said, turning back to his potions. He worked busily for a moment, gathering some things, and then waved over at me.
"Come here."
I stood quite still, not very sure how to react. My mouth hung open when Ambrose again turned to me, his red eyes narrowed.
"I get it, I get it! Not a damn slave! Now get your ass over here!" he said, gesturing roughly. I started forward with a jerk and joined him at his table, the dark elf passing me a cup of something steaming.
"Identify." he said shortly, and stared at me. I started back at him, face blank, and again the dark elf sighed in disappointment, and reached as it to take the cup back.
"Look, if you can't identify something this simple.."
"Ah!" I said, moving the cup back. "I understand."
I held the thing straight under my nose, which in retrospect was a very bad idea. I later learned that in proper alchemy, using your hand to blow the fumes of the concoction back at you is infinitely preferable to perhaps passing out from the wrong sort of potion – what's more, I truly doubt that Ambrose expected me to divine the substance by smell alone. That was how that bastard of a druggist had taught me to judge skooma, and it was all I knew. Undoubtedly the alembic and retort that the Dark Elf had subtly slid my way was intended to help me identify it. Still, this one was only foul, and I gacked only just a bit as I sniffed.
The mixture was green, thick, and smelled faintly of grass and earth, but had the distinctive dry-tang of a fungus. That, and the horrible smell, and the thickness of the mixture...
"This is Heather and Blackwort." I said, giving the alchemist a look. "And shit."
The alchemist then gave me a look, and took the cup back from me, turning to set it down.
"Correct. Not many recognize that last one. Although you failed to mention from what species, I think that we can forgive such an omission. You'll be boarded and given 10 septims a week, dinner will be with the rest of the guild at five, and you will be expected to keep all these apparatus in working order at all times, as well as assisting me for eight hours a day, or whatever I ask, whichever is longer. You will not enter the alchemical lab when I am not present, and you will not use any of the apparatus for any illicit purposes. Not that that covers much in this land, but..."
He turned, and gave me a slip of paper, and I looked at the words helplessly as he spoke. "Please read this in its entirety, and sign at the bottom." he said, indicating a single black line.
I stared at the paper, hoping somehow that they words would magically come together and make sense to me, but when they still remained a senseless jumble of ink I looked up at the dark elf, almost cringing.
"I cannot...read." I said.
Ambrose looked at me for a moment, blinking. He looked at me concernedly for a moment, and then back at the mixture I had correctly identified, and then with almost a shrug laughed softly.
"There's a first for everything, I guess. A Mages Guild associate that can't read. There's been stranger folk in this organization, I guess. Can you sign your name?" he said, handing me a quill.
"No ink's necessary. A little thing I made when my inkwells kept freezing." he said.
I ran into another snag here. I couldn't really sign my name, as I didn't really have a proper name. Golcat was the best I could possibly do, and that I could indeed write. But then, a runaway slave named Golcat was on the lose. Seeing as it wasn't exactly a common name...
I mimicked the symbols from the fifth word on the paper, and hoped that the Dark Elf wouldn't notice. I handed it back to him, and as he read it his eyebrow raised again just slightly.
"Your name is 'Therefore'?" he said, looking at me sharply. I said nothing, looking sideways at the wall. The elf sighed again, and marked that name out.
"If you can't write either, that's fine, I guess." he said morosely, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You'll just have to learn. I'll sign for you." he paused. "What is your name?"
I thought for a moment. I had only moment – the look on his face was evidence enough that he suspected.
"S'mrrat." I said, saying the only name I could think of. It was a nonsense word, an onomatopoeic sound that faintly echoed two Kahjiit words, the words for gold and wandering. Roughly put together, the meaning could be divined as "Lost Gold."
Cute.
Applicable name she's chosen for herself, too.
*Gasp!* :U
Something truly worth reading!
However, now is not the time, with a daunting class project hovering over head.
"Musings in Moonlight"? stun-ning.
I really must get back to this thread and soon. Oh but to be of a nature that I could comment more freely and accurately on your work.
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on November 12, 2007, 05:49:53 PM
Cute.
Applicable name she's chosen for herself, too.
Cute? I guess I'll take that. :3
Quote from: Sienna Maiu - M T on November 13, 2007, 01:51:01 AM
*Gasp!* :U
Something truly worth reading!
However, now is not the time, with a daunting class project hovering over head.
"Musings in Moonlight"? stun-ning.
I really must get back to this thread and soon. Oh but to be of a nature that I could comment more freely and accurately on your work.
Why thank you, very much. I'm glad you enjoyed it. :3
Class projects, however, are much more pressing. Believe me, I understand. :B
I find that "Hourglass" is just terribly catchy.
huzzah for understanding!
Cogidubnus Mithlome presents A Keaton the Black Jackal Fanfic
Eldorado: A Short Story
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied --
"If you seek for El Dorado."
Keaton the Black Jackal, black-backed jackal succubus, the self-proclaimed queen of dark and souls, was sitting in a crouch among the detritus of a ruined, smoking conversion van, and with her combat-booted legs drawn up into a curl was busy reading a green-and-red book. Fascinated, she turned the pages voraciously, reading through the book in an almost record time for the vicious Cubi. The succubus had never really had the time or inclination to read much – but this book had piqued her interest. It had been clutched in the hand of a dead mouse being, her bloody embrace staining the verdant green cover shades of ghastly red. She'd been an unremittingly gothic-looking sort of girl, wearing black clothes and stocking and deeply spiked hair sculpted to fall over one eye. The book had been resting on one of the pieces of the girl that hadn't been cut into several pieces, and the Cubi had plucked the bloodstained pages out of the girl's hand out of simple curiosity. She was interesting in what sort of literature such a strange girl would have been reading. Earlier, when the Jackal had been disguised as a rather pitiful, wet and normal-looking Doberman, who managed to get aboard the van as a hitchhiker, she had found the little gothic mouse-girl really rather interesting. Along with other things, including her belief in the ultimate power of darkness, and her hatred for all forms of conformity (with a overtly hostile look at the succubus), she'd claimed that she had no soul. Keaton found that to be a rather interesting statement – almost a challenge. The mouse's talk about darkness had indeed been interesting, although irritating. When the mouse mentioned a distant blood relation to a destroyed civilization of darkness-wielding creatures, the Jackal found herself getting more than a little angry with the mousie.
The look on the mouse's face when Keaton transformed back into what she truly was had made the succubus laugh. For such a dour, angry-looking person, sheer terror looked somehow hilarious on that makeup-caked, spiky haired face. Covering herself with inky darkness, her hand dripping blackness as it grew long, razor talons, the Jackal had given the little goth an almost maniac grin, and brushed the hair away from the little mouse's eye, the razor of her hand making the purple-black strands fall off in the process, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "You're in luck, little mousie." she had almost giggled. "I'm a regular fucking preacher." she had said, and as she did so leaned back, her wings spreading wide in the van's backseat. "I'll help ya' find your everlasting fucking soul."
A wing-tentacle had morphed into a blade with a edge fine enough to cut rocks, and had speared into the greasy-looking rat fellow driving the van. The other eleven tentacles, razor-edged to the last, had descended upon the poor little goth in turn, cutting through hands, feet, arms, legs, and finally separating her head from her shoulders before cutting her torso into several pieces. She'd screamed to the last, until her larynx had been cut in two. The pain, however, faded from her eyes only a few moments after that.
Even as the light faded from her eyes, Keaton could see a similar light emanate from the mouse's dessicated body – to the Cubi's eyes, the vision of the girl's soul, a strangely peaceful figure for a person in such turmoil, rose from her body with a soft-blue glow. Her eyes were closed, as if in expectation – despite her violent end, her final rest called her away, to sleep for eternity.
Keaton's grin grew yet more maniacal, her darkness-drenched form grinning even as her bright, white-glowing eyes caressed over the mouse's softly glowing form. The truck was beginning to go out of control, the driver dead for several moments now – the darkness draped over Keaton insulated her from most of the bumps, and gave her the few moments here that she needed. As the soul rose, subtly called to its destination, the Jackal simply reached forward a hand, and surprisingly, snagged the soul's insubstantial ankle. The mouse's eyes opened slowly.
"I found iiit!" the Jackal said, giving herself a fit of giggles. The mouse, momentarily confused at being kept from her metaphysical journey, looked at the black-coated Jackal quizzically for a moment before her eyes focused, and her eyes flew wide. She opened her mouth in a soundless scream. The Jackal simply tugged on the ankle, easily overcoming the afterlife's pull on the former goth, and licked her fangs, ichorous darkness dripping from the long, black teeth.
"You know what they call Jackals, right?" she asked cheerily, taking a kind of macabre amusement from watching the being's soul try and fight her grasp. Sometimes, a particularly strong soul, someone who had a will of iron and a strong heart in life, could escape the grasp of a weak Cubi, or have garnered enough favor with whatever afterlife called it that their souls could slip away. Not this goth girl, though. Oh, no – she had this one. Keaton gave a deep, malicious grin.
Fucking beings, she thought. What gave this...piece of shit the idea that she had it bad? Claiming a kinship with darkness – little fuck. She almost lost the grin on her face, looking at this writhing, screaming piece of shit that claimed blood with the darkness that drenched and permeated the succubus Jackal. Bitch, she thought. It's bad enough that you're a being, but even suggesting that you have any of my blood...
The Jackal stared at the soul, as if expecting it to answer her. At the very last, her face seemed to darken yet again, but this time with malicious amusement rather than anger. Ichorous fangs once again twisted into a hideous smile.
"Jackals are eaters of the dead." she answered for the mouse, and with that, proceeded to utterly consume her. She didn't literally need to swallow the soul – as a Cubi, it was more like...draining it. A little concentration, and Keaton's eyes lit up as the soul began to dim in her grasp, losing its blue glow, and began to grow indistinct around the edges. The Cubi gasped, rivers of power flowing into her, providing her with not only sustenance, but with a veritable pool of energy and life. Glorious. Magnificent. Elating. Overpowering.
Delicious.
The soul began to scream in truth, for in truth, the death that was never meant to be had descended upon her. With every second, the Cubi was not only sucking away the mouse's life, she was sucking away pieces of her. Her essence – her memories, her likes and her dislikes, her smile, her laugh, and her tears. Little by little, piece by piece, the succubus tore the little mouse apart, like a vulture tearing morsels from roadkill. Slowly, the mouse began to simply...forget. Pain and blindness descended upon her – she no longer knew her own language, or possessed anything but her closest, most cherished memories. Christmases, times spent with a surprisingly caring family, the anger and rage she'd felt when they'd been snatched away from her – she forgot the name of her brother, her mother and her father, forgot who they even were. Gradually, they lost all significance, and the rage of loss that had come to define her slipped away too, leaving only a choking sadness. That horrible, frustrated feeling of just-almost recalling something, something dreadfully important. Just out of reach – her heart a hole, empty, missing something that could never again be filled.
She would never remember, ever again. And even as the darkness began to close around her yet further, as she lost her very essence, her very self, she let out a gasping, silent cry – blind, broken, and utterly alone.
Euphoric, even as the van rolled into a ditch, the succubus let out a deep, contented and rumbling sigh. The darkness covering her body stuck itself to the seat, and made the rolling journey tolerable – but she could have been on a roller coaster and not noticed it. The mouse's soul had been pure pleasure, pure agony and humiliation and terror – and the succubus felt wonderful The van rolled right-side up, the inside of the van a ruined, smoking hole, and through the haze the Cubi could see the driver himself begin to fade. Breathing deeply, her eyes heavy-lidded, she grinned again, staring at the greasy-looking rat's soul, and with a surprisingly quick lurch descended upon that one too.
After savoring the richness of the mouse's spirit, the rat's could simply not compare – and rather quickly, she simply devoured it, the spirit barely given time to realize its fate before snuffing out entirely.
Keaton had retreated to the back of the van after that, laying out on one of the rough-carpeted bench seats to enjoy the afterglow brought on by devouring two souls – a feat the likes of which she'd gone almost weeks without. A contented smile on her face, she'd lain back and seen the little green book, clutched in the mouse's bloodstained, amputated hand, giving the cover a bloodstained, macabre appearance. In a rare good mood, the succubus picked up the green-bound volume and tossed the attached hand towards the rear of the van. She opened it, glancing momentarily at the picture of a fez-capped raven upon the inside cover, and flipped open to the first page. Centered lines met her eyes, the book revealing itself to be a volume of poetry. The succubus made a face, and nearly set the book down. The first line, however, caught her eye:
"In visions of Dark Night", it began, "I have dreamed of joy departed, But a waking dream of life and light, have left me broken-hearted-"
Keaton raised an eyebrow, and kept reading, and checked the cover just once before continuing to read through the poem voraciously. The Selected Poetry and Prose of Poe, the book declared itself, and the succubus found herself enraptured within the book's dark, melancholy pages. Poetry had never spoken to her before – Keaton, being a girl of action more than thought, of sensation and feeling rather than memory and consideration, didn't have the time or the inclination to reflect over nuanced words and rhymes, and would much rather enjoy devouring souls than read about souls tormented. The agony of souls wasn't something she had to read about, anyway. It was a subject she was intimately familiar with.
Yet even so, hour upon enraptured hour passed as the succubus read through the tome of poetry. Curled up in the seat of that totaled conversion van, reading the book through her magically-aided eyes and the light of the full moon, her combat boots resting comfortably upon the plush seats and a blissful smile upon the Cubi's face, she had never felt so warm, before, not even in basking in the glory and warmth of a feast of souls. She turned another page, and yet again fell under the spell of the darkly rhyming words.
The title of the poem, Eldorado, was vaguely misleading: it really didn't have anything to do with the place. It talked about a gallant knight, who searching for the fabled city, finally died of old age before he could get there. As he died, he spoke to a shade passing him by, imploring him to reveal to him the path to the fabled city. The shade replied, "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow: Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied --"If you seek for El Dorado."
The succubus barely contained another giggle, and staring at the page for a moment longer shut the book entirely, tossing it over her side and into the pile of parts and blood that was once the book's owner. She sat up quickly, stretching a bit, and scooted just a little off the seat to clunk onto the grassy shoulder of the road . "I guess you didn't ride fast enough..." she said, grinning to herself, and with a swing in her step hopped up onto the road, and began to walk down the highway. In the distance, a town could be seen, faintly, with some sort of large structure on the hill behind it, unlit and too dim to make out clearly. Daring to whistle, she walked down the asphalt, swinging her arms up and over her head and giving to the entire world a contented, blissful smile. She even let her headwings appear, her vibrantly yellow coloration reflecting like a warning sign in the moonlit night as she stretched the thinly membraned wings, fluttering softly in the cold night air.
* * *
Around her, in the waving grass just off the road, two or three forms shifted in the waving razorgrass and johnson weed, ready to ambush the Succubus. Unseen eyes watched her walking down the road, the jackal practically skipping down the two lanes of asphalt towards the town up ahead. Grips tightened upon leatherbound pommels, and hushed whispers spoke incantations of power. A succubus, fat from a kill, walked their streets. You could almost see the glow of soulsucking still falling softly over the Jackal's yellow form.
Keaton walked unawares, still feeling blissfully serene and euphoric after such a meal. The effects would fade all too soon, anyway, and she was going to enjoy it while she could. In the far, far distance, the silhouette of a mountain could be seen in front of the shadow of a castle, both of them cast against the light of a pale moon. To Keaton, the scene was almost perfect – such an ominous vision was the best after-dinner visage that she could have thought of. It only made her drift deeper into relaxation, the succubus contemplating just stopping in the road for a moment to bask in the moonlight and shadow. Despite the feeling, she kept on moving – nothing on the open road but waving grass, and Keaton felt like having a bit of fun tonight.
A sudden, stunning pain pierced her left shoulderblade, the force of it enough to knock her forward. Warmth trickled down her bare back, and looking down at her chest the succubus saw an arrowhead peeking out of her skin, just above her heart. A drop of blood fell from the tip. She gave a rough, bloody cough, crimson fluid from her lung staining her chin just a bit and filling her mouth with a coppery taste. Over her hack, she heard a low, humming sound.
She almost fell over again, stumbling forward as another arrow buried itself deep into her other shoulder, piercing through her and letting another warm stream of blood flow down her back. The Jackal screamed this time, more of a rasping exhalation with her lungs filling with blood. She began to call the darkness around her, the inky blackness flowing up her legs even as she turned around. A single hand went to the first arrowhead sticking out of her, preparing to snap the tip.
Behind her stood four individuals, all of them variously garbed in the myriad outfits of adventurers. One warrior stood in front of the lot of them, twin longswords grasped in each leonine hand, and garbed in a rather patchwork assortment of mail and plate. His swords, however, glowed in the nighttime, red and yellow runes dug into the metal. His fangs were bared at the Cubi.
Three others stood behind him – from the looks of them, a mage, an archer, and something that you didn't see very often at all; a gunman, looking coolly at the succubus from down the barrel of a large pistol. The chamber in the center rotated once as he pulled back on some part of the mechanism, and as the darkness flowed up and over her head, Keaton's improved sight could see the faintly glowing, enchanted bullets peeking out from inside the weapon. She didn't have time to admire the weapon, however – the mage, dressed in a russet-red cloak and tightly wrapped and gloved forearms, was spellcasting quickly and promised to rain destruction down upon Keaton's head. The green-clad archer was pulling back and notching another arrow already, too.
She snapped the first arrowhead, screaming softly at the pain, and rather quickly the shaft of the arrow fell out of her with a thunk, the darkness covering her flowing into her wound and pushing the wooden intrusion out. On her back, as if it was always there, a gigantic mace suddenly appeared – and snapping the other arrowhead she grabbed it and ran at the lion, the cat slipping down into a low stance and moving both swords wide.
She hefted her mace, the Catastrophe, and made as it to bring it down upon the lion's head. The warrior skillfully maneuvered his blades to stop the massive bludgeon, setting himself up for a perfect counterstrike. He barely had time to register the dozen or so razor-sharp tentacles that cleft clean through his sides. He fell, clattering onto the road in pieces of mail and flesh, his glowing swords bouncing on the concrete. She ran through the rather gory detritus left behind by the unfortunate warrior, cocking her mace back as she lunged for the mage.
Even as she did so, she heard the twang of the archer's bow, and felt the arrow again smack into her – the darkness that surrounded her seemed to bunch up where the arrow struck, however, forming a thick lump around the outside of her arm where the arrow simply stuck, and then fell. Keaton swung her mace at the mage, still busily engaged in casting, and to her surprise the wizard managed to dance out of the mace's way. Catastrophe hit the cement with a thunderous crack.
The archer was already nocking another arrow, aiming for the Jackal's white-glowing eyes. Turning her attention for just a moment, she dragged her mace along the ground and rushed the archer, too close for the fox's ranged weapon to be particularly effective. With a swipe of a tentacle, she cleft through the man's bow, the wood parting like butter, and with another great, coiling strike of her massive mace she knocked him off his feet with a soft crunch. The archer's arm bent sickeningly, and raising her mace high overhead Keaton brought it back down into his face. The fox's skull collapsed in a spray of blood and fleshy matter.
From behind her, however, she heard a crackling, almost whining sound, and turning quickly see saw a ball of light just before it crashed into her. She spat out a curse.
The pain of the ball was not the worst pain that Keaton had ever endured, but the sound of sizzling meat didn't make the succubus enjoy the sensation either. She screamed, falling into the grass some distance away. She lay there and smoked for just a second before she heard a deafening crack echo through the night, and another blinding pain in her side. She cried out again, a hand instantly flying to her shoulder. She felt blood, and the smell of gunpowder flowed into her nostrils.
Above her, on the slight ridge that the raised road afforded, she saw the gunman cocking back on his gun and taking careful aim. The mage was again gesturing, bits and motes of light flowing around his hands. It was at that moment that Keaton realized the darkness that surrounded her was gone, eaten away by the mage's previous ball of light. She was unprotected – that armor was one of her best weapons. That it could even be dispelled made the Jackal's blood boil. She wanted to scream.
She had no time. Rolling to her side, she heard the loud crack of gunfire and a soft thump land right next to her head. She stood quickly, looking up. The sight that greeted her vision was the massive mountain, and the castle behind it, framed by the large, luminous moon. Hurt and bleeding, the succubus began to run, trying desperately to call the darkness back to herself. The ball apparently had some sort of after-effect – the darkness would not respond to her call, slipping off the succubus's body almost as soon as it touched it. Keaton snarled again, running into the undergrowth. She was staring straight at the mountain, now, dark, ominous and moonshrouded.
Over the mountains of the moon..., a malicious voice seemed to whisper in the Jackal's ear. It sounded like that mouse's voice, but somehow colder than it had been in life. Down the valley of shadow. Ride, boldly ride! Something said again, snickering as it spoke. If you seek for Eldorado...
The adventurer's only heard the succubus suddenly shriek, a yell that was maddening and rage-filled, and then the sound of heavy footfalls upon the grass. They both reacted with professional decorum, moving the bodies of their comrades out of the road before chasing the Jackal into the woods, her trail leading towards the castle that lay far in the distance.
Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did :B
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 05:53:28 PM
Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did :B
When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then :3 [/shameless plug lol]
I believe I've already praised and praised you away via MSN for the sheer
awesomeness of this story, Cog. Keaton was totally in-character (especially the "I'm a regular fucking preacher" line, which was marvelous and made me laugh maniacally), the writing was wonderful and fluid, as usual, and the ending made me ramble and stammer over and over again because I just loved how you tied the story into Keaton's appearance in the Castle RP. Plus, you made Edgar Allen Poe a major theme, who I LOVE (Masque of the Red Death is my favorite published story of all-time. Suck on that, Shakespeare). That is a major bonus.
You are totally fucking getting something awesome for Christmas, Cog :U TOTALLY. Because you rocked my weekend with this.
~Keaton the Black Jackal
Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on December 09, 2007, 06:02:35 PM
When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then :3
Oh, I know. Yet somehow I still have to restrain myself from telling you to hurry up with it :eager
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 05:53:28 PM
Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did :B
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 06:09:21 PM
Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on December 09, 2007, 06:02:35 PM
When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then :3
Oh, I know. Yet somehow I still have to restrain myself from telling you to hurry up with it :eager
Somehow, I'll take that. the fact that I was able to elicit an emotional response is a compliment itself. Even if it was a bad taste. :3
And you and me both, brother. :eager
Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on December 09, 2007, 06:02:35 PM
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 05:53:28 PM
Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did :B
When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then :3 [/shameless plug lol]
I believe I've already praised and praised you away via MSN for the sheer awesomeness of this story, Cog. Keaton was totally in-character (especially the "I'm a regular fucking preacher" line, which was marvelous and made me laugh maniacally), the writing was wonderful and fluid, as usual, and the ending made me ramble and stammer over and over again because I just loved how you tied the story into Keaton's appearance in the Castle RP. Plus, you made Edgar Allen Poe a major theme, who I LOVE (Masque of the Red Death is my favorite published story of all-time. Suck on that, Shakespeare). That is a major bonus.
You are totally fucking getting something awesome for Christmas, Cog :U TOTALLY. Because you rocked my weekend with this.
~Keaton the Black Jackal
Ehehe! Again, I'm truly glad you liked it! Keaton is a surprisingly fun character to write. >:3
Quote from: Cogidubnus on December 09, 2007, 06:44:02 PM
Somehow, I'll take that. the fact that I was able to elicit an emotional response is a compliment itself. Even if it was a bad taste. :3
Yup. To clarify, the 'Cubi soul-eating thing bugs me in a big way, yet in some way it adds a touch of horror to DMFA as a whole, making it more gripping than it would be otherwise. Your writing has succeeded in tapping into that.
Murder, okay at a pinch although too much overdoes it. Soul-eating... I think Jakob's plaintive request to Gareeku in FCRP sums it up.
QuoteEhehe! Again, I'm truly glad you liked it! Keaton is a surprisingly fun character to write. >:3
Hell, yes. She was only supposed to have a side role in FH, instead it's practically turning into some kind of crossover.
Now, two more detailed comments I have about your story.
First, is that all of it? It seems a rather cliffhanger ending for a one-off.
Secondly, we don't know whether 'Cubi can actually visually see the souls of the recently-deceased/their prey. I actually made this a trait peculiar to Jakob's clan so as to be sure, but IMHO it's likely that they perceive them through some other means that we mere humans cannot really understand since we can't do it, kind of like their ability to sense emotions.
And dammit, I keep missing your Khajiit series. Only found the first one when I was browsing llearch's story server...
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 06:54:39 PM
Now, two more detailed comments I have about your story.
First, is that all of it? It seems a rather cliffhanger ending for a one-off.
You can read the rest of Keaton the Black Jackal's story at the Castle RP, located in Haunted Ballrooms everywhere. :3
And slightly related, I'll take that as a good sign that more is wanted. >:3
QuoteSecondly, we don't know whether 'Cubi can actually visually see the souls of the recently-deceased/their prey. I actually made this a trait peculiar to Jakob's clan so as to be sure, but IMHO it's likely that they perceive them through some other means that we mere humans cannot really understand since we can't do it, kind of like their ability to sense emotions.
And dammit, I keep missing your Khajiit series. Only found the first one when I was browsing llearch's story server...
I don't think it's been made canon, no - but as a literary device, I think being able to see the souls of the departed makes for better writings, in this case. Siphoning off a metaphysical concept just isn't the same...
And as for that, I keep forgetting to note that I've updated. I shall do that more often.
Cog, I see a few typos and suchlike in the Elsweyr story. Are you interested in corrections?
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 09, 2007, 08:33:57 PM
Cog, I see a few typos and suchlike in the Elsweyr story. Are you interested in corrections?
I confess that I'm terrible at catching those sorts of things. By all means, sir.
Okay, here are some corrections... mostly it's the names from the game, which are admittedly rather peculiar.
Sheggorath -> Sheogorath
Kahjiit -> Khajiit
Elswyr -> Elsweyr
The only other thing I noticed was this: "And Ambrose is out alchemist"
/me adds those changes to the story server.
;-]
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 10, 2007, 09:32:00 AM
Okay, here are some corrections... mostly it's the names from the game, which are admittedly rather peculiar.
Sheggorath -> Sheogorath
Kahjiit -> Khajiit
Elswyr -> Elsweyr
The only other thing I noticed was this: "And Ambrose is out alchemist"
Ah, the last two I missed, and those are probably systematic errors, if I know myself.
The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the
Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. :3
Other than that, though, thank you for telling me about those - and thank you Mr. llearch for updating the server.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on December 10, 2007, 01:11:29 PM
The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. :3
Ah. There were a lot of books in Morrowind, some of which were incredibly gripping and fascinating. That book was not among these. So yes, I have read it, but unlike 'A Game at Dinner' or 'Smuggler's Island' etc, I haven't committed it to memory.
I guess llearch had better roll that particular one back :P
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 10, 2007, 01:16:43 PM
Quote from: Cogidubnus on December 10, 2007, 01:11:29 PM
The first one, however, was on purpose. I take it you've never read the Tales of Clan Mother Ahnissi?
The Kahjiit have different names for some things. :3
Ah. There were a lot of books in Morrowind, some of which were incredibly gripping and fascinating. That book was not among these. So yes, I have read it, but unlike 'A Game at Dinner' or 'Smuggler's Island' etc, I haven't committed it to memory.
I guess llearch had better roll that particular one back :P
Morrowind has some fantastic books. What's really amazing is that Bethsoft has included this sort of thing in most of it's series, from daggerfall and beyond. The Real Berenziah is also quite good, as is the Poison Song series. The Imperial Library (http://www.imperial-library.info/) is a good place to find all these - I think only one copy exists of some of the Poison Song books.
i kinda want to read "The man who was Thursday". It was in Deus Ex, but i've never really thought too hard about it.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on December 10, 2007, 01:37:14 PM
The Real Berenziah is also quite good, as is the Poison Song series. The Imperial Library (http://www.imperial-library.info/) is a good place to find all these - I think only one copy exists of some of the Poison Song books.
I created the entire set of Poisonsong just so I could to read them. I'm still trying to complete my set of Vivec sermons.
As for Barenziah, I suppose that now I've murdered her, I really ought to read up on who she was (apart from an obstacle to the Throne (http://i89.photobucket.com/albums/k216/tapewolf/games/mw_kingcheetah.jpg)). But I digress. It's good to see you're continuing the Elsweyr series... I was planning to ask about them until I saw the followup.
Prose and Poetry, Gentlemen.
Snow in Autumn
Wreathed in fire, falling cold,
like tears in auburn hair,
the time for fire's growing old,
and fall the ashes from the flare,
that whisper through from here to there
Early is the frost, and slow,
and slow, the trees are dying,
gripped in hand by drifting snow,
brought by wind that's softly sighing,
by fluttering leaves, so softly sighing
The sky is somber, dark and grey,
like soot, it coats the fire, ashen:
like sorrows to fall from somber days,
to coat a heart that's fire-golden
A heart I know is fire-golden
Passions, hopes and dreams, a leaf,
a spirit on a snow-soft tree,
plucked by snowswirled, windy thief,
to fall and die, right next to me,
in dust of snow right next to me
But bitter soft the wind will blow,
and a terrible, bitter thing it be-
it takes a rustling leaf, to flow,
like fire over grey-eyed me
and in the sky I watch it: free
And whisper soft that now I see
That's wonderful, Cog. I like the way it evokes winter.
Portions of this text were taken from Ink's signature. Specifically, the picture.
I was in Astronomy class, listening to a lecture by a Eastern European Doctor with a slightly thick accent, and a tendency to speak softly and rush, and as I sat my mind was forced to wander - as though it could not be helped. The sheer opression of my situation bade me think of things that were, perhaps, of similar evil, and gradually the pathways of my mind took me through all evils, sanguine and crass, that were known to me - it was perhaps inevitable that my mind should wander, to here.
Ink
Deep and dark, like jet-black tea,
- as innocent as a child,
with crooked crown he looks at me,
and eyes of ink doth smile
And graceful, as a moonlight dance,
and as silent as the rose,
with a thousand words in a but a glance,
he'll draw you, to repose,
and soft, so soft, he'll stroke your hair,
and offer, of sweet vintage, rare,
and with sanguine smile he'll sidle close, and whisper soft to you:
"My love, my treat, I love you, so-
I love you, so I'll kill you."
bump!
Unlocked by request.
Thanks much! :3
I'll be posting something here tomorrow. For now, I have to get to bed.
Keats showed me a little prompt sheet the other day, thats sort of like the 100 Themes for artists, except for writing. This one is 'veneer'. It's rather a lot darker and violent than my usual stuff, I'm afraid.
Without further ado-
Veneer
A second skin of water slipped down high-paned windows, morphing shining lights below and scattering them across the far wall. Shadows danced on the carefully textured beige, the prenumbra stopped only at the gently sloping shadow of a man's head. The man himself, shadows dancing on his face too, stared blankly at the ornate window. His eyes, vibrant and green, were perfectly still, high cheekbones and a carefully washed face unmoving. His features bespoke breeding and wealth, the veneers on his teeth, visible only when he smiled, bespoke expensive orthodontistry. His fingers, nails clipped close and heavy with rings, rested absently on the richly lacquered desk before him, although those too didn't move.
Another person was in the room – a woman, gesturing at the man animatedly. Fluorescent light illuminated the rest of highrise office, her fur coat and collar catching the luminescence in a bright, artificial halo. Hot tears ran her mascara, smearing the outline of her eyes. Her pillbox hat slanted, threatening to fall off her brown hair. A purse was clutched tightly in her hands, oiled and intricately tooled leather worth more than all the contents of most lesser purses.
The man was still as a corpse. A watch, bright and silver, ticked on his wrist like a metronome, drowning out nearly everything else, with every second pulsing, counting the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours. The rain drummed against the windows and the sound built and built until the man couldn't hear anything else but the storm outside, the rain hitting the window again and again, a thousand times in a moment, running down the glass like a liquid sheet.
Movement. A hand, rose and lifted an amber-filled glass to his lips. He drank quickly, baring his teeth as he swallowed, his mouth clicking just faintly. The sound of the glass clinking as he set it down was like a bomb, louder than loud – an iron bell tolling on dessicated, mahogany graveyard.
The man finally managed to look at the woman, vibrant green eyes locking on her. His lips peeled back in a sneer. His breath stank.
"M'lady, m'lady...m'lady... the fuck. You're still here?" he said, motionless body moving, a sudden frenzy. He grabbed the glass of whiskey, spilling the liquid on the desk. Amber drops beaded on the fine lacquer, not staining the beautiful wood beneath while the glass shattered on the woman's head, knocking her over.
Rain pattered like gunshots. The watch ticked like a cannon, a monolith tipping end-over-end over the earth in a never-ending, never-pausing cycle.
The man rose, moving quickly, grabbing the woman's collar and dragging her to a window. Vibrant eyes, dead eyes, watched as shadows danced across the his own face, danced on the shudders of rage flitting through him.
The sound of the rain was overpowering, a thousand thousand screams in his ears. He lifted a leg and kicked.
The glass shattered, cutting his leg, the shards falling down to the street below. Wind whipped up his pants and blew his coat back, and knocked the pillbox from the woman's head. Blood oozed from wounds in her scalp, dark blood flowing around glass.
He shuddered in the rain, instantly soaked to the bone. Rich clothes clung tightly to his frame, thin to the point of boniness - bright red blood ran in curls down his shin, mixing with the rainwater. The man coughed and bent over, and grabbed the woman again by the collar. With great effort he pulled her onto the desk, pausing briefly. His eyes darted to the woman's injured form, and to the small hole in the window, as though testing the strength in his arms already.
His indecision lasted only a moment.
Outside, a dark building of glass that burned with a solitary light, a chair arced through the rain and slammed into the pavement. On the building itself, a single pane of glass stood shattered - a hole in the base, stark against the smooth side of the building, while the rain ran down the glass and soaked an empty office.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on July 02, 2008, 11:27:38 PM
Keats showed me a little prompt sheet the other day, thats sort of like the 100 Themes for artists, except for writing. This one is 'veneer'. It's rather a lot darker and violent than my usual stuff, I'm afraid.
I CLAIM FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS. >:3 FULL RESPONSIBILITY.
Because if this is how your dark-and-violent periods go, you need to have more of them, dude. This was absolutely great - I loved it. The descriptions were great and the ending was terrific. Of course you know my theory about what happened already :B But I really do love how you tied all the symbolism you described into the theme "Veneer," overall, even if symbolism is sometimes lost on me.
For some reason, I loved the crying woman's description - both of them, before and after (>:3) - particularly the "artificial halo" line. Another thing I loved was, strangely, the only line of dialogue in the story, which I thought was oddly appropriate. Whole thing was marvelous.
I demand to see more 100 Prompts things from you, or you will make me very sad. :<
~Keaton the Black Jackal
A fanfic is here. There is blood, pain, character conflict, and people die, so fairly warned be ye.
DMFA is copyright Amber Williams. Posted with permission. Is not official in any capacity whatsoever, and is quite simply a fan-fiction.
Sunshine
"You are my sunshine - my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray,"
The setting sun filtered through a four-paneled window, casting orange, dusky light over two beings sitting in an overstuffed armchair - the room was furnished very simply and tastefully, with carpets and wallpaper and smiling pictures on the wall - but despite the brightness and scent of cleaner, it was calm, and peaceful, and at that moment utterly quiet. It possessed, though sometimes overwrought and commonplace, that ephemeral, utterly intoxicating feeling of home.
A man with a patch over one scarred eye held something curious in his arms- a small, winged thing, black and cream, with two mismatched eyes that stared back at his own. The smaller one was enraptured with the larger one - the child had giant eyes, not quite unblinking, and was simply looking at the one holding it. The one with the eyepatch smiled, and stroked the little thing's hair, his expression nearly melted - utter love. A Father to his Son.
"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you - Please don't take, my sunshine away..."
* * *
Blood dripped from his hands, sparkling a ruby red in the fluorescents. It blinded him, got in his mouth and filled it with copper, and stained the carpet beneath him, the white boiling over into a dark, dark red.
This creature, standing in his father's clothes, wearing his father's wedding band around his finger, flicked a bloodstained claw and looked at him with an expression of utter mockery – standing slightly to the side, his eyebrow tilted at a jaunty angle, and his arm aflame with a single, damning mark on his forearm. The same mark that he himself had on his back. He could feel the stylized flame there now, burning, making his back jump and twitch - could feel the blood oozing between his fingers and into his eyes and making his breath light. He could remember the sound of tentacles severing Hennya into pieces.
He could remember the look on his mother's face as she turned away from him.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in darkness. How long he'd sat on a stone floor, feeling the heat leech out of his legs and arms, sat and shivered but still felt like he was burning up, like he'd swallowed molten rock but simply wouldn't die.
He remembered the voice of that thing, cruel and mocking. He remembered the form of his bleeding mother, laying motionless on the carpet after Aniz had smashed in her nose. He remembered when, in the end, she turned her eyes away from him. Her son.
He remembered most the incubus's threat. Go back, and I'll kill her. Try to kill me, and I'll kill her.
He sat unmoving, still but for the tremors that shook him – even his eyes stared straight ahead, the blue-and-green nearly unblinking. Everything ran through his mind until it blurred, became more pain than memory. He huddled on the floor, shivering and burning at the same time, hair drenched with sweat, and stiff with blood. He could still taste it in his mouth.
Much, much later, the ball of lead in his stomach would cease to burn so brightly – but it would never, ever quite go away. He would forget about it for awhile, sometimes even for a day, but he'd always feel that tightness in his gut, and remember. A small ember burned - the scar that would never fully heal. And eventually, that too would grow, the ember fanning into a point of brightness in his soul, nearly blinding to look at – casting a shadow over everything else, a fire brighter than all other passions.
Hate. Black, unutterable hate.
But as for then, Abel huddled, and shivered, and sat in the darkness.
* * *
The first years were very hard for May.
When Cid...when Aniz had taken Abel and disappeared, she hadn't moved for hours, laying on the same spot on the carpet, her nose bleeding until she felt lightheaded. The entire room stank of flesh – Hennya's carcass had been split into pieces. The amount of blood was tremendous, pooling on the floor. The carpet squelched and foamed when she finally did get up to call the police.
They'd arrived in a matter of minutes. Zinvth had a good police department, very used to dealing with all manner of emergencies, especially domestic disputes involving all sorts of creatures. They scryed May first, searched her, and took blood samples to make she she wasn't the incubus in disguise, and when they confirmed that she was just a being, began to clean up the mess and take her testimony of the events. Hennya's parents were called, and what was left of the corpse was put into a black plastic bodybag.
Forensics and mages attempted to locate some of the incubus's blood – May had said that that Hennya had taken a chunk of his shoulder before she had been killed, and a drop might allow them to find him through a magical search, or by running a successfully identified sample through the criminal reliquary. Hennya's grisly death ended up ruling this out, however – the entire room was nearly painted with the her blood. Finding an uncontaminated sample proved impossible.
May kept up with the investigation for the first thirty minutes, answering questions and pointing things out to the detectives. When they stopped asking her questions constantly, though, and she didn't have anything to distract her, the shock finally set in. She sat down in a chair, and didn't remember anything else about that evening, or the day after – or any day until she woke up in the psychiatric wing of Zinvth First Community Hospital.
She'd been there for two months. Some nurse was feeding her a cup of fruit when she screamed and knocked it away, sending it flying across the room and making a mess of the wall, while May had simply started to cry.
Her husband of over twenty-five years, for at least twenty-five of them, had been a complete lie, down to his very name. The man she loved – had shared everything with – the one she'd woken up to in the morning, laughed with, cried with, fought with, the one who when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing but love and care, and his roguish, charming smile...
Every moment she'd shared, every embrace, every kiss – everything, was a lie. A trick, an actor laughing at her inside his sleeve. Everything she'd ever loved, the person she'd grown old with, had never really existed.
May simply broke.
She became violently paranoid. The hospital, located in such a large urban area, especially one inhabited by numerous creatures, had thankfully seen cases like May before, and began to take the necessary steps. A specialist arrived to check her out a few days after she had begun to refuse food and water, and react violently to the nursing staff.
As bad off as Abel was, it was nothing compared to May went through. The betrayal was too complete – she was one of the worse victims of impersonation the hospital had ever seen. What the incubus had done very nearly bordered on the sadistic. Why wait for twenty-five years to reveal yourself? What could possibly be worth such a long charade?
As she kept refusing food, she was eventually put onto a feeding tube. When they found her soaked in blood from ripping it out, they finally reached a compromise to keep her alive – she would eat what they gave her as long as it was pre-packaged and sealed. Even so, it was weeks before she'd speak to the people who gave her juice and fruit and vacuum-sealed sandwiches.
There was hardly anything to be done for her, except to wait, although even then it wasn't expected for her to recover. Routine psychological evaluations were made, and she was allowed to walk the grounds and exercise at her leisure, but the extent of the mental trauma was simply too great. She didn't trust anyone. Therapy was practically impossible.
Steel hair did not belie a steel heart – honestly, who was she supposed to trust now? If Cid wasn't real, who could possibly be beyond suspicion? The irrationality of her fears did not penetrate the haze of paranoia and pain that made up her world – if Cid could be an incubus in disguise, couldn't anyone?
She refused to see friends, visitors, and answer more than perfunctory questions from any sort of psychiatric help, and for two years, that's how things remained.
* * *
"Ms. Rewanz?"
The cream colored feline didn't respond. Ambrose hadn't expected her to, but that didn't change much of anything. It was time for her bi-annual check-up. Useless gestures had to be made, if only for the sake of the one making them.
"How are you feeling today, Ms. Rewanz?"
May didn't say anything. The orderlies and nurses had picked up on a few things the being preferred, and seeing outside was one of them. The view wasn't terrible – the window on the side of the room was open wide, drenching the room in sunlight, and granting a view of a beautiful spring day. The two trees visible from the room swayed in the breeze, while clouds passed by lazily overhead. Short-cut green grass and brown dirt made up the rest of the view, but it was better than the rock garden roof some rooms got. The raccoon sat down by her bedside and clicked his pen.
"Good? Bad? Not wanting to talk today, huh?" he said, marking the often-penciled 'no response' box on his form. He shook his head slightly.
"Do you know what day it is, Ms. Rewanz?"
"Who are you?"
Ambrose nearly jumped. He looked up from his notebook, and his eyes darted around the room - when they confirmed that no-one else was in there, he turned back to look at May. Could she...
The voice was raspy and slow, but he'd never heard her speak before anyway. It'd been at least a year and a few months since she'd spoken to anybody. He clicked his pen nervously.
"I'm Dr. Ambrose, Ms. Rewanz. I'm here to try and help-"
"I want to go home." she said. She turned and looked at him, her eyes not haunted, or empty, but simply tired. The feline looked like she was about to cry. Ambrose paused – he might be in over his head, here. Medical school was only a few months ago, and they usually gave the lost causes to the new people – you couldn't screw up something that had no hope of recovery anyway. It was likely no-one expected her to actually speak to the raccoon. Ambrose cleared his throat.
"Well, we'd like to let you go home, Ms. Rewanz, but we need to make su-"
She turned away, and resumed looking outside. Ambrose paused, and swallowed. He could feel his heart in his throat. Had he just screwed it up forever-
"I'm tired." she said, her voice still rough. "I'm sick, and tired, of waiting. For him. Seeing him everywhere. I just want to go home."
Not moving at all, Ambrose sucked in a stiff breath. He hazarded a question. "Why do you want to go home, Ms. Rewa-"
"I'm not Ms. Rewanz." she said, already turned away from him. "I wasn't ever Ms. Rewanz."
Ambrose paused. He looked at his sheet, and looked back up. "Why do you want to go home, May?"
May was silent for a long time. Ambrose sighed, hanging his head a little bit, and began penciling notes onto his clipboard. It was likely he'd be blamed for wasting an opportunity, here, but that's what they got for sending him in unprepared. He finished marking in the rest of the paper, and looked up again – May was still sitting in the same position as before, looking at the trees and clouds outside. He stood up, about to leave.
"Maybe if I go home, he'll finally kill me." she said. Ambrose's eyes widened. To the surprise of most of the staff, she'd managed to avoid being suicidal so far...
"Maybe it'll finally be over. I don't care anymore." she sighed, shifting on her bed. "I just want to go home. I don't care if he finds me. I'm...just...tired."
Ambrose paused. He clicked his pen again, and sat down. He set the clipboard away.
"I'd like to help you if I can...May. Would you like me to help you?"
Again, May didn't respond immediately, looking outside at the scenery, but Ambrose was patient. He waited for her to turn back to him, and with eyes that nearly made his skin curdle, nod.
"...yes."
* * *
Five years later, May went home.
She was brewing tea, and sitting by herself at the kitchen table. Crickets chirped softly outside, while the water boiled softly to itself.. The piercing whistle of steam was yet to come, but May got up and shut off the burner anyway. She grabbed a mug and a teabag, putting the triangular packet in the cup first and pouring the boiling water on top of it. The herbal tea was prescription – a powerful relaxant, to be taken before bed. She took a sip, and then reached for a clear plastic container, and popped open the small box marked "W". She fumbled for a moment before producing two pills, and popped them into her mouth, using the tea to wash down the anti-depressants and anti-psychotropics, and then sat down in her chair as she waited for the drugs to kick in.
It had been a long road home. It very nearly hadn't happened. When they'd finally let her go back home, after wrangling and begging and scraping and promising, and after they'd discharged her with caveat and leash, with weekly checkups and drugs and much hand-wringing, she'd nearly blown it again.
Some idiot had left a the family portrait up. Seeing it was like a physical blow – but she'd taken a breath, flipped it over, and simply called the hospital instead, and after she got on the line with Dr. Ambrose, she tore into him with every vicious bone left in her body. She was promised that someone would be fired over it – when they offered to take send someone to remove it, she told them she'd already burned the thing.
She hadn't. It was still sitting on the kitchen counter, face down from where she'd set it the first time. Her gaze lingered over it while she sipped her tea.
Ten minutes later, she felt the familiar fuzziness of the herbs begin to set in. She stood up slowly and put the mug in the sink, washing it out carefully, and went to bed.
She slept in Abel's old room. She couldn't quite bring herself to sleep in their...in her bedroom.
She closed the door, locked it – a somewhat pointless gesture – and slipped under the sheets, cool in the moonlight, and thanks to the magic of the herbal tea, nearly instantly slipped into sleep. The trees whispered in the wind outside, drowning out the chirping of the crickets – it would have been comforting, if May had been awake to hear it.
* * *
"I won't be a monster, Mom..."
May awoke. Her feet felt wet. Her eyes snapped open, and the cream-colored feline jumped backwards in her bed - moonlight poured into the room an impossible, lurid red, bathing everything in the room in a thick, sickly sanguine.
Something glimmered darkly on her sheets – a body, pieces of a body, parts of it fallen over on top of the covers. Red eyes stared blankly from two eye-sockets, dead. May moved her foot and it rolled off, thunking onto the wooden floor.
"I promise...please don't be mad..."
May looked up. Green and blue orbs stared back at her. He held a familiar red arm in his hand, a stylized flame prominent on the wrist. Wings were outspread wide on his head and his back. Pieces of a body littered the ground. Blood dripped from his forehead, and mixed with tears from his eyes.
"I'm a good boy...right Mom? I did good, right?"
May screamed.
* * *
"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms..."
Dreams were something that Abel missed.
It wasn't the loss of a need to sleep, he was told, that caused the lack of dreams, although it was related to it. Sleep was the time when the mind defragmented itself – the memories of the day transferred themselves from short term to long term, for instance, and the places that got cluttered during the day were cleaned. It was also the time when the subconscious stretched its dreamlike legs and unkinked itself. Hence, when we sleep, dreams and nightmares bubble up from the very pits of our soul.
Cubi, as a general rule, do not dream. To any other race, it would be impossible to say why with any certainty, but in this case the affliction is part of the answer in more ways than one. The succubus and incubus are the masters of the mind, and they are, and they lack dreams, because they lack a subconscious.
Rather, what subconscious they have is awake, and melded with the greater mind. There come all manner of psychic ability and power, the reading of thoughts, the sensing and derivement of nourishment from emotion. They can make themselves mad by eating a slice of anger – a bad mood is contagious among Cubi.
They wear their souls on their sleeves, as it were. They are their subconscious.
Psychology is an avid science among Cubi. All manner of psychosis still affect them, of course, as they do any thinking and living individual. The subconscious still exists, but through miracle of biology and magic, it is merely in a different place, and melded with the greater mind to a much greater extent. Irrational fear, phobias, even the greater mental illnesses are still present, neither banished nor enhanced.
Everyone has baggage.
The clock ticked. Abel shifted in bed invisibly, the room nearly completely bathed in darkness. A small amount of light filtered in through a crack beneath the door where the seal was broken, and light from the outside managed to pour in – a serious problem in SAIA, where at all hours of the day or night the lights stayed on and the people active.
He would sometimes lay awake, watching the crack dim and flare as people walked by it.
He didn't have anywhere to go, then, and didn't have anywhere he particularly wanted to go either. He spent most of his free time trying to sleep – which was a much harder feat to accomplish when one wasn't tired at all.
He was trying to dream.
The subconscious sometimes does not integrate all at once – hence, the gradual formation of Cubi attributes and abilities, and the sometimes lingering tendency to dream. When he had first arrived, it sometimes seemed that the nightmares would not stop – every time he closed his eyes, visions of blood would assault him, and visions of that one night when his life simply ceased to exist. As time went on, they faded – even that too began to pass, however slowly. But dreams, he missed – and he had managed to dream, once.
He'd been at home again, in his own bed – the way it looked when they'd just moved to Zinvth, when he couldn't have been more than twelve. His mother looked different – younger, the way she had when he'd been young, when she'd been younger.
The trees outside were deafening, practically a roar in the breeze, so she'd gone to shut the window. Red curtains and moonlight bathed the room a strange, dark crimson, somehow ominous. But the dream hadn't taken a turn for the worse – his mother had simply kissed his forehead, and stroked his hair, and before he awoke, she'd sang the oddest song.
"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms,
But when I woke, dear, I was mistaken,
And I hung my head and I cried."
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
you make me happy, when skies are gray,
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you,
Please don't take my sunshine away."
-Fin
As I said last night when you showed this to me, wow. I really like this, dark as it is, for focusing on what might have happened to May afterwords. Poor May.
I'm actually reminded slightly of American McGee's Alice, though I don't quite know how to described accurately why.
Heh. Nice story, Cog.
... And it leaves it entirely open as to if that's a dream, a nightmare, or reality. Very nice.
I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.
Quote from: Jairus on September 07, 2008, 03:55:50 PM
As I said last night when you showed this to me, wow. I really like this, dark as it is, for focusing on what might have happened to May afterwords. Poor May.
I'm actually reminded slightly of American McGee's Alice, though I don't quite know how to described accurately why.
Well, from what you explained to me later, I can definitely see how, although I hope it isn't as over-the-top macabre as that one. :B
Although it has been a bit since I've written a short story, so it could be a lack of finesse on my part, definitely.
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on September 07, 2008, 04:44:20 PM
Heh. Nice story, Cog.
... And it leaves it entirely open as to if that's a dream, a nightmare, or reality. Very nice.
Danke schoen, sir. That was the intended effect, most definitely. :3
Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 08, 2008, 12:24:30 PM
I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.
I actually think it was better without the ending, really. This new bit seems like a random irrelevant afterthought that kind of breaks the original mood and theme.
Quote from: techmaster-glitch on September 08, 2008, 11:42:47 PM
Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 08, 2008, 12:24:30 PM
I added an ending. The last one was a bit abrupt, I think.
I actually think it was better without the ending, really. This new bit seems like a random irrelevant afterthought that kind of breaks the original mood and theme.
Hm. Well, that's not good.
Perhaps I'll get rid of it then. I sort of wrote it and thought it could fit nicely on the ending, without meaning to write an ending in particular. I'll think about it, definitely.
Mmm.
Yeah, I'd be inclined to agree. It messes with the impact of the nightmare that his mother is in, and since most of the entire rest of the story is about May, not Abel, it's a bit jarring.
It fits as part of an entirely different story, though...
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on September 09, 2008, 03:15:58 AM
Mmm.
Yeah, I'd be inclined to agree. It messes with the impact of the nightmare that his mother is in, and since most of the entire rest of the story is about May, not Abel, it's a bit jarring.
It fits as part of an entirely different story, though...
Hmm. Maybe as an epilogue, then?
I don't think I could make an entirely new story out of it, but I don't necessarily want to throw it in the dustbin. I'll change the story back though, I think. Maybe I can figure out something to use the little excerpt for.
Tomb
Hewn from granite mountain-walls
Icy castle, stately halls,
Dripping sapphire tears of stone,
drifting snow, whitest bone,
White on blackest ocean-rocks
'Neath the gatebridge gently glit'ring
Red-eyed maiden softly sleeping,
in sepulchure of sapphire-stone
gleaming 'neath the ocean foam
a gem in blackest waters grown
A froth! A crack, the gem split open,
Cracked the sepulchure, and broken,
In brine and sludge the red-eyed girl
is woken, drenched from toe to curl
and laughs, blackest, ocean swirl
Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.
Quote from: Jairus on September 22, 2008, 12:48:45 PM
Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.
Danke schoen, sir. Ehrm. I'm not entirely sure what purpley is, but I'm glad you think I pulled it off nicely.
As far as the brine and sludge, well, kelp and seawater and so on. It was inspired from reading Coleridge quite a bit, mostly the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 22, 2008, 12:51:42 PM
Quote from: Jairus on September 22, 2008, 12:48:45 PM
Ooh... nice. Very descriptive, and a bit purpley but you pull it off nicely. I like how the "brine and sludge" is what wakes her up... I wasn't expecting something like that. Eww.
Danke schoen, sir. Ehrm. I'm not entirely sure what purpley is, but I'm glad you think I pulled it off nicely.
Purple prose. Needlessly flowery and fluffed-up writing. It's not a good thing generally, but in this case I quite like it: it helps to paint the tomb. Actually, it feels more natural than purple prose... hm, I don't quite know what I'm trying to say, but whatever it is it works.
Quote from: Cogidubnus on September 22, 2008, 12:51:42 PM
As far as the brine and sludge, well, kelp and seawater and so on. It was inspired from reading Coleridge quite a bit, mostly the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel.
Ah, interesting.
Working on a story, I'm hoping to get through with it soon. In the meantime, verse.
Silent
I have nothing to write today,
I have nothing to say,
The muse, the muse, the muse is gone,
and stolen my voice away.
Who are You
Bedlam never saw such eyes,
no hue of blue, no scale of green,
that accounted for this man unseen,
hidden by gemini lies.
Who Are You?
Abel stirred, the motion of his cream-colored fur rippling barely visible by the light that filtered through the small crack at the base of his door. He rolled, languorous, until his feet touched the carpeted floor, invisible in the pervasive darkness. He stretched, his back making a popping noise that broke the dull silence of the room and cut through the background murmur of the rest of SAIA coming and going. The rooms could be set at varying degrees of soundproofing – the entirely building sometimes seems as though it teemed with unseen magic, every inch enchanted in some way – even though sleep was the exception rather than the rule. Most students didn't bother with it soundproofing, at least not for purposes of getting a good night's sleep.
Abel let the sound through on purpose. The rooms could be set to allow for total silence, but more often than not, the incubus found it unnerving. The low murmur of activity, the heartbeat of the academy, was often the lullaby that sang him to sleep.
Red numbers blinked at him in the darkness. Midnight – nearly time for Beginner's Metamorphosis. A few moments were spent fumbling for the nightstand, and yet a few more to find and pull the chain. A click, and the room was bathed in light, the mild glow of the desk lamp harsh after the soft cool of the dark.
Green walls were immediately visible, with a brown wooden dresser placed against one wall, a chair and a desk, and a few amenities one might see in any student's room. It was well-kept and tidy, although the bed was a mess – the sheets were nearly twisted into ropes, the comforter discarded onto the floor. The motif of the room seemed to be clearly green; green walls, green sheets, green carpet, some in varying shades, and other tones added to provide contrast. The room pulled together nicely, somehow, the constant shades of green refreshing rather than hideous. He sat still on the bed for a few minutes, running his fingers through his hair and simply resting his forehead in his hand. He looked at the door through his fingers, wincing as the sliver of light cast itself on his eye. He moved, shuffling off the bed and again stretching, this time until his toes popped.
* * *
The cream-colored feline walked amongst the crowded halls reluctantly, his every step a statement of his wishes to be somewhere, anywhere else. In contrast with the brightly colored and often sparsely clothing companions with which he walked, Abel's clothing was so conservative to be exotic – glaringly beige pants with a slightly less abnormal red shirt. If he'd let a few of the buttons down, in fact, he might not have attracted attention at all. The ragged holes in the back of the shirt, however, bespoke what he really was, and offered an explanation as to his appearance to the more observant Cubi – a newcomer, someone who couldn't yet sufficiently shapeshift to hide his wings, which meant either very young, or a very newly discovered incubus. It also explained the clothing – newly discovered Cubi likely did not find out in favorable circumstances, and these 'former beings' quite often find themselves in a very strange, very new world of immortal perspectives and sometimes very contrary moralities. These are not things conducive to the typical flamboyance that Cubi are known for. Knowing that there are monsters is one thing – finding out you are a monster is something else entirely.
This was something Abel had not quite brought himself to grasp yet. It was something, however, in his heart of hearts, he knew far too well.
"Lost?" a hand touched his shoulder. Abel jerked violently, spinning to face the offender. A black feline, clad in vaguely distracting leather and with purple lipstick, raised an eyebrow and took a half step back.
Abel stared at her, keeping himself from giving into tremors. "No." he said hoarsely. "Don't...touch me."
His inflection was of someone touched by something unclean, although he didn't mean it that way. The feline glared at him, a fang pressing over her lip, and stomped off. Abel averted his eyes quickly, gaze returning to the ground.
Class was...two building ahead. Professor Dalton.
* * *
"Metamorphosis." the teacher began. "Shape-changing. Through magic," he said, his rich voice carrying through the room, "Anyone can do it. But for Cubi..." he paused in front of an immaculately detailed statue of glass. "It simply comes naturally."
He turned to the class. "This is not a statue, as I'm sure many of you already suspect." the elderly-looking badger Cubi said. "This is a student from a more advanced class, providing very kindly a demonstration for you all." he tapped the statue once, and smiled when it chimed gently. "I don't think he meant to, though. There is, alas, a difference between becoming glass like, and becoming glass." he shook his head, amused. "Glass is inanimate, of course, so he's having a bit of trouble turning himself back. The example was too good to pass up, however, so we'll change him back...later today." he grinned, looking again at the class. There were a few half-hearted chuckles. The badger frowned slightly, and then continued.
"Metamorphosis is, without question, without peer among Cubi. We can do naturally what takes very complicated spellcasting for any other race to accomplish. This isn't, of course, a study of the deep arcane, and I can simply tell you that the mechanics of Cubi transformation and other forms are very different, but I find it easiest to say it like this – the examination of the word "metamorphosis", helps." he coughed, continuing. "It means, literally, to 'change form'. From this, there are two 'schools' of metamorphosis, although they are really just two ways of looking at the same thing."
"Any Cubi can, for example," he said, raising his arm, "Turn his hand into a claw." Here, his hand shifted grotesquely into a hooked, shelled claw. "Or make themselves thinner..." the badger promptly lost twenty pounds, and with the practice of many lectures grabbed his pants before they could fall down. "Or, even, make themselves younger, or older, or another species at will, although the latter is more uncommon. But, for example, I could be younger than any of you, or I could be older than the headmistress" - that elicited a few chuckles - "But from my appearance, you wouldn't know. Form is a matter of choice to a Cubi," he said, resuming his previous shape, "And to a certain extent, Cubi become the forms that they take. Assume the mask of, say, a penguin, and you will start to become that mask."
Abel blinked.
"But, for the majority of Cubi, this is fine, and in my opinion is partially responsible for the flightiness of our race." Again, there were chuckles. "But for some Cubi, this is not so." His face grew more serious.
"The greater feats of metamorphosis – instantly molding your entire body to a desired shape in moments, morphing yourself around a moving blade as it cleaves for your neck, controlling thirty or more razor-sharp tentacles at a time, assuming the guise of another for extended periods of time without becoming them – for this, there is a self-knowledge that is required, a knowledge of I that very nearly borders on the Zen . You must know thyself and be aware of thyself apart from your form to do these things. It is much harder than it sounds." he said,
"There is an incubus here known as Dr. Ink – he is the head of this department, in fact – who may be the greatest shapechanger ever known." he said. "He is not a nice man, and one of the few I know who self-admittedly describes themselves as evil. But, there exists no-one in this academy who has embraced themselves so fully as he. He revels in that knowledge of who he is, and no matter what form he takes, his self is unchanged. In this is the greatest secret of metamorphosis."
The class stared rapt, excepting for the cream-colored feline in the back, who looked more terrified than anything else, blue-and-green eyes wide and unblinking.
"Dismissed." the badger said. There was silence for a moment, and then the room erupted into noise, slamming desks and conversation and rustling bags filling up the void.
He turned to stare at the glass statue, tapping his lips. The noise died down, eventually, and he turned to look at the front of the classroom again. Predictably, the cream colored feline was still there, in the open doorway, and staring at him. The badger opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as he had turned, the feline was gone, the door slamming behind him.
The badger stared at the door, and shook his head. He began to melt, his skeleton and musculature changing even has his fur sloughed off and reformed, and even his clothing changed, until a golden-eyed fox stood there and grinned toothily.
"Know thyself, O Abel", the fox said, and turned to consider the predicament of his rather...foolish, student...
hehehehehe.
Nicely played. Very nicely played.
I'm sorry to say I saw that coming. But it was nicely-written :3
Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on December 21, 2008, 08:18:12 AM
hehehehehe.
Nicely played. Very nicely played.
Oh why thank you. :3
Quote from: Tapewolf on December 21, 2008, 08:31:59 AM
I'm sorry to say I saw that coming. But it was nicely-written :3
Curses! :B It seems the Tapewolf knows me all too well. But thank you very much, sir. :3
A bit of doggerel about the sprawling nature of our campus, especially during those rainy February days.
The Walk
Oh, Environmental Sciences Building,
thou art more distant to me
than the gray sky, which
hides the sun from my weary eye, and
Apollo from the ascending mind.
Sounds like someone needs to move closer to university :P
Seriously, that cracked me up.
Quote from: Tapewolf on February 11, 2009, 04:26:58 PM
Sounds like someone needs to move closer to university :P
Seriously, that cracked me up.
It's not so much the distance as the parking situation. Or, rather, that there isn't any.
All the campus cops be your enemy, Prince of a Thousand illegal spaces. And when they catch you, they will tow you. But first they must catch you; idler, listener, runner, Prince with the swift tires. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your car will never be ticketed."Campus is also huge. If you've got one class on one end and another class on the other, it's quite possible you'll be late.
cog... i totally feel your pain :hug
i too have a long and obnoxious walk to classes on some days (thursdays and fridays)
i've also had similar poetry bouncing around my head, just never put them to paper... or keyboard...
Heh. Great work, Cogi. I actually have all of my classes in the same building... which is a thirty minute walk from my apartment. On basically the opposite side of the campus. On the plus side, when it's not raining it's a very nice walk. And when it is, it's a five-minute bus ride.
Dangit, how long has it been since I wrote a piece of poetry? I should rectify that! Thank you for this (unintentional) kick in the pants, Cogi!
Quote from: Basilisk2150 on February 11, 2009, 04:35:58 PM
cog... i totally feel your pain :hug
i too have a long and obnoxious walk to classes on some days (thursdays and fridays)
i've also had similar poetry bouncing around my head, just never put them to paper... or keyboard...
Well, a long walk is probably good for me, in any case.
And you should write some! I'm sure everyone would like to take a look at what you've got. :3
Quote from: Jairus on February 11, 2009, 05:24:59 PM
Heh. Great work, Cogi. I actually have all of my classes in the same building... which is a thirty minute walk from my apartment. On basically the opposite side of the campus. On the plus side, when it's not raining it's a very nice walk. And when it is, it's a five-minute bus ride.
Dangit, how long has it been since I wrote a piece of poetry? I should rectify that! Thank you for this (unintentional) kick in the pants, Cogi!
It's no problem, Jay! We need to see more of your writing - notes are interesting, but showing is very often better than telling.
I wrote this for Keats's birthday, but she has kindly said that I may post it here, in order to fend off the rapidly reproducing and disturbingly well-armed dust bunnies that are beginning to take over this thread here. Also, thanks to the box for unlocking it.
The Stars are in It
Jasmine breathed, and felt the smoke work its way deep into her lungs. Cooler than any pipe or cigarette, she drank, the smoke rife with the taste of cinnamon and oranges. She felt herself grow lightheaded as she drank, the normally half-mad giantess relaxing more fully than she had in a long while.
She opened her eyes to exhale, her view settling on her companion. A jet black canine – such were common amongst her clan – beautiful, in his own way. The smoke that billowed up in front of her eyes framed his form delightfully...
She passed him the nozzle to the strange machine next to them. Their fingertips brushed for but the breifest of moments, and Jasmine felt a thrill build in her heart.
Since when have I cared if I touched a boy's hand? she thought. Her contemplation did not keep her from smiling, however.
The blast was instantaneously fatal. The smile was still on her face as the building exploded, the darkened and drawn windows not offering even a moment of warning.
The smoke that drifted towards the heavens was both sickly and sweet, and smelled of cinnamon...
Seth awoke.
He was in a restaurant, the same run-down one that he'd passed a thousand times when he still worked for the hospital. Windows on nearly all sides, bright upholstery...a relative sense of cleanliness kept it from feeling dingy, but the free coffee refills and tired clientele revealed it for what it was – a hole in the wall, a place the locals went to waste their afternoons when they got too old to be staying at bars until 2AM.
It was the middle of the day, though, and Seth had no idea how he got there. He guessed that he wasn't still dreaming – his dreams, recently, hadn't been anything as pleasant as sitting in a restaurant, apparently drinking coffee.
Seven dreams, over and over again. Dying in battle, dying unexpectedly like the last one, dying after being horribly mutilated – that was a fun one – sometimes in the midst of happiness, and sometimes in the midst of the most profound terror...
Waking up and not knowing where he was was new, however. A cup of coffee steamed silently in front of him, and his neck hurt. He moved just a little bit, and grabbed the cup in front of him. His head turned mechanically to the side, looking out the window. It was a cloudy day – rare thing. The surrounding mountains acted as a cloud buffer, and made rain nearly as sparse as in any desert. It made the hotel across the highway look ominous, windows normally bright blue tinted black.
"Are y'ready to order, hon?"
Seth gripped the cup tighter. He turned, wide eyed, and looked at the waitress. She laughed – he must have flinched.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!" she laughed, vaguely frightening teeth showing. "Are you all right? You've been sitting here stock still for nearly an hour..."
"I'm fine." Seth said. He put his left hand on the coffee cup also, warming it. "I'll think I'd just like the check, please-"
Seth paused. The sun was sinking, dark sky or not. He could see it falling over the edge of the mountains, just barely, through a gap in the clouds. He was hungry. And he didn't feel much like putting any effort into dinner tonight.
"Ah...actually..." he paused, clearing his throat. He thought a second.
"Could I get some...pancakes?" he hazarded. The waitress began putting on an apologetic face.
"We actually don't serve breakfast after 11, sir," she began.
"Do an old man a favor." Seth siad, smiling. His coffee steamed between his hands. The waitress paused, and shook her head. "Ah...well..."
Apparently, Seth was better at looking cute, or at least old and helpless, than he thought he was. She caved.
"I'll ask the cook." she said, pressing her lips together with distaste, and also secret amusement. Seth smiled.
"Thanks." he said. The waitress walked away, presumably to get his ill-gotten baked goods.
Seth took a drink of his coffee.
* * *
The night sky, is beautiful. Sometimes, Sierra wondered if anyone else noticed.
She was frail, she knew. Everyone had told her so, and so she knew it to be true. She was no great raider of the clan, or warrior. She wasn't an artist like her sister, Esme, or as motivated to succeed as her brother. People expected very little from her, really. But it meant that people very seldom sought her out.
Oh, her family loved her, she knew that. But it got very lonely, sometimes. Jas was out partying as much as she was fighting. Mom was always busy with the raiders, and Dad was at the forge, busy making things for people. And her other sisters were busy too...she knew it wasn't out of meanness that her sisters left her alone, but.
It gave her alot of time to think. And watch. Think about her family. About herself. About why she got sick. About the Great Lady. About the slaves she occasionally saw through her window.
About the night sky.
Hala'Keth was not a large city, and there were few places that were lit up throughout the night. So, when the stars came out...it was brillaint. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Innumerable stars – she'd tried to count them once – and cold, but nonetheless enthralling. Like splinters of light, suspended in the blackest darkness. And the Moon!
Sierra shivered.
She didn't really understand why. She knew, they were the chosen people of the Great Lady, the greatest race of the greatest race of creatures on the planet. The Jyraneth Clan. Nothing was greater than they. But when she looked at the night sky...
Why did she feel so small?
"Of course I feel small." she whispered to herself. She was small. Everyone knew it. And yet...the stars made her dream, too. And dreams were rare for Sierra.
She wondered if the Great Lady ever looked at the night sky. What did she feel? Did she shiver? Did she dream?
What did she dream about?
She wondered, and saw her own face reflected by the pale moonlight, framed in the glass...
Seth gasped. His hand thrust out for the light, fumbling, while her swing out his legs and threw back the sheets.
"That face!" he said, breathing hard. He stared at the rising moon outside, cut into slivers by the tree in his backyard.
"I recognize that face!"
* * *
Keaton awoke, cursing. Ever since she met that fucking old man...
"Goddamit!" she yelled, her chest already getting tight. She spent as much time as possibly trying to forget about all that...shit, and now she cant close her eyes without having dreams about them?
I thought I was over this...
'Mistress?'
Xianxi. She'd woken him. Irrational anger boiled up inside her and spilled out.
"Why am I having these goddam dreams, Xianxi?" she said, voice rough with sleep.
'I do not know, my mistress-"
"Why the fuck not?" she snarled. Xianxi fell silent.
Apparently the familiar was aware of his mistresses' irrationality. The bedroom was dark and silent for a good minute or so. Keaton felt her shield of anger fragment, the fear beneath it cracking through.
"I'm sorry." she said. "Come here, Xianxi."
Though the silence continued, she knew that the summoned familiar was floating through the air from across the room, so she barely flinched when she felt his touch. She pulled the Aci closer, wrapping her arms around it like a giant, semi-demonic teddy bear.
She felt a little better.
'It's that fucking old man.' she thought. 'He fucking did something to me...'
She remembered dreaming about Jasmine's death, something she'd thought long-buried in her mind.
"I'll fucking kill him for this."
* * *
Seth spent his afternoon as he often did – sitting in his back yard gardening. His knee was a problem, but even the pain it caused him didn't negate the enjoyment he got from the activity. He grew vegetables, some of them actually tasty, flowers, or whatever struck his fancy. The soil and climate were terrible for growing things, but that just added to the satisfaction of success. It wasn't as if he was doing anything else, anyway...
Right now, though, he was drinking a pot of tea, sitting in the shade beneath his single tree. The leaves rustled loudly above him, green and waxy and healthy. The fact that he's managed to nurse it back to health was another source of pride for him.
He drank his tea, until he heard something crash into the bushes behind him. He twisted his head back, eyes narrowed.
Who the hell is hopping my fence? Especially into my desert sage!
The appearance of the girl in his dream wasn't entirely unexpected, when he thought about it. The tea still tumbled from his hand. He grabbed his cane, and leaning on it heavily, stood.
"What-"
She ran for him. Seth noticed the oversized morningstar in her hands. His own hands twisted on his cane.
She telegraphed the fist blow loudly, winding up powerfully to the right. She obviously thought him a weak old man. She was right, really. Seth rushed into the blow and past her, the girl's swing hitting nothing but air. The bottom of his cane fell away, the wood clattering to the ground and revealing a long, glittering blade. He twisted to stab, and felt a blinding pain in his knee, tripping him. He tumbled to the ground.
And felt another blinding pain in his chest. The blade, coated in a paralytic, clattered uselessly away.
One arm slid under the grass and clutched his heart, his body reflexively tensed. His breathing turned haggard, and he tried to catch his breath, but couldn't quite...
He could hear heavy bootfalls behind him. He managed to roll onto his back.
"I-" he gapsed, another blinding pain passing throug his chest. The jackal above him just hefted her morningstar, cocking an eyebrow.
"I saw you." he said finally. "In the glass. I saw-"
Keaton paused, remembering her dream from last night. He...was also dreaming? That was impossible. She hefted her mace again.
He was probably just talking about last time, when he saw her.
"I...ah. No. Not you."
Darkness took Seth.
* * *
Seth opened his eyes.
Room 353, First Regional Medical Center. He could tell by the view, even in the dark. It was terrible, a bunch of roofs and gravel.
He was alive.
And hadn't dreamed about anything. Before he could think further, though, he saw that face again. Reflected in the glass, amongst the stars.