The Clockwork Mansion

Oldest

Old Habits Die Hard (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.0.html) 2009/08/25

A Nice Game of Golf (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg302003.html#msg302003) 2009/10/27

Making Plans for Nigel (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg306090.html#msg306090) (2009/12/15)

Daryil's Christmas Gift (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg306721.html#msg306721) (2009/12/25)

Divine Judgement (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg309364.html#msg309364) (2010/01/18)

Only Children (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg320684.html#msg320684) (2010/04/05)

Cass (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg332347.html#msg332347) (2010/07/03)

Critical Mass (part 1 of 2) (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg333933.html#msg333933) (2010/07/22)
Critical Mass (part 2 of 2) (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg333993.html#msg333993) (2010/07/23)

The Book of the Tenets of Clan Daryil (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg339021.html#msg339021) (2010/09/21)

Time and Date (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg339442.html#msg339442) (2010/09/28)

Fishing Trip (Part 1 of 2) (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg349589.html#msg349589) (2011/04/05)
Fishing Trip (part 2 of 2) (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg349601.html#msg349601) (2011/04/06)

Fear's Child (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg355059.html#msg355059) (2011/08/24)

The Axeman Cometh (http://clockworkmansion.com/forum/index.php/topic,6445.msg377454.html#msg377454)(2014/06/03)

Newest

---

Well, I've had a certain amount of writer's block, one of the reasons I finished Future History.  I decided then to concentrate on short stories.  While I have a number of them simmering away, this is the first one that's actually been completed.

It was in fact written entirely yesterday, inspired by a certain picture (http://tapewolf.deviantart.com/art/Something-wicked-this-way-come-134616581) (also on FA here (http://www.furaffinity.net/view/2698946)) and Keaton's own descriptions of her behaviour from a couple of years back when I first started writing about her character.

I'm not entirely sure this is one of my best, but it's a start.  Keaton liked it, so I hope others will too.  It is set some time after Future History.

---

Old habits die hard

"I know you, Stoneheart," the jackal said, caressing the wolf-Being's fur gently.  She looked him in the eye, her hair lit up by the small glowing patch of enchantment that was the sole source of light within the cave.

"I know everything about you," the succubus continued.  "Everything you love, everything you hate, all the things that are seductive to you and the things that can chill your heart..."  The Being whimpered.  His eyes were wide with horror but he did not move, held fast by the ropes that bound him to his chair.  

"...And now we're all alone, just the two of us... And it's been so such a long time since I've had a soul all to myself!"  Her voice was calm and abstracted, as if she was trying to choose what colour to paint the living-room.  Her face bore a faint smile that was as cold as dry ice.

"Oh yes," she crooned, stroking her victim's hair as he sweated, struggling in a futile attempt to break free from his bonds.  "That's coming.  Soon.  It won't be long, now.  I could do it fast, of course.  You'd be gone before you knew was happening.  Do you think I should do it that way...?
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?  It's so much better if you know.  I think I'll do it slowly over several minutes so you can savour the experience.  It'll be your last, after all."  She smiled happily to herself.  Even now, she could feel his soul, warm and inviting.  His terror added a delicious tang to it all.

"Think of it as a release, my dear.  All the times you've been hurt, spurned or hated... all of that will be gone in just a few short moments of pain and terror."  Her prey let out a scream of sheer terror, though muffled by the gag.

"Come to me, my darling," she sang and reached down to her victim, kissing him on the nose.  His back arched as she began to draw out his very essence, his eyes widening and staring horribly.

"'Hurt, spurned and hated'?" a voice said behind her.  "Really, Keaton... you're self-projecting.  Compared to you, this one's led a charmed life."

The succubus' eyes widened - she could feel the edge of cold steel against the side of her throat.  For a few seconds she froze, expecting a death that did not come.  The sword tapped her gently as if to remind her that she was within its power, and reluctantly she did what was required of her.

"That's better," her captor said as the terrified Being slipped away from her grasp.  A tentacle slid into her field of vision and loosed his bonds.  Stoneheart's terror was no less evident as he fell from the chair to the ground.  He had been rescued from one monster, only to fall victim to another...

"Get him out of here, Tal," the voice commanded and his bidding was at once carried out by a small warp-aci.

The sword came away from her throat and Keaton spun around furiously, forgetting that she was still in a certain amount of danger.  "You bastard!" she yelled, tentacles at the ready.  "He was mine!  You go find your own!"

"Oh Keaton, Keaton..." the incubus said sadly.  His own tentacles were out, and the enchanted sword that had been at her throat only moments before was balanced perfectly in his hands.  He was well-built, dressed in light armour and he looked rather familiar...

"Daryil will be disappointed," he sighed.  "Have you forgotten your promise to him already?"

Keaton froze.  Anger gave way to a cold chill in the pit of her stomach.  "How do you know of that...?  Y... Dorcan?"

"Yes," the Doberman said simply.  "Dorcan."  It came out like a challenge.

"B-but... how did you...?" Keaton gobbled.  "Tentacles?  The warp-aci...?  But you died!  You're not a 'Cubi anymore, you're just an android!  You don't even have tentacles anymore!"

"Android technology has come a long way since we last met," he said.  "I have come a long way... I'm a series 23 unit now.  It's not the same as before I died - I had to re-learn a lot of things and I still can't do more than the most basic shapeshifting...  But everything else..." he pointed at the now-empty chair.
"I could take your soul," he said.  "I should, by right of conquest.  At the end of the day I'm a Jyraneth Clan member, just like you.  It's what we're infamous for." his eyes bored into hers.

The succubus stared at him, unable to speak.  Android or no, the Doberman's muscle-bound frame wasn't all fakery.  He had the strength and stamina of a young Demon and if he wanted to destroy her she would be pinned down as helplessly as her erstwhile prey - and just as completely dead.  She knew it, and he knew... she could tell by the conceited smirk on his lips.  It was the same as the one she had used herself.
Keaton's head bowed for a moment and her tentacles flowed back into her wings.  She looked up at him, her expression hardening, defeated yet proud.

"Salem told you to remember his fate next time you thought to take a soul," Dorcan continued, enjoying her reaction.  "Daryil showed me the recording.  Do you think so little of your own father that you would betray him in that manner?"

The jackal let out a little cry in spite of herself.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," Dorcan said, his voice softening for a moment.  "You're going to leave and we'll forget this ever happened.  Daryil told me that you have a part left to play, and that's the only reason you'll be walking out of here alive.
"But if ever I catch you at this again, it will be your last mistake.  If you must have soul energy, you buy it from an approved dealer.  Understand?"

"I do," she said meekly and made her way out of the cave, slowly enough to try and convince him that she wasn't scared, but quickly enough to get away from him.
In the back of her mind she was boiling with rage and frustration, but this soon melted away.  After all, the incubus was right - she had betrayed her father's wishes and her promise to Daryil.
I'm sorry, Daddy, she thought.  I promise... I'll try to be good, but... it's so hard...


"How did I do?" Dorcan asked.  He could no longer feel Keaton's mind and she was out of earshot so he relaxed, the confident expression washing away from his face.  He looked a little strained.

"Nine out of ten," Sethir said, decloaking and appearing beside him.  "She bought it alright.  You're a pretty good actor.  We'll make an adventurer of you yet."

"I'm a 'Cubi," Dorcan reminded him with a grin.  "Acting is our forte.  But... what a rush!  I haven't tasted so much fear in centuries!  I can see why Jakob is so fond of scaring people and why he's unable to kick that habit.  I'll have to watch my step or I'll be doing that too and it's a bad habit to get into."  He turned sharply to face the wolf.  "You know, I don't think you told me how you knew what she was doing."

"Elementary, my dear Dorcan," the wolf said.  "She has an offender's tag and our enforcement bureau has access to the Forchester City CCTV network.  When Mr. Stoneheart was reported missing we did a cross-check and what did we see but someone very much like Keaton approaching him stealthily...?
"It sounds a bit 'Big Brother', I know, but for cases like this it's invaluable.  You saw it yourself... another five minutes and he'd be part of a succubus.  Fortunately it's still a rare event, otherwise we might find all Creatures in the city getting tagged, criminal or not."

"Hmm, wouldn't that break the discrimination laws?" Dorcan said, not liking the direction of the conversation.  He made a mental note to avoid moving to Forchester.  "Anyway.  What about Keaton?  Think she'll hold?"

"I hope so," the wolf said, his headwings drooping slightly.  "We'll have to see.  I saw her mind there.  She's done evil things and no doubt she will again.  Her spell in prison could have reformed her, but it looks like it has only made her worse.
"But deep down inside, she only does these things because she feels she must.  That's the saddest part - there is the potential to be a good person inside her.  I can only hope she finds it before she steps too far out of line."

"Anyway, we'd better find Mr. Stoneheart," he said.  "Where did you tell your warp-aci to take him?"

"I... didn't," Dorcan admitted.


They found Stoneheart at the nearest café, his eyes still haunted by the near-death of his soul.
Beside him, somewhere within a mountain of ice-cream bowls, Tal had racked up a bill of two hundred and sixty-five gold dollars on Dorcan's credit card.

Aww, poor Keaton. I almost feel sorry for her. :B

Nice story, Tape. I hope you'll be able to get over your writer's block soon. :)

ice cream bowls. *snicker*


Well organised story, Tape. I liked it, and it tied up a few loose ends well.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 26, 2009, 04:05:54 AM
Well organised story, Tape. I liked it, and it tied up a few loose ends well.

Thanks.  One of the problems I have is that it's a bit too dependent on having read FH to properly understand the interaction between Dorcan and Keaton...

Quote from: Tapewolf on August 26, 2009, 07:42:27 AM
Thanks.  One of the problems I have is that it's a bit too dependent on having read FH to properly understand the interaction between Dorcan and Keaton...

Perhaps.. without having read hardly any of FH (sorry bout that btw >_<) I find the interaction intriguing.. and makes me want to read it more.. but that's just me ^^

Awesome work too! Poor Keats.. she just needs a good SSA (Soul Sucker Annonymous) friend ^^

Oh CHRIST I loved this to pieces. You've heard me praising you over AIM, but I should remind you that you are several kinds of awesome, Tape. c:

Quote from: Keaton the Black Jackal on September 08, 2009, 08:06:15 AM
Oh CHRIST I loved this to pieces. You've heard me praising you over AIM, but I should remind you that you are several kinds of awesome, Tape. c:

Heh, thanks for the vote of confidence there.  I'm playing around with ideas for the next story, but it's still a bit short.

A Nice Game of Golf

The Doberman stood on the green and narrowed his eyes.  He was just about on par and the ball had come to rest line-of-sight to the hole.  
Reaching into the caddy he chose a nine-iron and with careful deliberation struck.  There was a burst of muted but appreciative applause from the crowd of spectators and he made his way towards it, caddy in tow.

Dorcan reached into the caddy and drew another club, carefully working out the angles and force needed to project the ball precisely where he desired.  It's not that hard, he thought.

Just as he was about to strike there was a scream from the crowd.  He glanced up.  There was a gunshot and one of the crowd slumped dead.  A feline Being burst out of the milling crowd and onto the green, yelling "Liberty or death!" or words to that effect.
Dorcan dropped immediately, flattening himself to the green and rolling slightly.  On the opposite side of the green a Labrador retriever spasmed once as a sniper round struck her head.  She collapsed to the ground like a broken doll and her body slumped across the grassy expanse.  The sign beside her - which had been innocently advertising drum'n'bass flavour potato snacks - was now a horrible, bloody mess.

"Ewww," Dorcan said and picking himself up again, took the shot.  He sliced it and the ball soared into the rough.  Behind him two cracks sounded as men were felled by the gunman.  There were more screams from the survivors.

Dorcan glanced at his enemy and shrugged as he made his way to the ball.  "Who am I to interfere?" he muttered, glancing around.  It was plain enough to him that the murderer was still preoccupied with ending the lives of the people nearest to him in the crowd, and that meant that he was safe for now.  Keeping one eye upon them, he glanced back to the game.  Reaching into the caddy once more he selected a metal driver.  Glancing back, he realised that the crowd on that side had fled and the gunman's closest target was now him.

Dorcan swung the driver in front of his face, the bullet ricocheting off it with a sharp Ping!.  Scowling he reached back into the caddy and drew out a silenced 30.06 sniper rifle.  The gunman aimed and fired, but the revolver only clicked, his six rounds already spent.  He struggled to reload but Dorcan took the advantage, flicking off the safety.  Moments later there was a faint phut! noise and the cat was sprawled down across the fairway, his wide eyes staring pathetically to the sky as though he couldn't believe what was happening.  The crowd clapped again - Dorcan bowed slightly and flicking the safety back on, put the rifle back into the caddy.

The Doberman glanced around and pulled out a driver.  To yet more applause from the crowd, he lined up, did a few mental calculations and deftly knocked the ball out of the rough.  It bounced off the gunman leaving a small trail of red, and Dorcan smiled to himself.  Approaching the ball he chose a putter and lined up his shot.

At that moment there was a thud, followed shortly by another.  And another.  "Holy shit," he yelped.  Behind him, someone giggled.
There, behind the crowd, loomed a giant monstrosity easily 25 feet tall.  It was part flesh, part machine and ugly as sin... pieces of shining metal had been grafted onto it apparently at random like some cheesy extra from a bad horror movie.  The beast roared once and stomped into the crowd, destroying the blood-spattered advertisements and crushing at least three people underfoot.

The Doberman stared as its arm slowly raised and the creature turned, levelling and aiming at him.  In that instant he realised that the monster's arm had been replaced by a rocket launcher.  Oh crap, crap, crap... he whimpered, dropping the club and leaping to one side.  There was a flash and the rocket shot through the space that his head had just recently occupied to slam into the crowd, killing no fewer than six Beings.

Dorcan rolled over and two more projectiles slammed into the crowd.  Then there was a lull as the monster paused to reload.  Taking the advantage once more, Dorcan grabbed his rifle and shot the beast in the head three, four times.  It barely noticed.  Coming to his senses, Dorcan leapt out of the way as three more missiles came his way.  The last came to rest just behind him and he yelped with pain as it seared him.

The monster was coming close and Dorcan was running out of rounds.  He knew that next time it would be for keeps.  Diving, he grabbed the caddy and ran.  His enemy was slow to turn and Dorcan was ready for this.  He touched the side of his caddy and it whirred, vomiting out the clubs and rifle.  A protrusion extended from its side and he picked the thing up, resting it upon his shoulder.

Touching the side, there was a deafening roar as his impromptu bazooka fired.  The force blew him backwards and he lay on his back staring at the sky for a few seconds.  There was a strange sound ringing in his ears but that was hardly surprising.  Suddenly he realised that the wailing sound he could hear was the creatures' death-cry and he sat up, just in time to see it collapse onto the crowd.

Shaking his head and dusting himself off, Dorcan looked around for the ball, just in time to see it fade from sight.  Shit, took too long, he thought and glanced around.  Sure enough, it had teleported back to the start of the course.
With a sigh he trudged back to the start and eyed the ball warily.  Earlier he thought he'd caught it moving while his back was turned and the way things were going he was not about to take anything for granted.

Smiling evilly he drew out the rifle again and aimed at the base of the ball.  Predictably, it burst into pieces earning him a penalty from the referee.

Choosing a long-range driver, Dorcan swung back when a young feline child burst out of the crowd.  "Death to the Bishop!" she screamed and threw something.  The dark object bounced, landing just a few yards away and Dorcan, in spite of his shock, immediately recognised it as a hand grenade.  He had three seconds.

Dropping the caddy and pausing only to snatch at his rifle, the Doberman fled into the crowd.  There was a flash and a sound like a thunderclap, killing several people in the crowd along with the assassin.  He turned back just in time to see the ball sailing through the air.

"No!" he screamed, clutching his hair.  The ball bounced once, twice and fell into the rapidly flowing water with a loud plop!  He ran over but it was no use, the ball had become one with it.

"Lost ball," the referee said.  "I'm afraid you're ou-" he got no further as the Doberman emptied a round into his head.

"Who's out now?" Dorcan sneered.  Then his expression turned to one of delight.  The referee, it seemed, had dropped something as he died.  It was another ball.

The Doberman, his tail wagging, took his prize, only to have it disappear in his hand.  His brow creased and he glanced back towards the start of the course where the ball now stood once again.  "Better than nothing," he said to himself, but then cursed as he discovered that the only club surviving the bombing attempt was his putter, wholly unsuited for traversing the entire course.

With a solemn expression, he turned about and selected a man in the crowd.  He had a set of clubs, and a few moments later Dorcan had them instead, the one careful owner lying across the railing with part of his head missing.  Some of the surviving members of the crowd were still booing about this, though they quieted down as the Doberman struck, sending the ball across the fairway.

Dorcan, after a moment's consideration, was about to place his second shot when he heard a peculiar sucking noise from the crowd.  He looked up and the club fell from his hands.  One of the crowd was rising into the air very rapidly.  Then another, and another still.

The Doberman became frantic.  He snatched the club up and slammed it with great force, sending the ball hurtling across the course.  It was a lucky shot that took him right into the putting green and he ran after it like one possessed, the caddy overturning and scoring the ground.  The referee would probably have objected to that if he were still capable of objecting to anything at all.

There were maybe ten people left in the crowd and another was starting to rise into the sky even as he watched.  With trembling hands he took out the putter and nudged the ball towards the hole.  In his haste he overdid it and the ball rolled past.
"Awww," chorused the crowd, now down to about five.

Dorcan knew that time was not on his side.  Whatever force was at play was something he could not control or defeat with bullets.  He had to concentrate upon the game.  Three more people rose.  Four.  He took the shot, trying to get it just right.
There was no sound from the crowd now, for there was no crowd.  The last member was ascending to heaven as if caught up in some strange and terrible apotheosis.

Dorcan watched horrified, his eyes upon the ball alone as it rolled towards the hole.  The force had taken hold of him now and he was rising into the air without sensation.  The white of the ball, now dwindling, stopped short just upon the edge of the hole.

"You've got to be kidding!" he shrieked frantically.  The ball as if hearing his command, teetered and fell into the hole with an emphatic clunk.   Everything went black.


Dorcan removed the headphones and glanced at the others.  His expression was hard to read.  There was silence for a few moments.

"So... what do you think?" Daryil asked eventually, a nervous smile upon his face.  As it happened he already knew what Dorcan thought but it helped break the ice.

"You're utterly insane," Dorcan told him.

"I know," the fox replied, beaming.  "But what was your score in the end?"

The Doberman glanced at the display screen.  "Three holes, six over par.  And four frags."

"Let me try something," Ashley said, beckoning for the controller.  "I saw one of the crowd back there.  His feet weren't touching the ground.  We've got to fix that before we ship the demo..."

"Must we?" Daryil said, pouting slightly.  "I liked it when they did that.  It looked cool!
 Hey... maybe we should add a level where it's night and the ground is gone and when you look down you just see stars..."

"You're utterly insane," Dorcan repeated.  "But I think you've got a hit on your hands."

---

Author's note:
I don't play golf so I may have got some of the terminology and nuances wrong.  Sorry about that!

Every time somebody got shot, I was hearing the Halo announcer. "Double Kill! Triple Kill! M-m-m-m-m-monsterkill!" :P

That was well written and very amusing. It perhaps speaks badly of me that I might pick up a golf game like that.

Quote from: Cogidubnus on October 28, 2009, 12:45:30 PM
Every time somebody got shot, I was hearing the Halo announcer. "Double Kill! Triple Kill! M-m-m-m-m-monsterkill!" :P
That was well written and very amusing. It perhaps speaks badly of me that I might pick up a golf game like that.

Heh, thanks.
It was originally the result of a discussion I had with my brother a couple of months back.  We were playing Wii Golf and I got the idea of a 'Nightmare' difficulty level, which basically crossed golf with Doom.  That fairly soon turned into "That's the sort of thing Daryil might do".

Quote from: Cogidubnus on October 28, 2009, 12:45:30 PM
Every time somebody got shot, I was hearing the Halo announcer. "Double Kill! Triple Kill! M-m-m-m-m-monsterkill!" :P

Isn't that Unreal? :P
But yes, an all round amusing tale of golf balls and assassination attempts. Very nice!


Would have preferred a GEP gun, as apposed to a bazooka, but whatever. :P

Now there's a game that bucks the trend. I wonder, does it have any RPG elements; perhaps going down the Borderlands route with 87 billion randomly generated golf clubs as loot?

That was certainly an unusual and interesting story. Quite a surprise ending. :)

Quote from: the story
The monster was coming close and Dorcan was running out of rounds.  He knew that next time it would be for keeps.  Diving, he grabbed the caddy and ran.  His enemy was slow to turn and Dorcan was ready for this.  He touched the side of his caddy and it whirred, vomiting out the clubs and rifle.  A protrusion extended from its side and he picked the thing up, resting it upon his shoulder.

I did have to read this part several times to figure out what was going on... there's a rocket launcher built into the caddy?

Quote from: Fibre on October 30, 2009, 01:04:45 AM
I did have to read this part several times to figure out what was going on... there's a rocket launcher built into the caddy?

Pretty much.  Of course that's entirely impossible unless the mechanism is stored in non-euclidean space a'la Abel's Mirror, but since the whole thing is a video game anyway, it doesn't really matter  :P

Wow! It took me a while to stop freaking out with a "DORCAN NOOOO!!" XD but very neat! I do like the idea of mixing golf with DOOM :3 it would make it much more entertaining.

Sorry for the late reply. I liked both stories, especially the first one. The second one was interesting, but Dorcan's attitude made it clear it wasn't real from the beginning. He did act like it was a game, which I guess is not a bad thing considering it was. It was an original game too, but I'm afraid I wouldn't want to play it.

Making plans for Nigel

Samson entered the bar and looked around.  A couple of regulars waved, he waved back.  On a usual day he'd probably join them and there might be time enough for that later.  But there was someone he needed to talk to first.
Near the back, on a table all to himself, a young Alsatian hound* was contemplating a mug of ale with a doleful expression.  Someone who was not a regular might have taken offence at the two demonic wings protruding from his back, but everyone here was happy enough with it and Samson himself would have had harsh words for anyone who tried to mock or otherwise take the youth to task over his peculiarity.

The dog's ears pricked slightly at the sound of the approaching feline and he glanced up momentarily.

"Leave me be," he mumbled.

Samson ignored this and sat next to him.  "I said... leave me alone!" he growled, and looked up, teeth bared.  His expression changed abruptly.

"Oh!  Sir!  I didn't know it was you!"

"We're not at the academy now, Nigel.  Just call me Samson."

"Okay, sir... I mean... Samson..." he flustered.

"Look, Nigel.  I can see this isn't a particularly good time, but I have to know.  Mrs. Teller at the academy seems to think that you want to cancel the course.  Is this true...?"

Nigel's upper body gave out and he flopped across the table.  "Yes," he sighed.  "I... I don't think I can do this anymore."

"But why?  You're one of the best students I've had.  A quick learner, fast and agile.  It's almost as if you can tell beforehand what someone is about to do, and block it.  Yes, you're perhaps a bit softhearted and you certainly need to work on that whole nervousness thing, but all of those are things which can be overcome..."

"About that..."

"Look, you're one of my star pupils."  Samson continued, trying hard to suppress his horror.  "If you're really, seriously thinking of leaving us, I want to know what the reason is."

"Sir... Samson," Nigel said.  "It's difficult for me to talk about this.  It hasn't been an easy decision to make."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Do you want to go somewhere more private?" Samson offered.  "We don't have to discuss this here."

"No, it's fine," Nigel glanced around.  "It's just...  I'm afraid."

Samson blinked.  This was not something he'd expected to hear.

"Is that all?  Nigel, fear is a defence mechanism.  It helps us survive.  It's a hard world out there, you know that and I know that.  I won't say there's nothing to be afraid of, but it can't be that bad.  The secret is to ensure that fear serves you.  Don't let it get the upper hand, that's all.  Now... just a minute, let me get something to drink.  Do you want a refill?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Nigel said.  The panther hesitated as he noticed that his pupil hadn't touched his ale at all.  Maybe it is that bad, he thought and went to the bar.

"Do you believe in prophecy?" Nigel asked when he returned.

"Which prophecy?" Samson asked, eyeing the hound curiously at the sudden change of subject.

"Prophecy in general.  The concept of being able to see a vision of the future."

"The Phoenix Oracles are true prophets," Samson allowed, "So I don't see why other Beings or Creatures may not also gain visions of the future under the right circumstances."

"You know, of course that I might be... a Demon," Nigel began.  His grey, leathery wings twitched slightly.  "Whatever my father's heritage, my mother was a Being.  I have these wings from my father, but I don't know what else I have.  Maybe I'll live for a thousand years.  Maybe I'll be able to harden my skin against blades.  Or maybe..." he swallowed.  "Maybe I'm pure-blood."

"Would that be so terrible?" the black panther asked.  "Demons have a bad reputation, but it's not all that bad.  You stick with us, you'll make a fine warrior, whatever your race is."

"That's not the point," the Alsatian said.  "I'm 20.  If I am pureblood, I'll start to change soon, in just a few years.  The horns will come in.  And my mind might change too.  I could end up with all these urges to kill, to eat the flesh of people... I don't want to turn into a monster!

"Don't you see?" he whimpered.  "I'm not afraid of the course.  I'm not... very... afraid of the world outside.  I'm afraid of me.  I'm afraid of what I might turn into."

Samson remained silent, waiting for his student to finish unburdening himself.

"And that is why I want to leave the course.  I don't want to know how to fight bandits, rogue adventurers or Demons anymore.  I don't want myself to have that advantage if... if I go bad.  I don't want to complete the course."

"Nigel," Samson began after a long pause, "I've never told you this, but I have met Demons.  Spoken to them, I mean, not just some random battle in the forest.  I lived in the Demon city of Zinvth for a while, and I know a thing or two about them.  Demons aren't all bad, kid.  And those who are... are because they chose to be that way.
"It's not the wings that make you evil, it's not the powers.  It's how you decide to put them to use.  And that by and large, depends on how you were brought up.  Nigel, I've known you for at least five years.  You aren't perfect, but you aren't a monster either."

"And if coming into my powers changes me...?" Nigel asked, staring into the depths of his ale.

"I told you, I grew up in Zinvth.  Adolescent Demons who go off on a bender do so because they are encouraged to do that by their parents, and they were encouraged to do it by their parents.  It's all part of their upbringing.  Demons and half-demons who don't have that kind of pressure to kill and maim tend not to.  Even some of the ones who are so encouraged don't, whether as an act of rebellion or because they did just the bare minimum necessary to keep their parents off their backs."

The canine grunted, digesting this.

"And of course, this might not happen.  You might only have some traits and not be a pureblood at all.  Heck, you might not be a Demon."

"With wings like this?" Nigel snapped, swishing them around.

"Demons aren't the only ones with leathery wings.  Dragons have them, mythos have them.  Some 'Cubi have them too."

"I think I'd know if I was a dragon," Nigel smiled wanly.  "But what's a cube-eye?"

"Oh, some weird sort of demon.  They feed on pain and torment and can steal people's identities." And some of them eat souls, he added mentally, cursing himself.

"That doesn't exactly make me feel better," the dog pointed out.

"Whether they torment people or steal their identities is again, all down to their upbringing," Samson retorted.  "Your father was - and I shan't mince words - a good-for-nothing philanderer who was killed by the mayor the day after he'd laid your mother.  But she... she's done a good job on your upbringing, and I don't believe you've given her the credit she deserves.  You're a good lad and I can't easily see you killing people for shits and giggles."

"I stand corrected," Nigel said.  "But Mayor Filtree was a demon himself, and he killed my father out of hand!"

"...because he found him in bed with his wife," Samson reminded him.  "And if it's any consolation, he resigned after that.  He was ashamed of losing control."

"I guess I'm on the right track, then," Nigel said.  The feline put his head in his hands.

"...so the mayor wasn't the best example.  We'll get back to that.  But first, I believe you asked me about prophecy.  Would you care to elaborate?"

"I guess so," Nigel said.  "They say that when a child goes through puberty he or she goes through a phase of having erotic dreams as their body reorganises itself and they mature.  I can't remember any myself, but hey... my body chemistry might not be the same."

"Go on," Samson said.

"Well, I had a dream three days ago.  Not an erotic one," he added quickly.  "It was about me.  In the dream it was about five years from now and I had come into power.  I had the horns, and I had the strength and reflexes.  I had a figure like you wouldn't believe.  And I had become an adventurer, just like you trained me to."

"What happened?"

"I... killed people.  I slew bandits in the forest.  I... ate their bodies.  I ate... their souls."  Nigel's wings were shuddering slightly... he was shaking with fear.

"And then... when I'd killed the bandits, I needed more.  I killed the people I'd been protecting.  And I ate their souls too.  And then... then... I began to hunt for more victims!"

Samson was taken aback.  Not just because of what he'd been told, but because his student - who he almost thought of as a son - was crying to himself.

"And you think that this was your body telling you that you would soon become a full demon?  That it was trying to prepare you for the change, for your new strengths and new... urges?"

"No," Nigel wept.  "I think it's a prophecy."


"Supposing you do quit the course," Samson said, when he had calmed the younger man down.  "What will you do then?  How will you live?"

"By becoming a farmer," Nigel replied instantly.  "I'll work the land.  With a demon's strength I can do it alone, out in the wilderness of the northern moors where there won't be anyone for me to hurt.  I can grow crops, I can eat my own produce.  If I need meat, I can raise chickens or cattle.  And I... won't have to worry about Demons or bandits raiding my farm."

Samson looked kind of worried.  "Isolation is not the answer, surely.  Many Creatures need the company of others, and Demons are no exception."

"Better that than harm another soul," the hound said.  "Do you have a better idea?"

"Yes.  Stay with us.  Finish your course.  If you do go rogue on us, we have ways to restrain your powers.  We can keep you safe from harming others until you come to your senses.  But assuming you don't lose it, which is far more likely, we can put those powers to good use.  For the good of all of us."

"How so?"

"I... shouldn't tell you this, kid, but the council has been watching your progress.  You would be wasted as an adventurer.  When you graduate -"  He raised a hand as Nigel attempted to interrupt.  "When you graduate, the plan is to offer you a place in the town guards."

The Alsatian's mouth fell open.  "That wasn't part of the dream," he said.


Samson knocked twice on the office door.  "Enter," called a female voice.  Samson did.

"Ah, Samson," Mayor Vlitnik said.  "How did it go?"

The panther locked the door and sat down.  Demon wings appeared from his back as he did so, and the raccoon did likewise.

"He's still terrified of the idea of being a full-fledged Demon.  He had a nightmare about it and it's really shaken him up.  He was afraid it might be prophetic."

"I see," the Mayor said.  "And did you manage to persuade him to stay with us?"

"Indeed.  If he truly is a Demon, he'd be able to mop the floor with me.  I'd prefer to have him our side.  But...  I still think he's an incubus."

"Oh?" the Mayor said, and then she smiled.  "Surely with your talents you would be able to tell?"

"Not conclusively.  Too many ambient thoughts and emotions at the academy or the bar," he pulled a face.  "So our wager is still on.  But if he is, I'd say he's probably got a fear affinity."

The raccoon sighed.  "If you're right, or if we're both wrong, will all this have been a waste of time...?  Training him for the captaincy, I mean."

"No.  If he truly is 'Cubi, he has the right to an education at SAIA and I would sponsor him for that, if that is what he wishes.  That doesn't make it a waste, it just means that he'll be away a few centuries.  Perhaps not even that if he takes a part-time course.  And even if he's just a half-Demon or a mythos or something, he'll still make a very capable captain."

"I guess you're right," she said.  "It's just... I don't like the idea of planning his future for him like this.  It's too... Angelic."

"When he's ready, we'll tell him," the feline said.  "At the end of the day it has to be his own choice.  If he wants to leave, we mustn't stop him."

"Agreed.  But..."

"...how will he feel when he discovers our Mayor is a full-blooded Demoness?"  Samson finished.  "Or that I am an incubus?  We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

---

Author's notes

(*) 'Alsatian hound' is synonymous with 'German Shepherd dog'.  I don't think the former name is used very much in the US, but it feels a lot less clunky to write.

See also "Making plans for Nigel" by XTC.  A youtube search should work wonders.


Spoilers

For those who are wondering or haven't quite made the connection, Nigel's full name is Nigel D'Aril.

Nigel briefly appears in Project Future on the following pages:
http://www.project-future.org/strip.php?strip=89
http://www.project-future.org/strip.php?strip=90

Oooo! Very neat! It can be frustrating to qualm someone's fears, especially about themselves ^^ but it's cool to learn more about Nigel ^_^ Oh the curiosities! I do kick myself for not having read FH yet :B I'll break out my jump stick...

Nicely done as well  :mowhappy

Oh, and on a bit of a side note.. at the end I couldn't help but think a bit about Full Metal Alchemist ^^

Quote from: wuffnpuff on December 16, 2009, 02:07:44 PM
Oooo! Very neat! It can be frustrating to qualm someone's fears, especially about themselves ^^ but it's cool to learn more about Nigel ^_^

Glad you like it.  I wasn't consciously thinking of it but I went through a certain crisis of self-confidence myself around Nigel's age.  I guess that helped me write this.

QuoteOh, and on a bit of a side note.. at the end I couldn't help but think a bit about Full Metal Alchemist ^^

I wouldn't know.

Quote from: Tapewolf on December 16, 2009, 02:42:58 PM
I wouldn't know.

That makes it even more cool then! ^^ If you like anime maybe check the series out.

This most recent story has me wondering a few things about demons.

I'm not sure if demons have the ability to fully conceal their back-wings.  They may only be able to fluctuate the size based on their power output, but I wouldn't know.

I'm also not sure if demons have horns (unless their base species has horns).  None of the demons seen so far in the main comic have horns other than those possessed by their base species, except for DP, and those are implants, as stated in his cast page.

I just want to get my facts straight in terms of their physiology, for the sake of my own stories.

Also, if you want to see some Full Metal Alchemist, you can watch episodes on Adult Swim Video (http://video.adultswim.com/fullmetal-alchemist/index.html).
However, I wouldn't suggest watching it right now, as it's near the end of the series and it might spoil some things for you, since you haven't seen it before.  Wait a few months and you'll be able to watch the series from the beginning.

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 24, 2009, 03:34:54 AM
I'm not sure if demons have the ability to fully conceal their back-wings.  They may only be able to fluctuate the size based on their power output, but I wouldn't know.

They can if they use a concealment charm like Kria's.

QuoteI'm also not sure if demons have horns (unless their base species has horns).  None of the demons seen so far in the main comic have horns other than those possessed by their base species, except for DP, and those are implants, as stated in his cast page.

Demonology says they do.  What's not clear is whether a species that lacks horns normally will have the horns as a kid or when they reach maturity.  The wings seem to be present either at birth or when they come into their powers, so it's not impossible that the horns could appear in a similar manner. 

QuoteAlso, if you want to see some Full Metal Alchemist, you can watch episodes on Adult Swim Video (http://video.adultswim.com/fullmetal-alchemist/index.html).
However, I wouldn't suggest watching it right now, as it's near the end of the series and it might spoil some things for you, since you haven't seen it before.  Wait a few months and you'll be able to watch the series from the beginning.

If Ren has taught me one thing about anime it's that it seems to be horribly depressing, almost without exception.  So I think I'll give it a miss.

Quote from: Tapewolf on December 24, 2009, 05:19:24 AM

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 24, 2009, 03:34:54 AM
I'm not sure if demons have the ability to fully conceal their back-wings.  They may only be able to fluctuate the size based on their power output, but I wouldn't know.

They can if they use a concealment charm like Kria's.

I do note that those have side effects, which you (the original poster) should pay attention to...

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on December 24, 2009, 05:36:08 AM
I do note that those have side effects, which you (the original poster) should pay attention to...

I read it that it was a glitch specific to that particular brand or model.  It's still not entirely clear that it is the reason for Lorenda's wing size, it's just strongly implied...

Love the stories Tape.
I think the second one is my favourite, mixing golf and Doom just seems to write itself.
The other two are nice, but they seem tied into other stories I haven't read so it's hard to appreciate them in and of themselves. Still pretty good.

Quote from: Sofox on December 24, 2009, 10:48:49 AM
Love the stories Tape.
I think the second one is my favourite, mixing golf and Doom just seems to write itself.
The other two are nice, but they seem tied into other stories I haven't read so it's hard to appreciate them in and of themselves. Still pretty good.

Nigel is almost self-contained.  The only external reference is Nigel himself appearing in the Project Future panels as a background character.

The first story really had that problem, and I'm trying to make my next one easier to read without the background.

Interesting story. Is a sequel coming along?

I liked the phrase "I don't like the idea of planning his future for him like this.  It's too... Angelic."

Quote from: Gabi on December 24, 2009, 05:56:04 PM
Interesting story. Is a sequel coming along?

There's not really much more I had planned to say, but if I think of something, the certainly.

---

Daryil's Christmas Gift

In a rough-looking hovel, two Beings lay exhausted at the end of a long day's travel, their young child fast asleep beside them.
At the rear of their hut a door - bolted shut - began to tremble, the bolt slowly moving of its own volition and sliding gently back.
With a faint click it unlatched and the door opened.  A head appeared, eyes shining and a wicked grin crossing its features, two wings quivering with anticipation.

The creature slipped softly and silently towards the cot, staring down at the child who was soon to be his prey.
"Come here, little soul..." he crooned, and reached down to touch the infant's forehead.

"Oh for the love of the gods, Daryil," Jakob protested.  "Leave it alone!  You'll get us thrown out again!"

The fox looked up, the small wings on his head drooping.  He scowled for a moment and backed out of the nativity display, locking it up behind him.

"He's harmless," the wolf insisted, as a pair of rather displeased security guards looked the pair of them over.

"That may be, sir, but he's not good for business.  I'm afraid I must ask you both to leave the mall."

"What are you doing to my boyfriend?!" Daryil demanded.  His voice cracked like a whip and the two guards turned involuntarily.  The fox had two pairs of wings, two on his head and two on his back.  The back-wings had changed towards their tips, into tentacles.  Each one ended with a small head.  Only an incubus from an especially dangerous clan would have this and the guards knew it.  One of them took a step backwards - not that this would help much if the creature wished to harm them.

"You two," the fox commanded.  "Show us out of here.  Quickly now, or I'll turn you both into slugs."

"At once, milord," the shorter guard stuttered.  He was sure he could hear the wolf sobbing quietly.



Jakob and Daryil walked back into the centre of the town.  Jakob had tactfully hidden both pairs of wings, on his head and back - and therefore passed for an ordinary mortal wolf to avoid disturbing the locals.  His leader, Lord Daryil, was a remarkably powerful individual and as such felt fewer constraints.

"You never let me have any fun," Daryil pouted.  Jakob had forced him to carry the shopping as penance for embarrassing them.

"There is a time and a place for everything," Jakob retorted.

"But how are we going to keep up the clan's reputation for mental instability if we play it straight every time?" the fox protested.

Reluctantly, Jakob was forced to conceded.  "No argument there," he admitted.  "But what grieves me is that you did this while we still had things to buy.  If you'd waited until afterwards, it really wouldn't be such a problem.  Just twenty more minutes, that's all I would have asked for..."

"Okay," the fox said.  "We disguise ourselves and go back.  Then you-"  he paused in mid sentence.  One of the shopping bags fell from his hand, spilling its contents in the snow.

"Is something wrong?"  Jakob asked worriedly.

"Very," Daryil said, his brow furrowed.  "You go on.  I'll catch up later.  I have a... job to do."

Jakob shrugged, and picked up the bag as his leader teleported away.


In the heart of the forest, a raccoon Being readied his crossbow.  There had been reports of an Angel or Demon wandering the forest, and it seemed that they were accurate.  The wolf had medium-grey wings, like an off-colour Angel.  She glanced furtively for strangers as she walked, but Zephyr kept his distance and made no sound.  He waited until the Creature drew level with his imaginary target and suddenly flicked the lever.  The bolt swished through the air, embedding itself into the wolf's skull.  Her body quivered for a moment and she collapsed to the ground with a soft sigh.

An Angel, he thought, and went to examine the body, making sure she was dead.  Monsters like this were tricky and it was sometimes hard to tell.  Necessary, though... even a wounded Angel or Demon was a formidable foe, easily capable of dispatching the unwary.
The she-wolf's medium grey wings twitched slightly at his touch, but this was only a reflex.  She was most definitely dead.
Curiously, a second set of wings had appeared on his victim's head, evidenly concealed by some enchantment that had expired when she did.

The job done, his town saved from another monster, Zephyr turned to go.  The wolf didn't have much of interest on her body, and in any case, Zeph was no bandit.  Taking a small shovel from his pack, he started to dig a hole - a crude grave in which to place the body.  Even a demon deserved a burial of some kind, after all.
As he dug, he listened and watched cautiously.  It was quite possible that there were other monsters in the forest.

"Oh dear," called a voice a few yards behind him.  "You're really in trouble now."

Dropping the shovel, Zeph spun around and loosed a bolt at the figure's head.  His opponent did not move, but the space in front of him shimmered.  It warped 90 degrees and the crossbow bolt switched instantly from horizontal to vertical motion, lancing itself firmly into the ground at his feet like a stake.

The figure was a fox, tall and handsome.  He had medium grey wings upon his back, and atop his head, just like the ones on the dead she-wolf.  His chest was bare and there again was that yellow, horse-shoe symbol upon his sternum.  He looked rather irritable.

"Put it down," Daryil said, gesturing at the crossbow.  Zeph held fast, wondering if he had time to reload.  Probably not.  Even so, he held firm upon his weapon until he saw two tentacles emerge from behind his opponent.  They were the same colour as his wings.   As the wings on the body behind him.  The tentacles had snaked around his neck and he knew what he was dealing with.  Incubi did not have the brute force of a Demon, or the magic and cunning of an Angel, but they could read minds and shapeshift.  The tentacles in particular could be deadly with a suitably skilled individual - the monster could pop his head off his shoulders in much the same was as a cub might pop the head off a dandelion.

Zephyr let the crossbow fall to the ground, trying hard not to make any sudden movements that could alarm the Creature or provoke him into action.  He kicked it away from himself and the tentacles released him, picking up the bow instead and snaking away with it.

"That was very stupid," the fox said.  "I could have been a guard.  I could have been the king's emmisary, a passerby, anyone.  Instead, you've just declared war against an entire clan."

Zephyr swallowed.  Daryil stared at him impassively.

"You've been a bad boy," he continued.  "You've killed one of my childen.  Her soul cried out to me as she died and I have come to avenge her.  Speaking of souls, I should take yours.  You know, I've always wanted a pet soul..."

"No," Zephyr croaked, his voice cracking.  "Don't destroy me.  Please... I made a mistake..."

"Bullshit," Daryil said.  "You think of us as monsters, don't bother to deny it.  You think of yourself as some kind of hero, protecting the people from the evil soul-stealing demons.  I can see it in your mind, plain as day.  You don't really think of this as a mistake..." he gestured at the body.  "...your only 'mistake' was 'getting caught'.

"People like you think that just because we have wings, we're not people too.  Think that we only live to feed and kill.  You just don't think that we might have feelings as well, that we might not always have had wings.  You never stop and wonder if we even knew we were 'monsters' when we were growing up?"

"No, I won't destroy you..." he continued, casting some kind of spell at the corpse.  He turned back at the raccoon and smiled.

"...I'm going to create you."

Daryil slid towards his prey.  His feet left a trail of churned grass as he moved.  Zephyr felt the hands clamp down upon the sides of his head.  They glowed, and pain such as he had never known coursed through his very soul.  His only comfort was that the pain would end forever.
But forever seemed a long time in coming.  Zephyr found himself lying upon the ground, and as his vision slowly faded back, he saw the fox crouching over the body of the wolf he'd slain.

"Arise and walk, my child," he said, and Zephyr, even in his sickened state, gasped as the body stirred and sat up.  She wasn't strong enough to stand, but at least she was conscious.  Daryil let something fall to the ground - a red-stained crossbow bolt.  He picked up his comrade and turning back to face Zeph, called out.

"I'll deal with you later, kid," he said and vanished, taking the wolf with him.

Left alone, Zephyr was lying upon his side.  His strength was slowly returning, but he needed to get away before the monster returned.  Sitting up would help.  He tried to roll onto his back, but it didn't work.  There was something in the way, something that was part of him.  Sharp stabs of a pain he had never known was possible made their presence known and he moved back.  He dimly remembered Daryil standing over him, tentacles snaking out and cutting into his shirt, slitting the back open...

No... he thought.  Not that!  He glanced down - on his arm was that same horseshoe mark that had been on the wolf, on the fox.  Now it was on him.

The medium grey wings on his head and his back ruffled slightly in the breeze as Zephyr struggled miserably through the snow, glancing furtively as he kept an eye out for strangers.
He didn't even know where he was going.  He could not return home, not now.  The guards would shoot him on sight.  His family would assume he had been eaten, replaced by a monster who had assumed his identity.  All his life he had been living in fear of monsters and determined to do something to turn the tide.
Now he was a monster and he would live in fear of people like himself, who would callously shoot him in the head as soon as look at him.  Just as he had done to the she-wolf.  The only family he would know now were the fox he had shot at and the wolf he had murdered.  Not off to a good start.

All of a sudden he stopped - there was something small and red at his feet.  A piece of card.  It read:

Now you are powerful and ageless.  Merry Christmas.  Yours, Lord Ikaarion Daryil.

With a start he looked up.  The fox was sitting cross-legged on a tree stump with a red and white hat on his head.

"Welcome to the clan, my child," he said.

OK, that was a weird ending even for that sort of punishment, but I guess it suits Daryil. So... he's actively trying to maintain his clan's reputation for insanity, and Jakob is helping him? That would explain a few things.

Quote from: Gabi on December 25, 2009, 09:08:50 AM
OK, that was a weird ending even for that sort of punishment, but I guess it suits Daryil. So... he's actively trying to maintain his clan's reputation for insanity, and Jakob is helping him? That would explain a few things.

Well, I'm a sucker for a redemption story.  I have to admit that the original draft ended with Zeph walking off into the night in a state of despair.  It felt a little too hopeless and sad, though.

Heh. A little scattered, if you ask me, but that fits Daryil anyway, I spose.

It's more of a slice of a story than a story in and of itself, though.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on December 25, 2009, 10:51:54 AM
It's more of a slice of a story than a story in and of itself, though.

My main beef with it was that it was a bit similar to the Simeon story, actually...

So, he used the rarely practiced art of turning Beings into Cubi, huh?

Quote from: Techcubi on December 25, 2009, 11:29:00 AM
So, he used the rarely practiced art of turning Beings into Cubi, huh?

Yes.  He could probably have done it less painfully, but he was in a hurry and besides, it was in many ways, a punishment.

So, is Zephyr a one-time only character?

Quote from: Techcubi on December 25, 2009, 01:01:37 PM
So, is Zephyr a one-time only character?

Probably, yes.

Here I thought you had to kill off your (first?) female character :3 minor, yes, but there.

Daryil is great, and Jakob's reaction to him is priceless! It ended very well. :boogie

So wait, did Daryil just perform the illegal and highly tabooed art of necromancy on that wolf succubus?

At first, when he was waking up, I thought that Daryil had instead transferred his soul into his victim, and his punishment would have been to spend the rest of his much longer life in her body.

Now that would have been morbidly funny.

But then again, why should I be telling you this, when I can write an even more darkly hilarious anecdote involving an enchanted soul-switching artifact.

Oh, and does this story take place before or after Daryil's...? (well, you know, FH Ch. 19)

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 29, 2009, 02:27:40 PM
So wait, did Daryil just perform the illegal and highly tabooed art of necromancy on that wolf succubus?

Not as such.  With her brain skewered she wouldn't actually come back as a zombie anyway.  What he actually did was repair the tissue damage and bring her back to life.  This as opposed to reanimating her corpse as was done to Rancid,Hannah, RR3 etc.

QuoteOh, and does this story take place before or after Daryil's...? (well, you know, FH Ch. 19)

After.  But it's only hinted at, for people who haven't read it.

Quote from: Tapewolf on December 29, 2009, 03:43:32 PM

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 29, 2009, 02:27:40 PM
So wait, did Daryil just perform the illegal and highly tabooed art of necromancy on that wolf succubus?

Not as such.  With her brain skewered she wouldn't actually come back as a zombie anyway.  What he actually did was repair the tissue damage and bring her back to life.  This as opposed to reanimating her corpse as was done to Rancid,Hannah, RR3 etc.

So, if he revived her by repairing the tissue damage, does that mean that her soul was desperately clinging to her body all that time or that Daryil had a way of capturing her soul before it went on to the hereafter and that's what he meant by "her soul cried out to me"?

Also, what exactly is a hovel or any living quarters in general doing in a shopping mall?  Or was that a homeless family using a niche in the mall as a place to sleep?

What was Daryil intending to do to that infant?
I mean, I know he wouldn't eat the soul or anything, but was he planning on inducing some kind of zany antics, like making the infant get up and sing and dance Ragtime, like in the movie Son of the Mask?

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 29, 2009, 04:38:00 PM
So, if he revived her by repairing the tissue damage, does that mean that her soul was desperately clinging to her body all that time or that Daryil had a way of capturing her soul before it went on to the hereafter and that's what he meant by "her soul cried out to me"?

People who have died have been revived after about 5 minutes or so.  She was dead maybe 10 minutes.  The spell he was casting on her during the conversation was a stasis field to keep him from having to do even more complex tissue repair.

EDIT: He was able to sense her death, since clan members are somehow linked to that kind of leader.  (See Siar)

QuoteAlso, what exactly is a hovel or any living quarters in general doing in a shopping mall?  Was that a family hobos?

Here's an example (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NativityScene_ChristkindlmarketChicago_12190011a.jpg)

Quote from: Tapewolf on December 29, 2009, 04:45:33 PM

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 29, 2009, 04:38:00 PM
Also, what exactly is a hovel or any living quarters in general doing in a shopping mall?  Was that a family hobos?

Here's an example (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NativityScene_ChristkindlmarketChicago_12190011a.jpg)

Oooooooooohhhh.  So that's what you meant.  So Daryil was going to play like he was devouring Jesus' soul?  Now that is blasphemously funny, especially considering Daryil's tendency to cosplay the guy.

Quote from: ChaosMageX on December 29, 2009, 05:20:08 PM
Oooooooooohhhh.  So that's what you meant.  So Daryil was going to play like he was devouring Jesus' soul?  Now that is blasphemously funny, especially considering Daryil's tendency to cosplay the guy.

Pretty much, yes.  Obviously he couldn't since it was made of plastic or porcelain or something.

Before anyone asks, Christ has been mentioned offhandedly in DMFA a few times - I'm assuming there are several faiths based around it.  Jakob, in his youth, belonged to a group who believed in a human Jesus (and that this was proof of divinity).

For those of you who read Project Future, I was inspired to write a short story expanding on the battle of Dorcan's youth, specifically this:
http://www.project-future.org/stuff/things/DorcanFlashback_2-50.png

...for those of you who don't read it, I believe there should be enough explanation for it to make sense anyhow.  So I hope, anyway.

Be warned, this story is not all smiles and flowers by a long chalk.  Thanks to Ren and Keaton for mostly proof-reading it :3

Divine Judgement

Earlier versions of this spell had appeared as a floating globe.  This had created a number of problems - a glowing ball in the sky would panic most Beings, and even for the wiser and more magic-savvy - especially Creatures - it was a sure sign that they were under surveillance.
The spell Jefri had cast took the form of a feral common buzzard, making lazy circles above the village as though it was hunting for rabbits.  Meanwhile, Jefri - sitting in the forest - could see everything that went on below his bird.  He swore... it seemed that Harvis had screwed up.

Jefri, the kangaroo rat, sat cross-legged with his eyes tight shut as he rode the spell, steering the buzzard slightly to get a closer look at something.  His diminutive stature belied the fact that he was a fearsome warrior, veteran of numerous battles and a distinguished warrior in his clan.  When he had been picked to lead this crusade, he had felt honoured - but not entirely surprised.  There were four of them in the woods.  Alongside him, defending his prone form, were Donovan the stallion, Jervan the doe hare and Pirgis the hyrax.

Like the others, Jefri had two pairs of feathered wings, tan at the top and cream lower down.  There was a larger pair on his back, and a smaller pair on his head.  They were incubi and succubi of the Rhu'Hahn clan, shapeshifting demons with the power to read minds.  They were all dressed similarly, with gauntlets and boots of steel plate, but there the similarity ended and a haphazard collection of leggings and mismatched armour began.  Jefri and the others didn't need the swords at their sides, but they kept them anyway, if only as a symbol.  They were holy warriors, a beacon of light and hope against the encroaching darkness of Being-kind and their wicked allies.

The village was fortified, surrounded by a wooden stockade and with guards patrolling the perimeter.  Most of them were young, probably conscripts.  Many villages like this had a system where teens served in the village guard for a period - that way it could be assured that all able-bodied men (and certain of the women) had had combat training at some point in their lives.  Now they were scrambling, running around the village like disturbed ants.  Archers were lining the walls, waiting for the rest of the attackers.  There... the idiot had broken disguise.  A dead man lay on the floor next to him.  Harvis turned and received a sword-stroke to the side, plunging into his ribs.  He fell, dying.  Jefri swore loudly and broke the link.  His buzzard vanished in a puff of smoke, but even if anyone had spotted it the jig was up anyhow.

Harvis, the fifth member of their team, had been sent into the village disguised as a Being.  He had concealed his wings and taken the appearance of a travelling merchant to assess the enemy's defences.  Harvis wasn't really Jefri's first choice for that task, but of the five, he was the most adept at changing his fur colour, muting the naturally bright shades of a Creature to a shade more socially acceptable to the infidel Beings.
But Harvis was always a bit of a hothead and it seemed he'd done something rash.  Jefri sighed again at the injustice - the Archbishop himself had blessed his team and annointed them with holy water.  They were warriors of light - why had the Gods allowed these unbelievers to kill one of his men?  Was it a lack of faith and piety?  Not for the first time, the rat wondered if he should have become a priest like his father had.

"Harvis has failed," he told the other three.  "He's alerted the village and must now answer to the Gods themselves for this error.  Meanwhile, we must attack now while the bad guys are still in disarray.  We will attack from the rear.  Use your tentacles to cut through the stockade.  Try and take the leaders first - left to their own devices the survivors will mill around and we can mop them up at our leisure.  They are only Beings, after all.
"If we can end this day with honour, the Gods will be pleased!" he summed up.  "For a greater glory, they will surely overlook our fallen brother's transgression."

Jefri's soldiers made short work of the wall, morphing their wings into tentacles and honing the edges, slicing through the solid oak like it was made of butter.  Jefri marched in triumphantly through the archway they'd made, his armour shining - only to stop dead.  A figure was standing there, straight and tall, surrounded by archers.  They had been expecting this.

His opponent was a Doberman warrior, sword drawn in challenge.  As Jefri watched in astonishment, his body flowed slightly revealing two pairs of leathery wings, terracotta in colour.  The Doberman was an incubus as well.

"This is our village!" the warrior snarled.  "Get out and leave us in peace!  These people have done nothing to you!"

For a moment the rat was taken aback and he was not the only one - the Doberman's allies were staring at him in horror and Jefri could hear the babble of their thoughts as they realised that there had been demons living among them.
Perversely enough, it was this which steeled Jefri's resolve to take the village.  'Cubi who lived peacefully amongst Beings like this had evidently gone native, traitors who had shunned the glory of their birthright and pretended to be the very scum which the Jyraneth and Rhu'Hahn clans had sworn to save the world from.  There was only one word for this crime.

"SLAY THE HERETIC!" he yelled.  The Doberman leapt back, cursing.  Pirgis jumped at his foe, sword drawn.  The other 'Cubi parried, and stabbed the hyrax through the chin with an upward stroke, skewering his brain.
Pirgis's body slumped forwards like a sack of potatoes and the sudden extra weight threw the Doberman off balance.  Worse, his sword was now stuck in his foe's skull.  This was his fatal mistake - instead of dropping it and using his tentacles to attack, he frantically jerked at the hilt, trying to free it.
Jefri took the advantage, extending his tentacles backwards in a sudden thrust and launching himself into the air towards his foe.  He cast a spell to fortify his strength and kicked, his booted foot slamming into the side of the canine's head with all his might and breaking the neck.  The Doberman grunted and collapsed, despair washing through his dying brain.  Jefri lapped the emotion up greedily.  Pirgis may have been lost, but Jefri had at least paid the killer back in kind.  It felt good.

The battle began in earnest.  Jervan and Donovan had slain many men and fireball spells had ignited several key buildings.  Sparing a glance in their direction, Jefri watched Beings scrambling in the confusion.  The two 'Cubi took full advantage of their distraction, cackling with delight as they leisurely picked off women and the elderly who tried to douse the flames.  Suddenly Jervan turned as a blade sank into her side, a death blow given to her by a feline in some moment of bravado.  The succubus died with a delighted smile on her lips.

Donovan slashed at the attacker but his enemy dived back, taking only a cut to his side.  Shaking with terror, the cat ran around the building, past Jefri and back to where his leaders had barricaded the street with crates and the like.  The feline dived, throwing himself at the barricade and scrambled to get out of reach.  He was helped across it by one of the heretics, a Husky incubus with tan leathery wings.  Behind a crate and in comparative safety, he curled up into a ball and lay whimpering to himself as shell-shock set in, the sword by his side upon the ground.  It was still stained with Jervan's lifeblood and the rat felt nothing less than a deep desire to finish him off for this evil deed.

Moving in for the kill, he leaped up onto the barricade and extended his tentacles into murderously pointed ends that he may bring justice upon the wicked.  The Husky drew his sword and moved forward to block the cat from his attacker.  Jefri switched targets and lanced the Husky instead, piercing his heart, lungs and one arm, shivering with joy as he felt the hot blood of his dying victim upon his tentacles and the quivering of his stricken foe.  There was a yell of horror from one of the Husky's comrades.

The shock, pain and horror of the dying Husky flowed through Jefri, feeding him and lighting up every nerve with ecstasy like slow fire.  Waves of grief from his victim's companions punctured his mind-shield and he felt giddy with excitement.  It wasn't just the thrill of conquest, the excitement of battle, it was the nature of his prey as well.  Another heretic had been dispatched.  This meant that he was not some mere warrior but an agent of the very Gods themselves, an instrument of divine justice.  What Jefri did now was an act of truth, unutterably, ineffably right.  Ending the life of his foe was a rite of purification, bringing the entire cosmos closer to that state of glorious perfection that could only be attained by purging it of the those who stood in its way.  The rat sighed with pleasure at this vision - this was what his life was for.  It was why he existed.  When he killed the enemies of Creation... that was the time he truly felt alive.

Other 'Cubi would run at once to their enemy, clutching at the head as they died and drinking deeply from the immortal soul of the prey, consuming their essence greedily.  That Jefri had never managed to do this was an unending source of frustration to him.  Try as he might, the soul would always slip from his grasp, escaping into the safety of the void.  But with enough practice, he knew he could do it one day.  And the soul of another 'Cubi would bring him power that would take many Beings to equal.

He fleetingly considered trying it anyway, but there wasn't time.  Besides, the usual trick of shortening his tentacles and reeling in the kill like a fish would not work because the Husky was bigger and heavier than he was - the result would be Jefri being pulled to his victim, not the other way around.  In a battle as pitched as this one, drawing himself in range of the enemy would be little short of suicide and the Gods would not approve.

While he had been busily skewering one of the heretical scum, one of the 'Cubi had seized the opportunity, blasting Donovan with a sheet of pure magical energy.  Blinded as he was by the euphoria of the kill, part of him had felt the pain and heard the screams and not all of them were from the wounded.

Jefri did a back-flip and hit the dirt, landing daintily and flattening himself against the ground in a single, perfect motion.  He glanced up to make sure none of the defenders were about to return the favour by skewering him back, but it seemed they were too preoccupied with their fallen comrade.
Rising to a crouch, he scuttled over to Donovan and winced.  The smell of burnt flesh was almost as overpowering as the pain that the horse felt.  But it was ebbing... Donovan was not long for this world.  Whatever spell the heretic had cast, it had passed unharmed through the armour, frying the horse's flesh while leaving his clothes and possessions intact.  Nasty stuff.  Inwardly, Jefri shivered.

Donovan gave a sigh and blood trickled from his muzzle.  He twitched once and then fell back limply, the soul freed from its housing of flesh and bone.  Jefri swore and turned around - the next spell might be for him.  The rat slunk back to the edge of the building and peered around it - all seemed to be quiet.  He ducked back again to keep his foes on edge.  But at the back of his mind, something kept nagging him.  He was a warrior of the Gods - so how could mere 'Cubi defy their will?  'Cubi who had renounced the Gods, no less.  If these villagers were the enemies of all that was good and true... how could they have killed his team...?

He peered back around the wall once more, just to make sure.  A female doberman was kneeling as if in prayer, presumably over the body of her ally.  Jefri chuckled inwardly at this... a heretic praying!  What could that possibly achieve?  His lips curled into a smile and he drew out a small throwing dagger.  If he was quick and his aim was true, he could put it through the side of the dog's head, piercing where the skull was thinner and there would be one less heretic in the world.  Something smashed into the back of his head.

Jefri went down.  His face was in the dirt, someone was grabbing for his arm.  His wings started to flow - a quick stab upwards and he'd skewer his attacker like a pig, or like the Husky.  A cuff went on him and his wings faded, the sensation going and with it his empathic abilities.  It had been a decoy... the Doberman had been there to distract him while the others crept around the building and placed the restraints upon him, robbing him of his Gods-given powers and knocking him back to the level of the worthless Being scum.  This could only be the work of those heretical 'Cubi... mere Beings would not have been able to cloak their minds and emotions so thoroughly.

They rolled him onto his side, Jefri struggling frantically as they held him down.  There was a sword against his neck, they were just going to execute him, right here and now... He prayed silently.  Where were the Gods when he needed them...?

"We can't do that," the young Doberman said.  "He's the last survivor... he's our prisoner now.  Even shit like him... we can't kill him out of hand."

"You're right," the Husky was saying.  "That would be an execution, not self defence.  It would break the Code."  Jefri started... this was the man who'd killed Donovan.  He looked 25, but there was something in his eyes that a 'Cubi could recognise, his inner age.  He was old, at least 300 - several times older than Jefri.  They loosed his bonds.

"I will pit you against my son Dorcan," he continued.  "He is young and has not yet come into power.  With the cuff on, you'll be evenly matched."

Jefri hesitated.  There was something else, something they were waiting for him to do.  Some sort of test?  With the cuff robbing him of his thought-reading powers, he had no way to tell.
At his feet was a sword.  He reached for the hilt but his gauntleted hand stopped short.  The rat glanced up at the Husky... there was the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, the merest hint of an encouraging nod...  What were they expecting...?

Slowly, Dorcan crouched down to about Jefri's height and placed his own blade upon the ground, watching the rat intently.  Jefri burst into motion, snatching up the shortsword and leaping with a shrill scream, aiming for the throat.  If he could get a stroke in before the dog was even able to defend himself...

But Dorcan was ready.  He leapt to one side and the Husky's arm reached out, plucking Jefri out of thin air, and pinning his arms back.  Jefri struggled and thrashed, his armoured toes kicking helplessly in mid-air.

"You could have run," the Doberman said.  "You could have surrendered.  But you chose to attack an unarmed man.  Your choice has damned you."  Jefri glanced from side to side, three faces... two Doberman pinschers and a Husky.  Their eyes were blank, devoid of emotion, their faces grim and determined as if they were being forced to do something they really didn't want to do.
"For you, my dear son," the Husky said.  The kangaroo rat's mouth opened to scream, but there was only a gurgling sound as the blade severed his throat.

Evil has triumphed, Jefri realised in despair.  His vision faded to nothingness and his soul left the mortal world.

I got to read this latest story early, and it was entertaining.

First, I would like to apologize in advance for this brief rant.

<rant>
Is Fenholt a complete nutter, or just bloody dumb?

Openly revealing his wings in front of large group of armed beings and then not directly using them in combat is by far one of the absolutely stupidest moves I've ever seen any cubi make.  If he had not been killed by Jefri, he would have certainly been killed by one of the beings from his village out of fear or bigotry.

From the sounds of it, you were clearly writing it like he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.  You stated how chose to try to dislodge a being weapon that is quite frankly much less powerful than his wing tentacles, instead of actually using the tentacles on the wings he revealed to defend himself.

Did you really intend to make him sound that foolish and careless?
</rant>

And now that that's over, onto the praise...

The observation buzzard was a nice touch, a magical equivalent of a military drone.  I can only wonder if later versions followed the same path of development and could attack if necessary.

I really liked your battle scenes.  It reminded me of one of my favorite kinds of free form combat role play, in which each player has two characters, one belonging to each of the two teams, and then we all write about our characters attempting to defeat other peoples' characters on the opposing team.

I also liked how watching his comrades die around him began to chip away at Jefri's preconceived notions of his clan's divine right to purify the world.  However, I felt like the snuffing of his life could have been extended with further realizations.

It feels like a cake without the icing, and the icing could have been Jefri's frantic attempts to find closure for his failure as he died, an attempt to explain to himself why the Gods had forsaken his so called noble endeavor.

On the other hand, you may not have wanted to overly draw out the short story, or that just wasn't the chain of thoughts that Jefri would follow as he died.  I guess it's just one of the differences in our writing styles.

At the end of the story, they had Jefri cornered, and waited for him to openly attack Dorcan before killing him in order to not kill him "out of hand".  Does that mean that their code of combat follows a turn based system, like a sprite video game battle?

Was the other doberman Salomere or Mordrith that was surrounding him before he died?

And finally, maybe I'm not clear on what's happening, but why did Jefri, a seemingly competent warrior, suddenly turn stone cold stupid at the last minute and attack Dorcan instead of retreating?  It was as if he didn't know what they were planning, when it would have been clear to anyone else with half a brain.

This is where a final description of Jefri's thoughts as he died would have been useful, in order to explain what in the freaking hell he was thinking.  I can't think of a single logical reason why he'd attack Dorcan, unless I've missed some other delusional belief or overpowering emotion that was blinding his better judgment.  It couldn't have been that he felt he'd be dying a righteous death from his attempt to fulfill the noble cause of purifying the world of heretics, given the way he regarded Harvis's death.  So what was it that drove him to his death?

Quote from: ChaosMageX on January 18, 2010, 10:32:03 PM
Is Fenholt a complete nutter, or just bloody dumb?

Openly revealing his wings in front of large group of armed beings and then not directly using them in combat is by far one of the absolutely stupidest moves I've ever seen any cubi make.  If he had not been killed by Jefri, he would have certainly been killed by one of the beings from his village out of fear or bigotry.

It was to intimidate Jefri.  If he'd appeared as a Being, Jefri would simply have ignored him and tried to kill him outright.  It's also implied that if Jefri hadn't realised they'd been hiding, he would have believed the 'Cubi were running the village or had enslaved it, and his team would probably have just walked out again.

Bigots or no, I really don't think the villagers would have attacked him while he was fighting on their side.  As is mentioned in the comic, things got a bit sticky afterwards, but during the battle, at least, you can make some strange alliances.

QuoteFrom the sounds of it, you were clearly writing it like he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.  You stated how chose to try to dislodge a being weapon that is quite frankly much less powerful than his wing tentacles, instead of actually using the tentacles on the wings he revealed to defend himself.

He was headstrong and inexperienced and for obvious reasons, hadn't had any practice with his tentacles.  He was also in a battle situation and people don't always think clearly in stressful situations.

QuoteI also liked how watching his comrades die around him began to chip away at Jefri's preconceived notions of his clan's divine right to purify the world.  However, I felt like the snuffing of his life could have been extended with further realizations.

Dragging it out into a torture would have broken their code and probably wouldn't have sat well with the Beings.

Quote
At the end of the story, they had Jefri cornered, and waited for him to openly attack Dorcan before killing him in order to not kill him "out of hand".  Does that mean that their code of combat follows a turn based system, like a sprite video game battle?

No, but killing your prisoners is generally considered a Bad Thing ethically.

QuoteWas the other doberman Salomere or Mordrith that was surrounding him before he died?

Salomere.

QuoteThis is where a final description of Jefri's thoughts as he died would have been useful, in order to explain what in the freaking hell he was thinking.  I can't think of a single logical reason why he'd attack Dorcan, unless I've missed some other delusional belief or overpowering emotion that was blinding his better judgment.

He believed he had to fight Dorcan in order to win.  The test was to see whether he'd do that or give up.  Also he was panicking because he couldn't read their thoughts or emotions.
See also my earlier reply about Fenholt.

EDIT:
On reflection, you are right, though.  I've added Jefri's final thoughts.  Hope that helps.

You're good at describing action scenes. I've started to doubt if I'll ever be able to learn how to do that. I only got lost once, when "the Husky drew his sword and moved forward to block the cat from his attacker". I couldn't find any prior mention to him, so I couldn't tell who the Husky was until later.

Quote from: Gabi on January 20, 2010, 10:59:20 AM
You're good at describing action scenes. I've started to doubt if I'll ever be able to learn how to do that.

You'd be surprised.  Three years ago I was asking Paladin to help with them because I was hopeless at it.  I'm not quite sure at what point I became competent at writing them myself  :B

QuoteI only got lost once, when "the Husky drew his sword and moved forward to block the cat from his attacker". I couldn't find any prior mention to him, so I couldn't tell who the Husky was until later.

Thanks for spotting that, I'll fix it and try and remember to fix the FA copy as well when I get home.

I'll always contend the DMFA-verse, whimsical as it is, would probably suck to live in since scenes like this seem pretty commonplace :[ You kinda wonder why some more beings don't just live in total isolation from everything to avoid getting steamrolled by creatures.

Quote from: Tipod on January 20, 2010, 10:21:55 PM
I'll always contend the DMFA-verse, whimsical as it is, would probably suck to live in since scenes like this seem pretty commonplace :[ You kinda wonder why some more beings don't just live in total isolation from everything to avoid getting steamrolled by creatures.

Maybe you meant as hermits or single families in isolation, I don't know.  The Ja'Fell guys picked that village to live in precisely because it was in the back of beyond and they managed to live there for at least 15 years without needing to reveal themselves.

At a guess you could probably consider Creature attacks on villages as something akin to an air crash in this world - they happen, they're nasty and they make a big splash when they do, but they're actually pretty rare.

What does seem to happen fairly regularly is that you'll get an Angel or Demon turn up and offer to protect the town in exchange for some kind of power or tribute.  And then of course you have something like Zinvth where the whole city is protected.

My writing seems to have taken a turn for the darker lately, but I hope people find this interesting despite the fact that some of it is really rather nasty.  It was a long time in the writing, I wrote the end first, some time ago.  Now I've finally been able to write the beginning.

---

Only Children

The wolf climbed off his Namorai GX1100 and removing his helmet and gloves, parked it, warding the bike against theft with a wave of a white-furred hand.  He had heard of people using a mechanical digger to steal a bike by removing the ground underneath it, but that was practically the only way unless you had an almost Fae-like skill at reversing an encryption spell.  On balance, it was probably safe enough here.  In all likelihood this wouldn't take long.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, Seth had been an incubus.  He had devoted his life to hunting - and occasionally killing - criminals.  In other words, he was a bounty hunter.

Some people viewed this as a career only taken by scum... Sethir didn't really care one way or the other.  To him it was a natural extension of the adventuring career and in any case, he had a very personal stake in the matter.  His foster parents had had their souls removed and quite possibly consumed by his natural parents.  They had very shortly died themselves by Sethir's own hand, but since then he had sworn to bring to justice anyone else who ate souls.

Most of a century ago Sethir had died himself, in a motorcycle accident.  To his surprise he had been revived by the unlikeliest of allies, but at something of a cost.  Though android technology had improved in leaps and bounds since his original resurrection, he was still only about as good as an ordinary, mortal Being when it came to spells.  Shapeshifting - the primary talent of his race - was completely out, at least until they could figure out a way to allow a robot to do it.

Because of these limitations, Seth relied mostly on his gun and katana for self-defence - or when the occasion called for it, bringing someone in dead.  This was not something he did lightly, though.  Unable to read thoughts as he had done before his death, Sethir took great care and was far more picky about the contracts he accepted.  In some ways he considered himself to be retired - concentrating more on private investigations and other less violent work - but from time to time there came up a case that attracted his interest, and this was one of them.

To help make up for the deficiencies of his android form, the weapons he owned had been enchanted and he also had a number of other charmed items which could subdue a Creature for a few minutes, and some cuffs that would rob them of their powers long enough to to bring them in.
For all its drawbacks his new body did have some benefits, though.  Before the accident, riding in full leathers in midsummer was a draining experience - now he could go out in any weather he liked, and having broken his neck once, he never had to worry about it again.  Being synthetic also meant that didn't need to shower anywhere near as often as before, since he didn't perspire, and that went for his racing suits at well.  Since his death, the bills for having them cleaned had plummeted.

Sethir drew his gun and held it before him, switching his eyes into light-amp mode as he entered the apartment building.  He knew he wasn't going to like this.


The first disappearance had taken place four months ago, a young child taken in the middle of a shopping centre.  The victim had never been found.  Nor was the perpetrator for that matter, though his likeness had been caught on closed-circuit television.
Such kidnappings did occur from time to time, and although it had made the headlines for most of a fortnight, the media had gradually lost interest.  Then another child was taken, and another.  Once a month, once a fortnight, once a week.  Then several times a week.  It had thrown the province into a frenzy and the perpetrator had still not been found.  There was little obvious pattern to the kidnappings and the person - or persons - actually responsible for each abduction never had the same appearance.

Sethir had immediately assumed the worst, that it was another incubus responsible for doing this.  His kind were able to change their appearance, and being highly emotional creatures they were often quite unpredictable.  In his mind, he had drawn up a number of scenarios, ranging from best case to worst case.

In the best case, the kidnapper wanted a child of their own and was willing to go to any lengths in order to achieve this.  Things like this sometimes happened and if this had turned out to be the case, Sethir would be willing to treat the kidnapper reasonably gently since they were most likely in need of psychiatric help.  The main problem with his theory was that too many children had been taken for it to make sense.
In the medium case it was a member of Que'tnar's clan.  They were attracted to two emotions in particular, despair and gratitude, and many of their less scrupulous members were more than willing to steal a cub in this manner so that they could feast upon the parents' despair, and then gorge themselves on the happiness of a foster couple, desperate enough to resort to such measures in order to have an infant of their own.
In the worst case, it was someone who had taken their lessons at the 'Cubi academy to heart in all the wrong ways.  Though it pained him to admit it, Sethir knew that there were members of his race so callous that they saw nothing wrong with torturing a child to death and 'tidying up' afterwards by consuming the infant's soul.


Sethir entered the building, moving slowly to try and avoid having his leathers creak too much.  The lights in the foyer were out, but he wasn't surprised, the building had been abandoned for years and was home now only to the occasional squatter.  But someone resembling the last person to have been caught on CCTV had been sighted in the area.  It wasn't much to go on but Seth had done his homework... plotting the kidnappings on a map had split it up into rough clusters, and this apartment block was just off the centre of the last one.

Though he could no longer hear thoughts, Sethir had some expansion cards fitted that enabled him to sense minds, if not what they were thinking.  It wasn't great but it was the best that was currently available and he had sprung for it as soon as it became available.  He disturbed a squatter on the lower floors and in exchange for his silence, they had told him of a stranger on one of the upper levels.

This seemed to be the only other mind in the building, and jimmying the lock, Seth opened the door as quietly as he could.  There was a dim light in one of the back rooms.  In the front, a bowl and some tins of food.  When he entered a bedroom, Sethir gave a barely-stifled gasp of horror.
There was a large pile of clothes on the floor, small clothes that a child might wear.  There were also a number of jars filled with what appeared to me some kind of ash.
The wolf sagged against the wall... it appeared that his worst-case scenario was closer to the truth.  If he had been alive, tears might have come, but that was impossible now.  He shelved his horror and replaced it with a grim, red rage.  Gritting his teeth, the white wolf and drew out his katana with murderous intent.  Whoever was responsible for this outrage would be lucky if they got out of it with their head still attached.

He kicked open the dining-room door, turning off the light-amp in his eyes as he entered the one lamplit room.  There, leaning against the back wall was a bright yellow jackal.  She looked very pleased with herself.

"Got here at last?" Keaton said, glancing up.  "I knew someone would be along soon.  Didn't think it would be anyone I recognised though.  Ain't it a small world?" her smile faded for a second.
"Pity.  Another half-hour and I'd be gone... would have saved so many awkward moments."  She brightened.  "Don't suppose you could go back out and come back in 30 minutes or so?"

Sethir just glowered at her.  He seemed to be having difficulty speaking.

"Too bad.  You should have been here earlier, but that's always been your problem.  Too soft-hearted, too hidebound... and too late."

"You... disgust me," Sethir said, forcing out each word as if it was poisonous.  "I should kill you now, but I want to hear your explanation first."
The jackal looked at him and smirked.  She removed from her pocket a small round gem which glowed with its own inner light and began playing catch with it.

"Like I said... too late," she sang.

"How could you do this, Keaton?" he gurgled.  "I did not think that even you would ever do something so depraved.  For the gods' sakes, they were only children!"  Keaton's expression turned to ice.

"Oh yes," she said.  "They were only children.  Who gives a fuck about them?  No-one.  They don't matter."  The jackal turned away.  "They're like dustbunnies.  They're so small and can get lost so no one can find them and no one will notice..."

"But you promised Daryil, you promised your father, you promised Dorcan," Sethir grated, "You promised them all that you wouldn't eat another soul.  Even Jyraneth herself would surely destroy you for such a crime!"

"I haven't eaten this soul," Keaton said.  "I just... borrowed it."  She giggled.  Sethir looked like he was about to explode but forced himself to be calm, something that was a lot easier now his emotions could be overridden by software control.

"You've been on my shitlist for centuries, Keaton," he said.  "I swear upon all the gods that if you so much as look at that poor, innocent soul in the wrong w-" he trailed off as the jackal threw back her head and collapsed in a peal of helpless laughter, the stone falling from her grasp and skittering across the floor.

"I ain't going to eat them," she said, reaching out to retrieve the soul-stone.  "You wouldn't eat a lump of shit, would you?  Me neither.  And besides..." her eyes became unfocussed for a moment and then narrowed horribly.  "Besides... that would be too quick and too easy for scum like that." she glanced upwards.

Sethir followed her gaze in spite of himself and gasped in horror.  Suspended from the ceiling by a pair of manacles was a lump of twisted flesh that had probably been a person once.  There were no wings in evidence so it had presumably been a Being at some point.

"You tortured him...?" Sethir told her.  "I should kill you for that alone."

"Her," the Jackal grunted.  "I guess it is a little hard to tell now.  But yeah, she had it coming.  'They were only children'...  What kind of an excuse is that?  Children are innocent.  Even Being children don't deserve to be murdered by some sick fuck.  Do you disagree...?" she stared at Sethir defiantly.

The wolf did a double-take.  "She did the murders?!"

"Took you long enough, bish-boy," she grinned, throwing the stone for him to catch.  "She used a concealment charm to change her appearance, 'case you're wondering.  I was gonna to keep her as a pet, but I've changed my mind.  You can take the glory for this one, though... don't think it would look too good on my record."

"Sounds like a deal to me," he said.  "Just get out of here - I don't think the others will be so understanding.  And Keaton... you were gone before I got here."

Now, he pondered, looking at the mashed corpse, I wonder if healing spells work on
dead people...?

...I guess it would depend on the spell. Nicely played. I guess Sethir should have paid more attention to what Keaton was saying, but considering how he fell about her in the first place, it makes sense that he didn't.

Oh, in the 6th paragraph there's a duplicate 'which'.

Quote from: Gabi on April 05, 2010, 04:02:52 PM
...I guess it would depend on the spell. Nicely played. I guess Sethir should have paid more attention to what Keaton was saying, but considering how he fell about her in the first place, it makes sense that he didn't.

Yes, he'd just found evidence of a grotesque crime and then immediately ran into a known criminal.  That caused him to jump to conclusions, forgetting that it's the one crime Keaton would never, ever commit.

QuoteOh, in the 6th paragraph there's a duplicate 'which'.

Thanks, that should be fixed now.

Also, I forgot to thank Keaton for proof-reading and her line about the dustbunnies.

Okay, this is a short story that is somewhat different from my usual fare.  Again it's fairly dark and frankly, it's the sort of thing which people are either going to find hilarious or disturbing.  In my defence, 'Cubi are not all sweetness and light and I have been somewhat guilty of sugar-coating them.

The idea has been kicking around for a little while and people who are observant may have seen references to this already.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Keaton for helping me finally nail this story in the dealer's room at Anthrocon.  I guess time will tell which of us was right about the wisdom of actually posting it here.

---

Cass

Nallman closed the door and took off his jacket.  It had been a long day at work and he was tired, so after fixing himself a quick meal, he watched the box for a little while and then, as he began to find himself nodding off, yawned and headed to bed.

The tiger slept soundly for a while, until something roused him from his slumber.  He wasn't quite sure what it was, until his fur fluffed slightly in a sudden draught... oh, wait.  The window was open.  How did that happen?  No matter, he reached up and closed it, and then, rolling back, bumped into something that hadn't been there before.  There was another person lying beside him.

"Mary..." he mumbled sleepily, and then a horrible chill stole through him, bringing him to full wakefulness.  His wife was away on a training course for her work.  She wouldn't be back until the following week.

"Who... who's there?" he exclaimed, his voice cracking.  The window hadn't simply been closed, it had been locked and now this person - or thing - had opened it and parked themselves right next to him in his own bed.

"Ohhh," the intruder crooned.  "It's sooo cute when they figure it out!"

Nallman let out a yell and ran for the door.  Something wrapped itself around his legs and he fell.  When he looked up, the lights were on and a female figure stood next to him, looking down with a sinister expression and a slightly curled lip.

"Yes," the jackal said.  She was dressed in an outfit of black silk and leather which Nallman would - under normal circumstances - have described as 'stunning'.  However this feeling, brief as it was, was very quickly replaced by stark terror.  This was not just any jackal... not just any jackal succubus, even.  Nallman had seen pictures of her before... documentaries and dramas about her evil life and wicked deeds.  This was Keaton Jyraneth.

"We're both going to enjoy this," she said and scooped him up, placing him back in the bed.  "Keep me entertained and you'll live a bit longer.  Maybe," she added and giggled childishly.  The tiger just stared back at her, terrified.  He was only a regular Being... struggling wouldn't help against someone as powerful as her.

Keaton advanced and did the usual succubus business... a starter of seduction followed by a large main course of rape.  Her eyes stared into his with delight, feasting upon his terror and the various other emotions and feelings that someone in his predicament would go through.  She was enjoying this.

"And now the dessert," Keaton said.  She kissed Nallman, and the tiger uttered one final scream as she began to tug at his soul.  I'm sorry, Mary... he thought as the core of his being was invaded and violated, giving way to blackness and nonexistence.


Nallman opened his eyes.  His soul was quite clearly still in his body and apparently undamaged... he didn't even have a headache.  So it was just a dream, then...?
No, probably not.  The window was open again and there was something left behind in the bed.  Two grey feathers.

What the hell?

Nallman had watched enough accounts of Keaton and her crimes to know that she had demon-style wings, not angelic ones.  Incubi and succubi were shapeshifters, it was true - they could hide their wings or assume a different wing-type entirely.  But assuming an alternate form with feathered wings was not usually enough to allow the feathers to actually shed.

At this point Nallman's eyes fixated upon the letter, lying on the dressing table in the corner.  It was addressed 'Mark Nallman' and it had been sealed on the back.  The succubus would appear to have kissed the envelope, leaving a print of her creepy black lipstick on the join.

"Dearest Mark," the letter read, "I had a marvellous time last night. You were great fun.  I'm sorry I scared you but if it's any consolation, your fear was delicious and yeah, that kinda was the idea.  Anyway, I'm not supposed to do this and my Leader will be mad if he finds out so this is just our little secret, right?  I hope this little something will make things better.  Love and kisses, Cass"

Inside was a cheque for 10'000 gold dollars.


Cassandra Daryil closed the door and relaxed her disguise.  Her wings faded slightly and became feathered and grey.  The black markings on her cheeks and her eyes slid off like oil and beneath her dress, the intricate patterns down her side followed suit.  She took off her arm-length gloves, the fur of her hands becoming her natural yellow and losing the black markings.

It had been a long night and she was tired, so after fixing herself a small pastry, she headed into the bedroom to rest for a bit.

There was a noise.  The yellow jackal sat bolt upright... she could sense another mind there.  It was shielded but radiating anger and she quailed slightly.  Just then there was a click and the room was flooded with light forcing her to cover her eyes while they adjusted to the sudden brightness.

A dark, bat-winged figure was standing in the doorway, cracking his or her knuckles.  Cassandra's feathery grey headwings drooped.  Oh shit...

"Hey there, bitch..." Keaton said.  "...we need to have a little talk."

A splendid little story. :>

A couple of errors, but that's unavoidable.   "It's sooo cute when the figure it out!"  I believe you meant 'they'.  "...help against someone as powerful than her."  Again, I believe you meant 'as' there. 

In less nitpicky news!  Angry Keaton makes me giggle.  I wonder if she intends to 'talk' with blunt force trauma, sharp force trauma, maybe some amputation.  ...Perhaps even all of the above? :U

Quote from: Meany on July 03, 2010, 11:16:24 AM
A couple of errors, but that's unavoidable.   "It's sooo cute when the figure it out!"  I believe you meant 'they'.  "...help against someone as powerful than her."  Again, I believe you meant 'as' there. 

Fixed, thanks.  'The' was in there since the beginning, 'than' was a more recent one and may have been added after proof-reading, in fact.

QuoteIn less nitpicky news!  Angry Keaton makes me giggle.  I wonder if she intends to 'talk' with blunt force trauma, sharp force trauma, maybe some amputation.  ...Perhaps even all of the above? :U

Probably more of the blunt force kind.  Otherwise Daryil will get angry.

Keaton: "Allow me to introduce you to Catastrophe"

*giggles*

that's about all i've got for mental images there X3

Amputation might not be so bad; we have some evidence that creatures can regenerate limbs.

Still, I'wouldn't be worried, I didn't find it terrifically dark. That the rape is only alluded to instead of described lightens the tone, and since it "all turns out to be a dream anyway" lightens it further, despite the terror that our tiger feels.


The narrational direction split was kind of interesting, although the ellipse placement from the first to second chunk somewhat confused me, a short paragraph describing Nallman coming to in stages and realizing he's not soul-dead might have been more effective, not really sure.


All in all though, an interesting story, very nice level of detail that kept things flowing while keeping the core themes of fear/exploitation/ vulnerability intact.


Best wishes,
Corgatha Taldorthar.

I do have one minor nitpick, and that's that since Cubi don't usually sleep, after they reach the age where they start preying on others... why would Cass be taking a nap, for Keaton to interrupt her?

Other than that, a most interesting idea. Still sugar-coated, I think, a bit, but still well performed.

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on July 04, 2010, 05:25:52 AM
I do have one minor nitpick, and that's that since Cubi don't usually sleep, after they reach the age where they start preying on others... why would Cass be taking a nap, for Keaton to interrupt her?

Well, 'Cubi don't have unlimited stamina.  If you wear yourself out, you're going to need to recuperate somehow.
Also, if you're persistently up all night and all day, at some point someone is going to notice...

I liked it. I can't think of anything to say that hasn't been said already, but I liked the pace and the descriptions. And Bas's comment too. :P

This story almost happened by accident.  It was originally something referenced by another story I'm working on, when I realised that there was enough potential for it to stand on its own.  It ended up far longer than I had expected so I've decided to publish it in two parts.
It is set around the time of DMFA.

Thanks again to Keaton and Wuffnpuff for proof-reading.

---

Critical Mass - Part One

Neuheim was a city-state torn between several time periods, as many were.  The northern part of the territory bristled with high-rise buildings including one which had no foundation at all, floating as it did between two skyscrapers and connected to them by means of a skybridge.  Every six months the spells anchoring it in place would be inspected and maintained with all the rigour of engineers inspecting an aircraft or a suspension bridge.
South of the river, the buildings shrank and became older, some of them dating back thousands of years.

Of particular interest to tourists was the great cathedral built by Beings in long centuries past.  No magic or technology was used in its construction and it had taken decades of honest labour to build, with extensions added every so often.  In the past century alone, electric lighting had been added, the impressive pipe organ had had its bellows replaced with squirrel-cage blowers and more recently, MIDI control had been added.

Services were held regularly, but once every season a large and spectacular Mass would be given, heaping praises and thanks upon the local deity.  Over time these had become a major tourist attraction which drew folks from territories all over the continent and beyond.

Politically speaking, the state of Neuheim was as mixed as its period.  Officially it was part of Nar'mal territory, an Angel-Demon consortium who viewed it as a strategic acquisition in order to prevent one of their rivals from becoming too powerful.  In principle, it was Creature-run.  In practice, most of the inhabitants were Beings, and as a result there were bad areas where it was not safe for a weaker Creature to tread, whatever the law might say.

The Cathedral was not one of these dangerous areas, but nonetheless, Jakob Pettersohn felt a little out of place as one of the only ones with feathery wings on his back.  A couple of people pointed and stared at him, and in more than one case over-eager tourists had photographed him.

In bygone days, a feather-winged incubus could just hide his head-wings and pretend to be of Angel descent.  Nowadays, as Angels had started to become vanishingly rare - at least in public - there was little to be gained.  After all, there was next to no point in hiding the fact that you are a very rare and potentially-dangerous Creature by pretending to be another very rare and potentially-dangerous Creature.

Depending on the local political climate and attitude towards the race, it was tempting for an incubus or succubus to masquerade as a Demon, especially among 'Cubi who naturally had leathery wings.  While this still carried a stigma among adventurers, there was some advantage to being pegged as a Creature who was - while still dangerous - at least a relatively common sight.

Jakob bore a sword at his side, not because he needed it but because a Creature with a sword was usually an adventurer - in other words a monster-hunter - and this tended to put Beings at ease.  A Creature gone on a rampage rarely needed such implements, after all.

With a muttered curse, the wolf found an empty public toilet and using it for privacy, concealed his back-wings.  While he was perfectly capable of assuming a Demon or part-Demon appearance, he chose not to... the 'Cubi race were often pegged as schemers or ne'er-do-wells and he didn't want to encourage this by assuming an identity too far from his base form unless he had a very good reason to do so.
Now, with his wings hidden and his fur naturally grey, he could pass as a regular Being.  Checking himself in the mirror, he headed back to the Cathedral and rejoined the queue.


The organist was in fine form.  Jakob did not know the hymn, but was able to wing it by scanning the thoughts of people who did.  Once the preliminaries were done, the Archbishop - a silver fox - approached the high altar and Mass began in earnest.  Jakob sat happily, not so much because of the sermon about the horrifying torments which had martyred Saint Bulovere, but feeling instead the warm glow of all the minds around him.  A number of them were shielded... apparently he wasn't the only 'Cubi in the congregation.

When he had been a young adult most of a thousand years ago, Jakob had lived in a small and scattered farming community in the forest.  This was not the best environment for an incubus or succubus to grow up in as his kind needed to feed on the ambient emotions of others, but Jakob didn't know any better.
At the time he had believed that he, his brother and his missing father were all just some kind of winged Being.  Phoenixes had wings, after all... why couldn't he have feathers too?  Then, one fateful day, he woke up with a small pair of wings on his head and his life was turned upside-down.

Jakob would probably have grown up to be a weakling, and it might have taken a long time for him to have absorbed enough emotions to change had it not been for his mother's piety.  Every Sunday they would go to church in the nearest market town, and Jakob had loved it.  Not because he believed in Christ the Human but because he loved being with so many other people - it made him feel truly alive.

In hindsight, it was these services which had kept him fed with emotions, finally overloading him and triggering the change... giving him head-wings and turning him into a fully adult incubus.  And now, centuries later, Jakob had felt in himself a growing nostalgia to see Mass performed again - so here he was, daydreaming about his younger, carefree and innocent days.

After the first sermon, the organ struck up again and Jakob turned around with a start.  The Mass was a popular event which drew many people and to avoid the temptation of rampages or other troublemakers, part-Demon peacetime guards were stationed around the corners of the nave.
When he'd entered, Jakob had been sure there were four of them, but now there were only three.  What the hell?

There was no way they could be on a coffee-break or something.  He knew this kind of setup from other institutions... there were always four guards and they changed shift together.  Going out for a pee was a serious infraction and given how meticulously the city had been rehearsing for the Mass, it was just this side of unthinkable.

A head or two turned around briefly, looking roughly in his direction... someone had sensed his brief panic.  A lady in fine dress - most likely a succubus - glanced at him for a bit and then turned her attention back to the hallowed sanctuary where the high altar stood.

Jakob glanced around again and saw to his horror that there were now only two guards.  He tried to raise the alarm but the organ was currently performing an earth-shattering solo before the next verse began.  No one can hear your screams, he thought.  Or was it really one of his thoughts?  Had it been someone else...?

Jakob excused himself and pushing his way through the congregation, found one of the guards.  He distinctly felt a burst of pain from somewhere behind him and judging by the bobbing of several heads in the congregation, other Creatures who were sensitive to such matters did too.  Jakob pointed in one of the corners of the nave and almost jumped out of his skin.  The guard drew his sword and they ran together to the empty corner where the third guard had been.  

The Demon picked up a small piece of paper and scanned it briefly.  He swallowed and reached for a walkie-talkie.  "I need assistance," he barked.  "I said, I need assistance!" he repeated.  Jakob felt a surge of glee from someone very close and a small cosh appeared out of thin air.  It came down quickly and struck the back of the unfortunate part-Demon's head, rendering him unconscious before he could harden his skin.

A shadowy figure appeared, neatly catching the guard as he fell and before the wolf quite realised what was happening, the guard too had become a shadow, and then invisible as his body was hauled off to places unknown.  The slip of paper dropped from the fallen Demon's hand and fluttered to the ground.

Jakob whimpered slightly... whoever had done this was very well shielded... aside from that one brief surge of emotion, the attacker's mind had been completely hidden from him.  He picked up the fallen scrap of paper and read it himself.  It consisted entirely of two words: "You're Next".

As the hymn finished, Jakob ran to the steps of the high altar.  His backwings were out, but he didn't care.  The congregation gasped and then a cloud of anger and rage began to erupt and Jakob quailed, forgetting what he was going to say while he tried to shield his mind from the incoming torrent of hatred.  The Archbishop raised a finger at him and it glowed slightly.  Jakob's mind reeled.

"Remove this blasphemer!" the silver fox yelled and before the incubus could protest he had been seized by a number of armed guards.


"Where are you taking me?" Jakob asked, as the guards led him through the cloisters.  His voice was uneven, his mind felt like jelly and he was leaning heavily on one of the guards... he'd obviously been given a powerful stun spell.  He could feel the wind in his headwings and backwings, but there was little point in hiding them now.

"To the cells, of course," the guard captain replied.  "You stupid Creature... what the hell were you trying to achieve?!"

"I can't remember," Jakob said.  "But it was very important...  Wait.  Why do you have cells?  This is holy ground..."

"Every other year we get someone trying to disrupt the Mass.  Sometimes it's a drunken student.  Sometimes it's someone dangerous, like you."

"Once it was a Jyraneth succubus disguised as a drunken student," added a guard helpfully.

"Look, I haven't done anything!" Jakob protested.

"That's because we stopped you first," one of the other guards pointed out.

"I dunno," the captain said.  "He seems harmless enough.  He hasn't tried to escape... still, we can't take chances."  They stopped outside a cell.  Even in his groggy state, the incubus could sense the enchantments placed upon it to prevent him being able to escape.

"Get in there," he ordered.  Jakob hesitated.  The guard captain, a powerful feline Demon, crossed his arms.

"Look," he said.  "Sacrilege is a serious business, and the fact that you're a Creature doing it isn't looking well in your favour.  All the same, I'm giving you a choice here.  Get in there peacefully and when Mass is safely over you can go home, no questions asked.  As far as I'm concerned that's the end of the matter.
"If you don't... we'll stun you and you'll wake up in a police cell facing a number of charges."

"Hobson's choice," Jakob mumbled and got in.

"Never heard of him," the Demon said, sliding the bolt home.

"Wait!" Jakob shrieked.  "Wait!  I remember what I was doing!  Come back, I have to tell you!"  He pounded on the reinforced door, but the guards were already out of earshot.


Jakob sat despondently in his cell, gazing through the bars.  The cell was a penitential one that had obviously been reinforced within the last few decades to deal with unruly tourists.  It opened out into the cloister and he could see lush gardens.  It was rather pretty but 'Cubi had notoriously poor attention spans and after staring at it for fifteen minutes or so, the garden had kind of lost its charm.

He had considered phoning up the cathedral's enquiries line on his mobile, but unfortunately it didn't work - his provider didn't have any coverage in this area.  He played Snakes for a bit and then the battery ran out.

So far the guards had treated him as a prankster, even bringing him a carton of fruit juice and some pastry from the visitor's restaurant when it struck noon - but he wasn't sure what would happen when they discovered that the other guards were missing.

In the distance the organ struck up again.  As Jakob watched glumly, one of the guards strode past, a strong and somewhat handsome Alsatian hound with leathery blue wings and cruel horns.  He waved as he went past.  Then there was a faint cracking sound and he fell as if shot.
Jakob's eyes widened and he could hear a voice... someone very close by singing, not quite in time with the congregation.  The voice moved invisibly and the guard faded from view as the incubus scrabbled to try and get a better view.  Before his eyes a patch of grass parted itself as the guard was dragged through it.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...  Jakob thought.  Then he realised that this exonerated him.  Earlier on he had tried to stretch his tentacles through the bars to try and open the bolt but the spell had prevented it.  With their wards and enchantments, there was no way he could have harmed the guard from this distance.  Surely they would have to let him out now... unless the intruder had just taken down the last guard.

Then the voice spoke again.  "Don't worry," he said, "I'll be back for you later."  The voice wandered off, laughing evilly.  Jakob whimpered.


The organ played on with Jakob becoming more and more frantic until he noticed someone coming down the path towards his cell.  He couldn't believe it... the Archbishop himself had come.  To redeem him, or punish him for his sins...?

The bolt slid open.  "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry..." Jakob babbled.  "Please forgive me, your Grace... but it was important!  I have to..."   He was cut short by a gesture of benediction from the fox.

"I have already forgiven you, my child," he said.  "I was, perhaps, a little hasty in having the guards remove you..."

Jakob uttered a garbled string of thanks.  "Your Grace," he said finally, "Someone has been picking off the guards, one by one.  I was trying to warn you and that is why I approached the sanctuary, in my sin..."

"Indeed?" the Archbishop said, frowning.  "This is a most serious matter.  You must tell the captain of the guard about it.  Come with me."

Jakob followed the fox obediently, but with a slightly puzzled feeling in the back of his head.  The Archbishop's mind was shielded... nothing too unusual about that, though - there was no reason he had to be a Being, after all.  And another Creature would certainly help against Jakob's nameless foe...

"Are you all right, your Grace?" Jakob asked.  The fox stopped suddenly and gave him a questioning look.

"You seem to have cut your hand," the incubus explained.  "Do you want me to heal it for you?"

"Oh, that's nothing," he replied.  "A splinter on your cell door, I think.  Tell the truth, I hadn't really noticed..."  He stopped as they came to the door, which the Archbishop opened after a single knock.  He frowned.  "There's no-one there," he said.

Jakob hesitated and then entered himself.  He looked around the room and listened out for any thoughts or other signs of some habitation, but the room was quite empty.

"Your Grace, where..." he started and turned around.  The Archbishop was gone.


To be continued...

( Suggestions for when I should publish the conclusion are welcome, I haven't decided :P )

Okay, that's nicely creepy.

I'm terrible at commentary or criticism of any sort, but I can definitely say that I liked it.

The way you portray creatures is growing on me. When they put Jakob in the cell, my first reaction was to ask "Why hasn't he used his godlike creature powers to escape yet?", but it made me think back to all the other times I've seen you use creatures, and I suspect that it's done on purpose, for two reasons. The firstly being that I think it makes for a better story. :P

The second being that you seem to cast creatures in generally two lights - and Jakob has been both of them, really. The type of creature that overpowers society, and the kind that doesn't. I'm not nearly expressing myself well enough here, but what I'm trying to say is that reading a story which is not simply "CREATURE SMASH" is refreshing. Neither do I think you write in such a way, I merely am trying to express the fact that I liked the way you went about things here.

Jakob did seem a bit...emotional, here, though? I'm not sure if that's on purpose or not. I suspect it may be plot related, as he usually strikes me as a bit more collected. But I could be being completely daft.

Quote from: Cogidubnus on July 22, 2010, 02:47:10 PM
The way you portray creatures is growing on me. When they put Jakob in the cell, my first reaction was to ask "Why hasn't he used his godlike creature powers to escape yet?", but it made me think back to all the other times I've seen you use creatures, and I suspect that it's done on purpose, for two reasons. The firstly being that I think it makes for a better story. :P

Yeah, after I'd written the thing I went back over it looking for plot holes.  Why Jakob doesn't simply break out was one of them, but I figured that if they had to deal with rogue Demons or other Creatures on a regular basis, they'd have invested in making the cells tough enough to hold a Creature.  Also, as you say, it gets a bit tedious if the hero is powerful enough to do anything he wants and consistently does so.  (This is why classic Dr. Who had a number of stories where K-9 was broken down or otherwise written out - he tended to make rescues a bit too easy)

QuoteThe second being that you seem to cast creatures in generally two lights - and Jakob has been both of them, really. The type of creature that overpowers society, and the kind that doesn't. I'm not nearly expressing myself well enough here, but what I'm trying to say is that reading a story which is not simply "CREATURE SMASH" is refreshing. Neither do I think you write in such a way, I merely am trying to express the fact that I liked the way you went about things here.

Thanks.  One of the things I've tried to do in this story is to portray Creatures, and in particular, Demons and Demon hybrids as people rather than monsters.  I may perhaps have made them a little too Being-like as a result, it's difficult to say.  It could be argued that Jakob is simply trying to create a good impression.

QuoteJakob did seem a bit...emotional, here, though? I'm not sure if that's on purpose or not. I suspect it may be plot related, as he usually strikes me as a bit more collected. But I could be being completely daft.

That's something I hadn't really considered.  Granted for this chapter, he's either in a massive crowd or stunned half out of his skull.  And 'Cubi are somewhat emotional and flighty creatures anyway - to an extent, Jakob in this is a rather more DMFA-like portrayal of a 'Cubi than in Project Future, where he's in charge and mostly unflappable.

Anyway, thanks for the critique, it was most helpful.  I'll probably upload the rest of it tomorrow or over the weekend.

Scattered impressions.

Finally, something that portrays creatures as vulnerable to mere beings! I never quite bought the situation where Beings have shopping malls and computer games being sold, but at are at the mercy of any rampaging creature unless a helpful adventurer happens to be in the area. Dark Pegasus, even with all his power, died with a sword through the gut.

Is this a setting where religious figures have actual powers granted from their deities? I'm wondering if that Archbishop  has actual power to back up his office, irrespective of whether he's a creature or not.

Also, is Jakob's observation that  

QuoteThe Archbishop's mind was shielded... nothing too unusual about that, though - there was no reason he had to be a Being, after all.  And another Creature would certainly help against Jakob's nameless foe...

a world builder's assumption, a.k.a all people powerful enough to have mind shields are Creatures, or is it one that Jakob, a more fallible character is making?

One last thing that interests me, is the "presence" of the narrator. You get a lot of information, especially  in the first section, that's simply given to the reader by whomever is telling the story, and not say, through character observation or interaction. Any particular reason you chose to do it like this? In a related note, is any particular figure narrating this story, or is it just an omniscient disinterested third party?


EDIT: One last thing that amused me, the "Cosh" appearing. It took me a minute to remember that it meant like a blackjack, as I stopped to wonder how someone could be knocked around with a symbol of the hyperbolic function hyperbolic cosine. :D

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on July 22, 2010, 05:05:43 PM
Is this a setting where religious figures have actual powers granted from their deities? I'm wondering if that Archbishop  has actual power to back up his office, irrespective of whether he's a creature or not.

At length, I decided to leave it ambiguous as to whether their god exists or not.

QuoteAlso, is Jakob's observation that  

QuoteThe Archbishop's mind was shielded... nothing too unusual about that, though - there was no reason he had to be a Being, after all.  And another Creature would certainly help against Jakob's nameless foe...

a world builder's assumption, a.k.a all people powerful enough to have mind shields are Creatures, or is it one that Jakob, a more fallible character is making?

Jakob's assumption.

QuoteOne last thing that interests me, is the "presence" of the narrator. You get a lot of information, especially  in the first section, that's simply given to the reader by whomever is telling the story, and not say, through character observation or interaction. Any particular reason you chose to do it like this? In a related note, is any particular figure narrating this story, or is it just an omniscient disinterested third party?

Well, it's explaining the background.  Jakob doesn't talk to people in this story all that much, as opposed to Future History etc. where half of it is discussions in corridors or in front of the TV.  It felt more natural to give the background in third-person as opposed to invoking a character for the sole purpose of having Jakob explain it to them, and then having them mysteriously vanish.  And I don't really want to have Jakob recounting this story himself, it was one of the things which annoyed me about Chronicles and it wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable to write in that mode.

For some reason I'm immediately thinking of the dramatic chipmunk... Nice cliff-hanger of an ending. Can't wait to read the rest. :)
Also, my thoughts about the narrator thing. As it stands, it feels (to me) that the narrator is Jakob, trying to sorta remind himself of why everybody's so excited about his wings. My two cents. :)

Thanks very much for the comments, everyone.  And before I forget, thanks also to my parents for taking me to Salisbury Cathedral when I was about 14.  It has inspired a lot of the setting.

Critical Mass - Part Two

During this part of the Mass it was traditional for a lesser priest to give a reading so that the Archbishop could have a break.  He wouldn't return until after the next hymn and Jakob vaguely wondered what would happen at that point.  In the meantime, the Cathedral was entirely devoid of any guards and he had the run of the place.  Indeed, if he did meet anyone it would be to his advantage as they could raise the alarm.

While he was becoming increasingly concerned for the well-being of everyone, Jakob was not about to stand in front of the congregation again.  There were a number of 'Cubi in there and they were having a first-class banquet.  If he disturbed things again it would be a miracle if they didn't lynch him - and this time there were no guards to rescue him.  Jakob started to panic... the cathedral now appeared to be entirely empty save for the congregation and the priest.

The organist, Jakob thought.  Could he be responsible...?  Don't be silly...  Nearly all the disappearances have happened while he was playing.

The Chapel of Our Lady Goronza was locked and there was something inside it which felt a lot like an unconscious mind.  Jakob almost howled with triumph until he realised that it was very, very locked and the door was warded so tightly that even Snell could not have picked it.

Running out of other places to search, Jakob crept into the organ loft and there saw a sight he hadn't expected - although the only sound he could hear was the priest below, the organist, a wolf, was wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and he was silently playing the organ.

The incubus blinked with astonishment for a moment until he realised what it was he was seeing. The organ was electronically controlled, the ranks of pipes remotely switched on and off by solenoids.  The organist had shut down the blowers and with no air to drive them the pipes were silent.  But why was he doing this...?  Practising for the next hymn?

At this distance Jakob couldn't be sure and getting close enough to hear his thoughts clearly would risk disturbing him, which he did not want.  Listening carefully he heard the very faint sound of organ music and realised it was coming from the organist's headphones.  There was a laptop on the floor and apparently the organist was using it to synthesize the organ sounds while he practised his recital - in effect, he was using the cathedral's organ as a controller keyboard, and the laptop itself was what he was 'playing'.  Clever.

Jakob giggled slightly, thinking about what would happen if the organist left it that mode when actually performing the next hymn - or if he accidentally restarted the blowers while practising.  Silence or cacophony... take your pick.

Finally the reading ended.  Jakob brought himself back to reality and cursed... he'd missed a chance to talk to the organist before the hymn began.  The wolf, who had been waiting for this moment, pressed a couple of buttons and flicked a switch which went home with a satisfying 'clunk'.  In the distance Jakob could hear the fans coming online and quickly evacuated the loft before he could be deafened.


As he wandered, Jakob came close to fleeing, but some sense of honour prevented him.  For all he knew the guards and the Archbishop had had their souls eaten.  If so, whoever was responsible for this could soon begin snacking on the congregation too, most likely by working from the back.  That was too horrible an idea for him to just ignore and leaving aside the fact that the cathedral entrances were barred to prevent gatecrashers, if he was caught on CCTV fleeing from the site just after an outrage like that had occurred, he'd have a bounty on his head that was roughly the size of Neuheim's gross domestic product.

The organist flubbed a note slightly and Jakob turned his mind back to the organ loft.  He found the entrance and drawing back the curtain, froze... the organist was climbing down the ladder, still wearing his ear-defending headphones.

Holy shit, Jakob thought, The organ is still playing.

It's MIDI-controlled! he realised in a flash.  While he was 'practising', the organist had actually been recording the next piece in advance as Jakob watched - and now the notes he had recorded on the laptop were all being played back into the organ.  Meanwhile the organist himself was free to roam around, disappearing people to his evil little heart's content.  The other wolf - the organist - turned to Jakob, grinned widely and vanished.

"Don't worry, I promise I'll be back for you later," he said again and laughed into the distance.

The organist dunnit! Jakob thought in dismay.

Using his shapeshifting powers to close his ears somewhat, Jakob climbed up into the organ loft.  It was tempting to unplug the laptop or cut the blowers, but he thought of the congregation again and what would happen to him when they realised he was responsible for it.  Jakob shivered.

Ahaha, he thought, noticing something on the organ console - a small bunch of door keys which the organist had evidently forgotten to bring with him.  Jakob leaned over, very nearly pushing one of the stops in (which would have immediately alerted the organist to his presence) and picked up the key-ring.

There were six keys on the ring and it was not until trying the sixth one that Jakob finally unlocked the Chapel of Our Lady Goronza.  Inside, lying neatly at the base of a particularly ugly rendition of the Lady herself, the wolf found what he had been expecting to find, the Archbishop neatly stripped of his vestments and lying unconscious.
Curious and slightly concerned about the great man's wellbeing, Jakob inspected both his hands and an evil grin stretched across his features... the Archbishop didn't have a cut on his hand any more.

So, Jakob thought, It was definitely the impostor who let me out.  And he got the cut in the fight with the real McCoy, I'll bet.  Serves him right.
Then the incubus frowned in puzzlement.  But then... Why did he bother letting me out at all...?  There was no cure for it, Jakob just shrugged and moved on to the next problem.

Examining the fallen Archbishop more closely, the wolf noticed that his Grace had another cut, one on the back of his head.  It was still bleeding and a bit more freely than Jakob would have liked.  He cast a small healing spell and then left hastily - in order to wash the wound properly he'd need some water and cloth and he didn't have either of those to hand.

The horribly deserted restaurant was just off the cloisters, and with the guilt weighing heavily on his conscience, Jakob reluctantly broke into the kitchens in order to steal what he needed - a jug which he filled and a bandage from the first-aid kit.
It's for a good cause, he thought reluctantly.
As he was about to leave he heard someone outside shout "Guards!" and then there was a thump followed by other sounds of violence.

Down goes another member of the clergy, the wolf incubus thought glumly and when he was sure the coast was clear, snuck back to the apse and Goronza's chapel.  Inside, he almost dropped the jug - the Archbishop had changed.  To the untrained eye it had looked like he'd simply rolled over, but Jakob had spent some time examining him for injuries and had a pretty clear idea of what the Archbishop should look like.

Firstly, for a man of the Cloth he was surprisingly buff - somewhat more so than he had been when Jakob had healed him earlier.  Secondly, he had no cut on his head, but the one on his right hand had mysteriously returned.  Jakob put the water down and ran like hell.

Have I just healed the wrong one..? he whimpered, mentally.


The organ finished playing and to Jakob's great dismay, an Archbishop was standing at the high altar for the final part of the Mass.  There was a tear in one of his lengthy and ornate sleeves.

By now Jakob had entirely lost track of which Archbishop was which, but what was pretty clear was that whoever was currently in the sanctuary wanted to be Archbishop, and that whoever was currently in the chapel was not going to brook any opposition.  Perhaps in the confusion he could tell them apart...

There can be only one, Jakob thought as he healed the slightly buff Archbishop in the chapel.  He came around very quickly and made a grab for the wolf.

"You!" the maybe-Archbishop exclaimed and his eyes narrowed.  "Incubus... all this is your doing...?  Such sacrilege... how could you violate holy ground!?  But then... your kind has been deceitful!"

"You're one to talk," Jakob retorted, folding his arms.  "I don't know who the hell you are, but you're obviously a Demon.  Your kind has been responsible for countless outrages throughout the eons and besides, you're impersonating a man of the Cloth, so don't you dare lecture me about racial ethics!"

"I'm the fucking Archbishop of Neuheim!" the fox yelled and it echoed around the halls of the cathedral.  "I usually charge for my lectures!  Now fetch me my vestments and maybe you shall be forgiven by the divine..."

"Your Grace?" Jakob said, taken aback and kneeling before him.  "Please forgive me.  I thought you were the one at the altar, concluding Mass outside."

The probably-Archbishop looked horrified.  In a single motion he pulled himself up onto both feet and then removed a ring from one finger.  Leathery wings appeared behind his back as he did so and remained there as he put the ring on backwards for safekeeping.

"Come with me, my child," he said ominously.  "I may require your help."

"You're not an organist by any chance are you?" Jakob asked confusedly.  The Archbishop just looked at him.  "Please, now is not the time for any of your incubus mind-games," he said.

"Oh, forget it..." Jakob replied, and then froze in horror as the words of the Mass suddenly sunk in.  "Wait - the impostor... did he really just say that...?"

"I think so," the Archbishop said.  He looked surprised.  "I thought the congregation looked a little glassy-eyed tonight.  Has he bewitched them or hypnotised them or something?"

"I guess he could have, I'm just..." Jakob swallowed.  "Your Grace, I've seen a lot of hucksters and snake-oil salesmen, but I've never, in all my long life seen anyone so good that he could get the crowd to willingly sell their own souls to him."

"I think he described it as a non-exclusive cross-licensing agreement," the Archbishop said doubtfully.  He quickened his pace as the Mass was rapidly coming to an end.

"...And that," the vestment-clad figure concluded, "Is why from this day on, the eighth deadly sin shall be the sin of marbles!"

The congregation gave a roar of approval, and then fell silent as the true Archbishop appeared in full Demon form, dressed only in a pair of leather leggings that Jakob had found lying in a corner of the south transept.  They had most likely belonged to the intruder before he'd replaced the real organist, but it was the closest they could find to any vestments.

"You're not the Archbishop," the fox said in a loud but calm voice which rang throughout the nave like a bell.  "Do you want to settle this like Beings or Demons?"

"Or organists?" Jakob added helpfully.  "Actually, I've never seen Bishop-to-Bishop combat before.  It might be interesting..."  The True Archbishop looked pained and Jakob shut up.

"An organist duel would be nice," the Creature said and removed the vestments, placing them in a pile on the altar.  He sulked and gave it a light-hearted kick as he moved away.

"All right.  Where are the clergy, where the guards and where is the real organist?" Jakob asked.

"They're all in the crypt," the interloper said, changing from a silver fox back into a wolf.  "I arranged their bodies so they spelled out the word 'FUCh'."

"Fushhh...?" Jakob echoed, his expression one of stone.  The Archbishop was not so good at concealing his emotions.  "Bodies...?" he queried and his face became a wonderful portrait of thunderous, absolute rage.  Jakob quailed and took a step backwards.

"Yeah," the organist continued.  "I was trying to write the f-word, but I couldn't finish the 'K' because I ran out of people.  You need to hire more staff."

The Archbishop displayed a tremendous amount of self-control, especially for a Demon.  His wings were trembling slightly and his fingers had become razor-sharp.

"Let me get this straight," he said finally.  "You... you murdered my clergy - men of the Cloth and on sanctified ground, no less - just so that you could arrange their corpses into swear-words...?"

"Oh, no no no..." the organist interrupted as he realised what they were thinking.  "I haven't hurt them.  Well, not much, anyway.  I don't like pain... pain sucks.  And killing people is just nasty!
"I did have to keep them stunned, though.  The big one kept waking up and it was spoiling his letter..."

"He must be a rogue Dimanika member or something," Jakob said.  "They're pretty out of it, but they don't kill people."

"So, a pain-sensitive as well a a shapeshifter.  You are definitely 'Cubi then?" the true Archbishop asked, his face slightly more calm.  "I suppose that figures."

"Yeah, and I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for that pesky kid," the incubus retorted, pointing at Jakob.

"I'll have you know I'm 900 years old," Jakob grouched.  "Look.  There's one part of this that I still don't understand, and that's me.  I saw most of what you did.  You have had ample opportunity to get rid of me and use my body to finish the exclamation mark or whatever, but you didn't.  Whenever we met you just made vague threats and walked away, every single time.  Why...?"

"Because, Mr. Pettersohn..." the organist said, "I am your leader."  The wolf became a silver fox again and his eyes turned violet.

It's him, Jakob thought in terror, The crazy, dangerous one who wanted to seduce me...  I hope he's not still trying to...

"So, Mr. Archbishop," Lord Daryil asked, looking thoughtfully at the Demon, "Do you prefer guys or girls?"

The congregation waxed wroth.

The End

Woo, twist endings!!! Made me giggle reading it. :)

I did wonder.

Oh, my. Oh, my. Daryil has a lot to answer for.


.. and yes, utterly utterly buggy. ;-]

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on July 23, 2010, 12:33:25 PM
I did wonder.

One of my challenges was making it less obvious.  About halfway through I was wondering whether I should have changed it so that the enemy was someone else - but in the end I decided to remain true to the original idea.

Quote from: Inumo on July 23, 2010, 12:24:43 PM
Woo, twist endings!!! Made me giggle reading it. :)

Thanks.  I did wonder whether I was throwing too many twists into it and whether it would end up so I was the only person who could follow it.
(If that - I really did get confused about whether the real Archbishop was the one with the hand cut or the head cut...)

<typo checker>"glanced at him for a it" should be "glanced at him for a bit".</typo checker>

That was on the first part.

I liked the way the story was written. The suspense and the funy comments... even the ending, though Daryil enjoys causing fear too much. I liked the way the organ worked too.

Quote from: Gabi on July 23, 2010, 01:46:18 PM
<typo checker>"glanced at him for a it" should be "glanced at him for a bit".</typo checker>

Ha, you missed "Stopped outside cell"  >:3
Anyway, thanks for spotting it, I've corrected that now.

QuoteI liked the way the story was written. The suspense and the funy comments... even the ending, though Daryil enjoys causing fear too much. I liked the way the organ worked too.

Thanks.  The pipe organ is one instrument I can't really do justice to in my music, but I do find them rather fascinating.

The Book of the Tenets of Clan Daryil

This is currently available only as a PDF file, I will look at transcribing it to the forum later.  It's a 177k PDF containing pearls of the wisdom (?) of Lord Daryil.

http://www.project-future.org/stuff/things/tenets.pdf

Hmm, one question.
Was Lady Ti'Nera a Tri-wing?
If so, how did Daryil kill her? (did she roll several ones in a row?)

Who wrote the 2nd edition?

I'd like to see the scratch-n-sniff edition.

But why does the vegetable pie contain meat?

And how can Daryil not remember the clan he was born into?

Small typo: on page 7, it says "are own lives" instead of "our own lives".

Quote from: danman on September 20, 2010, 07:28:30 PM
Hmm, one question.
Was Lady Ti'Nera a Tri-wing?

No.

Quote from: Gabi on September 20, 2010, 09:25:28 PM
Who wrote the 2nd edition?

Daryil, during his first millennium.

QuoteBut why does the vegetable pie contain meat?

I'm sure you could use some kind of vegetable stock instead.  No-one seems to have noticed the beans, though.

QuoteAnd how can Daryil not remember the clan he was born into?

Because it was more than three thousand years ago?

QuoteSmall typo: on page 7, it says "are own lives" instead of "our own lives".

Thanks, I'll try and fix that later.

One pasty?

Don't they usually come in pairs?

You mean the runner beans weren't meant for running? It reminds me of a certain blowfish recipe from Granny Ogg's Cookbook.

By the way, I like how Jakob got both a dedication and a Wall of Shame entry.

Quote from: Gabi on September 21, 2010, 12:28:38 PM
By the way, I like how Jakob got both a dedication and a Wall of Shame entry.

Thanks.  Though if you notice, Cross and Jakob aren't actually linked.

By the way, the typo you found should be fixed, along with a couple of other minor tweaks to the wording (e.g. it looked a little bit like Werrew had gone tri-wing before)

I did like the "bonus points" mention. Also the "subtitle left blank" and the formal dress code.

Cassandra amuses me as well.

I note that the directive is not to deliberately feed off another member; well, okay, the directive is not to feed, the explanation adds "intentionally"; given she wasn't intentionally feeding, she's kinda on the grey line between yes and no...

Come to think of it, are there any rules about scaring Beings with health issues that could be worsened by their fear (like heart diseases, etc.)?

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on September 21, 2010, 03:23:21 PM
Cassandra amuses me as well.

I note that the directive is not to deliberately feed off another member; well, okay, the directive is not to feed, the explanation adds "intentionally"; given she wasn't intentionally feeding, she's kinda on the grey line between yes and no...

"Dearest Mark," the letter read, "I had a marvellous time last night. You were great fun.  I'm sorry I scared you but if it's any consolation, your fear was delicious and yeah, that kinda was the idea.  Anyway, I'm not supposed to do this and my Leader will be mad if he finds out so this is just our little secret, right?  I hope this little something will make things better.  Love and kisses, Cass"

In other words, Daryil actually asked her to stop doing the whole seduction thing.  Which she didn't.

Quote from: Gabi on September 21, 2010, 04:10:29 PM
Come to think of it, are there any rules about scaring Beings with health issues that could be worsened by their fear (like heart diseases, etc.)?

It would depend, I think, on whether the 'Cubi had a reasonable idea that it could happen.  Terrorising a nursing home, for instance would have Daryil come after you with a baseball bat.

As it happens, I had several ideas for the Cass story.  One of them was that her victim turned into Daryil, who said something like "Cass, I thought I told you not to do that again..."

One of the others was where Jakob discussing Cass at a party.  Her victim had a heart-attack and grief-stricken, she turned herself in and is not at the Clan gathering because she's serving a jail sentence.

I think the one I used in the end was probably the best.

Okay, I've had this story in mind for a long time now, but only recently got down to writing it.

It is not canon with Future History or the post-FH stories involving Seth - it is actually based on the universe of Basilisk's Of Steam and Steel RP, a sort of dystopian version of Furrae with a somewhat altered version of Sethir.  Is it 100% canon with that?  I guess we'll have to see...

The story idea itself came out of a conversation with Keaton about something her character might have tried to do to Sethir if they met, and how he'd likely react to it.  It also owes a large debt to Neal Stephenson's novel Anathem, and brings a new twist to the book's phrase 'gone to the clock'.

To summarise, this story is actually pretty nasty, but it was fun to write.

PS: Now that this is done, I need to move out of the country, because Keaton knows where I live.




Time and Date - A tale of Steam and Steel

Sethir Clandover parked his bike and made his way to the main square in the capital of Nhylamar.  Nhylamar being a Creature territory, there was no particular need to conceal the fact that he was an incubus and so he didn't, keeping his headwings visible in all situations except those where he was in the most rural Being country and might be killed on sight.

The white wolf incubus did not think of this as flaunting the fact that he was 'Cubi, he wasn't exactly a zealot when it came to such things.  However, his race had a strong reputation for treachery and base deception so he wanted people to know what he was up front - springing it on them later usually made such accusations much harder to defend if the shit ever hit the fan.

As he usually did when visiting the centre of the capital, Seth made his way to the clock tower and climbed up the stairs, standing just outside a door marked "Authorised Personnel Only".  Once or twice he had broken in, just to get closer.  On the last occasion he had been caught and fined.  It had been worth it, but he didn't want to push his luck - if he made himself too much of a nuisance they might increase the security or ban him from the square altogether.  And there were far, far worse things they could do if he really upset The Powers That Be.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes - he had found through long experience that if there wasn't anyone else around to distract him, he would, even from this distance, be able to hear her thoughts.


It had happened just at the start of the millennium.  Sethir's mother, an employee of the mayor of Nhylamar City, had been found guilty on a high treason charge.  Seth had been in his last years at the Academy and news had reached Fa'Lina slowly.  He had only found out after the sentence had been passed, just in time for one last, teary embrace mere moments before she was led away.  Seth's mind had locked up then, he just froze in the spot, unable to comprehend.
His mother had closed her eyes as she was led to the execution chamber so that the face of her son would be the last thing she ever saw.

As was usually the case in Nhylamar, those who were unfortunate enough to be awarded a death sentence were robbed, not only of their lives but also of their eternal souls, which were normally trapped in some kind of crystal device and auctioned off to the highest bidder.  Seth had spent the next few days and night agonising - the soul of a succubus would fetch a stupendous price on the open market and he could not possibly afford to purchase her back and release her into the beyond.

What would happen to her, he had fretted?  Dissection in a series of lunatic experiments by those trying to probe the inner secrets of the soul itself?  Would she become someones meal, her very essence destroyed to prolong the life of some useless aristocrat?  Or would she be ground away slowly over a period of weeks or months, her vital energies being drained away to power a textile mill or some kind of vehicle...?  All of these possibilities and more besides were very real - Nhylamar's entire economy was based upon the souls of the condemned.

As it happened, the council had already made their own plans for her and the soul-stone had become state property the same day that her corpse had been cremated.  The state had refused even to release her ashes to Sethir and his mother's mortal remains had been flushed into the sewers, a particularly ignominious end for someone who had campaigned so tirelessly to help bring the mayor into power.

For some time, an ornate, expensive - and considerably late - ceremonial clock had been under contruction in the council building to celebrate the new millennium.  The main drive of the clock was mechanical, powered by weights upon a chain which were wound back up every morning by a team of convicts - but the backup power system and the nighttime illuminations were all powered by magic.

To make this possible, the council had needed to procure a long-lived power source, one that would last until at least the next millennium and preferably well into the one after that.  They had used Ivy Clandover's soul as this power source and despite his obvious bias, Seth had pretty good reason to believe that she had been framed for this very purpose.
At first he had thought to investigate and get his mother's soul freed by due process of law, but the more he uncovered the more he came to realise that asking too many of the wrong questions could very easily make him a marked soul too.


Leaving his bike parked where it was, Seth wandered into a bar later that morning and nursed a small tankard of ale.  Drink didn't affect him very strongly, but even so he kept it moderate.  I guess I'm just not in the mood, he thought.
Someone climbed onto the stool next to his, he glanced at them and noticed that it was a yellow succubus jackal.  She caught his eye.

"Hey there, rider," she said, casting an appraising glance at him.  "How's life treating you?"

"Seth," he said and shook her hand.  "Keaton," she replied.

"I'm not sure I'm the best company at the moment," he said, "Not unless you feed on sorrow and self-pity or something.  I'm more of a justice type myself."

"So, what ails you?" she asked brightly.  "I'm sure I can help, I'm good at that."

"I dunno, I guess... I've been thinking about the soul trade a lot.  I know it's not a popular stance to take at the moment, but it just seems so... wrong.  All these poor Creatures, Beings having their very essences broken down...
"I mean... I like the results.  Civilisation, I mean.  Longer lives, lower crime rates, so much more automation than before... but sometimes I wonder, is it really worth the price?

"And what will happen as the population increases?  There will be more and more demand for soul energy, more and more trivial crimes will come to merit soul-execution to feed the growing demand, offences that barely merit even a fine today.  It can't end well."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Keaton said, and her headwings drooped.  "Beings always seem to get the short straw, poor guys."  Seth glanced at her, the jackal's eyes and the emotions she radiated indicated that she was completely sincere.  "Don't lose heart.  Surely someday they'll find an alternative energy source and things will pick up again."

"The way things look at the moment, the invention itself might cost you your soul.  Just to preserve the status quo," he said.  "But I guess it's either that or we'll turn around one day to find the Beings overthrowing us."

"You are in a dismal mood," Keaton clucked sympathetically.  "Hey, tell you what... Let's go down to the city gardens.  They'll be in full bloom right now, that'll take your mind off things.  Sound good to you?"

Seth, somewhat surprised to find someone who honestly agreed with him, accepted without hesitation.
He paid for the drinks and followed her as they made their way to the ornate park across the river.  It was a short walk so didn't bother with the bike, though he could have done if he'd wanted to.
Maybe later, if this turned into an actual, full-blown date.  He didn't use it much but there was a spare helmet in his bike and a ride through the countryside with a pretty girl on a beautiful day like this would be just the thing to lift his spirits...  The wolf-incubus smiled warmly at the thought.

Finding an empty spot on the park, the two 'Cubi lay side by side on a rocky outcrop and just relaxed, watching the aerostats come in to land in the distance.

"Try this," Keaton said, reaching over and offering him something hard, round and shiny.  He sat up and sniffed - sugar and artificial flavourings.  "Boiled sweets?" he asked.

"Sort of," the succubus replied with a grin.  "I make them myself.  No, not like that..." she added suddenly, as Seth tried to crunch down on it.  "Swallow it whole.  It has more of a kick that way."  Seth shrugged.  He wasn't particularly into mind-altering substances since the Academy but he acquiesced anyway, just to be polite.  The girl seemed nice enough, and in any case he should be able to throttle back his metabolism if the effects became stronger than he approved of.

Keaton examined one of the roses, shifting one of her wings into a tentacle and deftly severing the stem.  She made as if to pick it up, and accidentally caught the thorn.  "Aw shit," she said and grimaced, sucking her thumb.  Sethir stared at her.

"How did you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?" the jackal replied, through a mouth full of thumb.

"I didn't feel any of your pain."

"Oh, that," she said offhandedly.  "Pierson projector in one of my earrings.  It cloaks your true emotions and projects fake..." she trailed off, her eyes narrowing at Seth's expression.  "Wait, you mean you don't have one?"

"Why would I want such a thing?" the wolf demanded.  "What purpose does such deceit serve?"

"For your crimes, of course," she said, and then laughed, her eyes widening.  "You... you really, actually believe all that shit about Beings getting a raw deal?  It wasn't just a pickup line or a show for the idiots in the pub?  What are you, like, six or something?"

"You... monster,"  Seth snarled.

"We're all monsters, dear," she told him.  "You're not a Being, you're not even a young 'Cubi anymore, so stop trying to think like one.  Just give it up - the strong rule and the weak can go screw themselves.  The sooner you realise it, the easier it will make things..."

Just then the boiled sweetmeat kicked in.  Seth gasped, suddenly realising what it was as the sugar crystal matrix dissolved inside him.  A burst of energy was released in his guts and the reflex kicked in, infusing his blood, his very being with newfound power.

"That was someones soul," he gurgled, viscera twisting, retching as he fought against both the rush and the strong urge to vomit.  But doing that would only bring up the remains of the sugar... it could do nothing for the unfortunate he'd just destroyed, absorbed into his own soul.  "Oh yes..." Keaton said, and her headwings quivered slightly, her half of their victim had just gone down the same way.

"Poor little Timmy won't be going home to dinner tonight, but he was certainly welcome to our meal!" she giggled.  The sound sent a chill down Sethir's spine.

"They say that the first time is the worst.  After that, it only gets easier.  You stop thinking of them as people.  And Beings aren't really people anyway, are they?
"So, now that you're finally starting to grow up and become a proper incubus, surely you... Glurkk!"

Keaton made a strange sound as Seth's gloved hands crushed her throat, twisting her neck.  The action had come swiftly, a sudden blossoming of the darkest, blackest fury that she had spotted only far, far too late and she scrabbled futilely against his riding gear.  One more inch or so and she'd be dead, her neck wrung like a chicken.
The wolf hesitated for just a moment and then his hands glowed.  Her body arched for a moment and collapsed limply, the glamour fading from her body and leaving her looking more like the crusty drifter that she was.

"It would be just," he told her, "Just for me to slay you now.  Or hand your soul over to the authorities - after all your crimes it would fetch me a handsome bounty and a small fortune in the soul auctions.  As you say, the first time is the hardest.
"But I refuse to let what you've tricked me into doing become a habit.  All the same, I'm sparing your life and your soul for one reason, and only one."  Being unconscious, the jackal did not reply.

Seth slung her across his back and cast a few spells.  She became invisible, as did the wing-tentacles of his that held her in place.  She'd be out for a couple of hours, or until he reversed the stun spell.  So long as he didn't bump her into anyone...


"What the hell are you doing here?!" the guard yelled back in the tower of the council building.  Seth and Keaton looked at him with a start, their faces lined with frustration and... relief?

"How many times do I have to tell you people that the clock room is off-limits...?  Especially to you," he added, pointing an accusing finger at Sethir.

"I'm really sorry," Seth said, lowering his eyes.  "I know I promised that I wouldn't come here again, but... I had to!"  The succubus squeezed his hand.

"Oh no," the guard recoiled with horror.  "Sex in the clock-tower is a public indecency rap, 'Cubi or no.  You'll both have to come with me."

"You don't understand," Seth protested.  "This is my fiance.  I had to introduce her to my mother at least once before we marry."  The guard looked at him strangely, but relaxed somewhat.

"Alright," he said.  "And now you've done that, get the hell out of here and we'll forget it happened.  This time."

"Wait," the other guard said, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Seth.  "Let me check the soul.  They might have sabotaged the clock somehow!"

A pair of wings appeared on his head and he concentrated for a second, lowering his mental defences slightly.  The headwings flapped out to full extent as he was suddenly battered by a great deluge of incoherent emotion emanating from the soul-crystal.  Hatred, anger, fury, grief and frustration - all of it directed at Sethir and his companion.

The incubus guard reeled, and Seth did too.  The jackal squeezed Seth's hand very tightly as if seeking reassurance.

Finally, Seth turned to face the crystal, hands on his hips.  "Oh yeah?!" he yelled at it, "Well, screw you too!"

"Mum didn't approve of the match," he sighed, looking at the guard sadly.
"You know what?  I don't think I'll bother coming back again any time soon.  "Let's go, dear..."  he added with a glance at Keaton.  So saying, he left the clock room with the succubus in tow.

"Suits me fine," the guard said, locking the clock room door behind him.  The two patrolmen glanced at each other with strange expressions and carried on with their duties.

"Come on, dear," the jackal said, as they wandered out of earshot, "Parents always feel this way about it.  Your mother will get over it.  Tell you what, let's go to the gardens!  The flowers are very beautiful this time of year..."


"I don't know, Seth," the border collie said wistfully, as she looked out over the ship's railings and into the sea.  "I mean, of course I'm glad to have a body again, but... what about that poor girl's soul?  Surely there must have been some other way..."

"Mum, Keaton was a rapist and a multiple soul-murderer," Seth said.  "If anyone ever deserved such a fate, she's got to be pretty high on that list.  Besides, they check that clock pretty regularly - I'd say they'll figure out that you've escaped in a couple of months at the most."

"And then what?  They'll let her go and someone else will end up in the clock!"

"...And if that's the mayor I'm not exactly going to shed any tears for him.  Look, maybe Keaton's lies will actually become true.  Maybe they will find some replacement for souls and the clock will become just that, a clock.  Or maybe the whole thing will be demolished in a war or some kind of Being uprising."

"I guess you're right," she said and ruffled his hair.  Their headwings were hidden, for while Zinvth did not have a soul-based economy like the Nhylamar region did, it didn't have much tolerance for 'Cubi either.  But that was a compromise they were more than happy to make.

Souls? Pffftt, everyone knows opium was the drug of choice back in steampunk times.

Interesting use of passive voices. And I did like the decisive (semi-decisive, if Keaton's soul can be brought back) ending. You know, I might just try one for SI with Ked. *wanders off, musing*

Haha..

First i thought... "Why the hell is Keaton this nice? Now i see why she'll want  to kill ya."
Then "ah , allright"
Lastly "oh, NOW i see why she'll want to kill ya!"

All in all, neat story.....

One minor point, the scene changes confused me a bit and had me reread the part.. then it was fine.. might just be me being inattentive

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on September 28, 2010, 06:46:34 PM
Interesting use of passive voices. And I did like the decisive (semi-decisive, if Keaton's soul can be brought back) ending. You know, I might just try one for SI with Ked. *wanders off, musing*

Thanks.  Passive voice and narration styles aren't something I really have a firm grasp on, it just... happens rather than being planned.  I haven't really been trained in its use, so suggestions and corrections are more than welcome there.

EDIT:

As for the ending, Bas wants to see a follow-up story, so there might be a sequel at some point.

Quote from: Tapewolf on September 28, 2010, 07:26:05 PM
Thanks.  Passive voice and narration styles aren't something I really have a firm grasp on, it just... happens rather than being planned.  I haven't really been trained in its use, so suggestions and corrections are more than welcome there.

Pet peeve of mine. Take  these (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_C673_e_dMtU/THTUzyLq_KI/AAAAAAAAAW4/8m8IhUWtTkc/s1600/caravaggio2.jpg) three (http://morningcraft.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/untitled-man-holding-fruit-bowl-10x12.jpg) pictures (http://araratmagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/5_JIBILIAN_Gorky_Wife_Fruit_2009-500x583.jpg). If you went to any sort of art discussion, and said "Well, they're basically the same thing, they're all three pictures of people with bowls of fruit", you'd be laughed at. In art, form matters, and literature is no less a type of artwork, so form perhaps matters even more than actual substance. And while pinning down a "right" and "wrong" is kind of hard to do, not thinking about something, and just letting it "happen" is a bit, sloppy.

One exercise my teachers tossed at me, was to write a story (or, if you're pressed for time/energy, and/or don't like the idea of a forumite giving you homework :P; a description) of the same thing over and over, but from different points of view, or different narration styles.

For instance, here are 4 different descriptions of the same tavern scene.


Keaton, the notorious jackal succubus, frustrated from her long and fruitless search for a Healer capable of helping her sister, stormed into the Nine Horse Hitch tavern, after dismissing Xianxi with an anatomically impossible suggestion. Waving a bit of silver, she quickly got the attention of the barkeep, and transfixed him with a baleful stare, before ordering a lengthy list of some of the strongest beverages up for sale. She wasn't in the mood for socialization, she wasn't there to enjoy the ambiance, she simply wanted to get herself drunk as quickly as possible. Half an hour into her attempts to drive herself into a stupor, one of the patrons, a brown mutt Being with more wine in his head than good sense, decided to ingratiate himself to the pretty new customer with a friendly slap on the rump. Keaton, quickly moved to rectify the being's terminal stupidity, and spun sharply on her heel, driving a kick into the Being's knee, and then quickly grabbing the offending appendage and breaking his elbow with a neat little inside armbar. She then pushed the being away, whose howls of pain were already fading from her consciousness, so she could return to her business of the night and getting herself as tanked as she'd ever been.


Keaton the black Jackal stormed into the dim and smoky tavern. More long and exhausting searches had come to nothing, and she needed the solace that she could most easily find at the bottom of an ale tankard. She waved some silver at the barkeep, and after doing her best to intimidate him, a task that long years of experience had taught her how to accomplish despite her small frame, she ordered enough hard liquor to hopefully drive her into unconsciousness. She had drank enough to get pleasantly buzzed, although not enough yet to drive her under, when a brown mutt being slapped her bottom. Keaton wasn't in the mood for it this evening, and reacted violently, spinning into a kick to the knee, and then advancing with an inside armbar, breaking the being's elbow. A final shove ended his unwatned attentions, and Keaton returned her focus back to her alcohol.

All the dust and the travel and the long stupid droning voices had given Keaton a horrific headache. Add in the pain in her left foot from the boot that wasn't on just right, and she was in a murderous mood, and decided to drown it in ale fumes. She had Xianxi drop her off at some bar, and when the little glowrat asked for further directions, told him to shove his tail so far up his ass that it'd come out of his mouth.  She had a little difficulty opening the thick, oaken door, and she could almost feel the barkeep's smirk as she strode up and leaned against the bar, and bored into him with her stare. She still wasn't quite sure what it was that made him gulp appreciatively, but it brought a nasty smile to her face, and she ordered the strongest drinks on the menu, and plunked enough coin on the counter to keep them coming. She was buzzing pleasantly when she felt a most unwelcome slap on her bottom, and without really thinking about it, she spun on her heel, long ago combat lessons taking over, as she kicked to the inside of a knee, and then advanced, grabbing his right wrist and elbow and pulling them in opposite directions until the bone snapped. She then shoved the ugly being to the floor, and went back to important business.

   The air in the tavern cooled slightly with the evening air as the newest patron entered. She was tiny, barely over five feet in height, but quickly ordered enough booze to put even the hardiest intestines to within an inch of their limits. Half an hour or so into the drinking binge, a dog being named Alfred hopped up, trying to ingratiate himself with the pretty newcomer. Being a rough, direct sort, he leaned forward, showing off his physique, and gave a friendly slap on her bottom. She reacted instantly with violence, and the next thing he knew, there was a sharp, ragged pain in his right arm, as the elbow was bent in a direction it was never meant to go, and he felt the back of his head hit the dirt floor, as he heard her say "another one.".



Now, I don't meant to say that you should ignore plot, setting, or character. In fact, if you managed to write a coherent story without any of those things, I'd be impressed. But the actual "how" the means of conveying the information to what you're envisioning to the reader, is a *vital* part of writing. If you really want to get good, you shouldn't just leave it as something unplanned.


Corgatha.

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on September 30, 2010, 07:24:11 PM
Pet peeve of mine. Take  these (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_C673_e_dMtU/THTUzyLq_KI/AAAAAAAAAW4/8m8IhUWtTkc/s1600/caravaggio2.jpg) three (http://morningcraft.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/untitled-man-holding-fruit-bowl-10x12.jpg) pictures (http://araratmagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/5_JIBILIAN_Gorky_Wife_Fruit_2009-500x583.jpg). If you went to any sort of art discussion, and said "Well, they're basically the same thing, they're all three pictures of people with bowls of fruit", you'd be laughed at. In art, form matters, and literature is no less a type of artwork, so form perhaps matters even more than actual substance. And while pinning down a "right" and "wrong" is kind of hard to do, not thinking about something, and just letting it "happen" is a bit, sloppy.

Conflating laziness with a lack of understanding or experience is also rather sloppy.

It has been put to me in the past that there are four stages of competence:

1. Unconscious incompetence - Not knowing you can't do something
2. Conscious incompetence - Knowing that you have a problem with something
3. Conscious competence - Being able to do it correctly if you focus hard
4. Unconscious competence - Being able to do it correctly automatically

...I'm currently somewhere between stage 1 and 2, being dimly aware that something is somehow not right if people point it out.

Also I suspect that my use of the phrase "Just happens" has confused matters.  What I was trying to say was that I was never taught any of this stuff and have to rely on gut feelings because I have basically nothing else to go on.  What's probably happening is that I'm trying to match styles which I read a lot, but like I say, it's not a conscious process.

Quote
For instance, here are 4 different descriptions of the same tavern scene.

Right.  The first one feels horrible, probably because of the sheer number of commas in it.  I'm not sure whether this was supposed to be a 'good' example or a 'bad' example.  It seems to be told from a neutral observer viewpoint.

I can't really tell the difference in terms of narrative between this and the second example, however.  I think you'll have to help me out there.
The third example seems to be more from Keaton's viewpoint, and the last example seems to be more from the Being's viewpoint.  However it took about five readings to get this sense, and for all I know I've entirely missed the point of what you were trying to illustrate  :P

QuoteNow, I don't meant to say that you should ignore plot, setting, or character. In fact, if you managed to write a coherent story without any of those things, I'd be impressed. But the actual "how" the means of conveying the information to what you're envisioning to the reader, is a *vital* part of writing. If you really want to get good, you shouldn't just leave it as something unplanned.

Noted, but again, stage 1.  I'm not seeing the problem clearly enough to be able to fix it.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 01, 2010, 12:32:05 PM


Conflating laziness with a lack of understanding or experience is also rather sloppy.

Point made, and taken. I didn't mean to suggest sloppiness, more one of blindness. And I'll admit, I let my own personal set of piques get in the way. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring any offense.

Quote from: Tapewolf on October 01, 2010, 12:32:05 PM

Quote
For instance, here are 4 different descriptions of the same tavern scene.

Right.  The first one feels horrible, probably because of the sheer number of commas in it.  I'm not sure whether this was supposed to be a 'good' example or a 'bad' example.  It seems to be told from a neutral observer viewpoint.

I can't really tell the difference in terms of narrative between this and the second example, however.  I think you'll have to help me out there.
The third example seems to be more from Keaton's viewpoint, and the last example seems to be more from the Being's viewpoint.  However it took about five readings to get this sense, and for all I know I've entirely missed the point of what you were trying to illustrate  :P

Noted, but again, stage 1.  I'm not seeing the problem clearly enough to be able to fix it.

Words like "good" and "bad" are generally slippery when applied to writing. I mean, outside of personal preference in reading, what's the real standard or something meant to be read as entertainment? Personally, I think all 4 pieces are terrible, being stuff I tossed together in about 20 minutes. However, they served their real purpose, to highlight different narration styles, although somewhat clumsily, since the point wasn't intuitively obvious from them. So, overall, I'd rate them as rather poor :P

But the first piece is me trying to be an omniscient and what I term "loud" narrator. He knows what Keaton is thinking, and he's certainly not narrating from the point of view of any of the characters, but he feels a need to fill our heads with details that aren't something that you'd be able to observe from direct presence, such as what Keaton's mood is, (teed off, not there to socialize, etc) or, to fill in background information, (long fruitless search for a healer), things which aren't directly in the frame of the story itself.

Personally, I'm not a huge fan of it, and as you noted, I tend to write it poorly when I try to work it myself. I always have trouble with how much detail to throw in, since you're really only limited by the amount of time and energy you wish to invest in the work, and how much you think your reader can stand before he or she runs off screaming. One interesting sub-style though, is where the narrator is loud, but has a distinct personality of his own, or admits ignorance to certain things, like in Gogol's Dead souls, where he makes remarks about the author writing it, and makes jokes about how he's too busy concentrating on the pretty ladies to pay attention to things that the reader might have wanted to know.

The second one was also a non-character narrator, but he's much quieter. Generally, the information given to the reader is solely in the realm of observations about fact, with no commentary about them. Looking back, I should have contrasted the first two by putting morally annotative words, "good", "evil", "cruel", "savage" etc, on the first work and not the second, bring things out more clearly. He's still all-knowing, and giving a bit of background (Keaton's long years of experience in intimidation blah blah blah), but he's not really trying to dress the story up with terms like "terminal stupidity" and the like.

The third one was yeah, directly narrated out of Keaton's point of view. Her thoughts are given, some of her background, but otherwise, the only information is what she sees. Sometimes used with an "I" narrative style, "I, Keaton, went to the bar", but especially on a forum, I thought that would breed confusion.

The fourth one is really a mess, to be honest. I started off trying to make it with a sort of whimsical, stupid narrator, who would put in things that are irrelevant or just wrong, but that took too much effort, and yeah, I switched to the being's point of view. And if it took multiple readings to get what was happening...... I think I'm going to wince and look at the ceiling for a bit.


As for the rest, I was trying to stop and utter what the bare minimum to any sort of written story would be. Generally, you need some sort of plot, some sense of action that opens and closes and brings the reader to a view that something worth reading about happened. You'll need a place and time for this plot to be contained in, and usually you need some character or group of characters to make sure that the plot moves from A to B to C. Generally, this would be considered the tripod that any piece of writing stands on, the bare minimum you absolutely *must* have. I've seen weird pieces of writing which try to do away with one of the elements, but they're usually either terrible or the sort of stuff that people only read to see "oh, look, here's a story with no characters".

Permeating all of this is probably some vague notion that word choice matters. "Keaton broke the being's elbow" sends a different sort of intonation than "Keaton shattered the being's elbow." And while I think there wouldn't be much disagreement as to there being some words appropriate for some circumstances, and others for different ones, the question of "what words should I use?" is probably the single hardest one for any work of entertainment. (Also, if you have any advice, I'd like to hear it, I always think my own stuff is garbage :P)

For me though, the single biggest breakthrough, was when I realized that narration style itself was a leg for the story to rest on as well, turning the tripod into a table. (This was a terrible metaphor to build on) When I set out thinking "What's going to happen, who is going to do it, and where and when will this be?" I also now really want to consider "Who is telling this, and how?" And while it won't settle all the word choice issues, I've found it really does help a tremendous deal. The guys who have had the misfortune of dealing with me on chats have probably heard one of my rants about how the Wheel of Time books suck with Sanderson writing them. One of my biggest beefs is that Jordan had a very period specific narration method. The books were set in a medieval/renaissance sort of world, and the entire thing is described in the sort of vocabulary you'd expect from someone living through that time. You don't see words like "suit", "lawyer", "doctor" "social class", and the like, whereas Sanderson uses them liberally, throwing a sort of modern tint onto a decidedly non-modern story.

Furthermore, the narrator himself tends to become a kind of character, and often will develop his own sort of personality. I mentioned earlier  that it can often be difficult to decide how much description of something is too much, but with a firm grasp of what the narrator notices or wouldn't notice, what they like and dislike, what their goals are in relating the story, you can often get something of a handle on them.


As for my final words (I actually do want to say more stuff, but I really need to get back to the schoolwork I'm actually supposed to be doing.) I really do think your writing is good. You have a very good grip on what you want to tell, which is really the harder thing to teach. If you want my advice (a dubious want, to be sure), I really think what you need next isn't so much practice as conscious practice. The next time you write something, really try to sit back and think of form, the actual method of writing you're going to be bringing to bear on the work. Maybe better, you might want to try to retake an old story, or a segment of an old story, and re-narrate it from a wildly different perspective.


Hoping whatever good points I made weren't lost in the general blather,
Corgatha.

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on October 01, 2010, 04:51:17 PM
I've seen weird pieces of writing which try to do away with one of the elements... *snip*

*coughCatch-22cough*

FWIW, I liked the story. The ending was particularly creative, as I understand it, but then again, I'm not in OSaS. Trying to think of critique, despite my amateur-ness... Looking back, I find it a bit odd that Seth hadn't learned by now that 'cubi are rarely of the same attitude as him unless it furthers their own goals (again, based on my understanding of the story and character). He is 600, after all. Also, AFAIK, couldn't a 'cubi tell if there was a soul inside of a sugar ball? Once more, not the best of understanding of the race, or how the sugar ball was made, but I'd think it'd be at least noticeable to someone wary of what they were eating. Nonetheless, the lampshading worked quite well; I had to think in order to find the holes, which is not something someone does regularly when reading for entertainment.

Quote from: Inumo on October 02, 2010, 12:34:03 AM
FWIW, I liked the story. The ending was particularly creative, as I understand it, but then again, I'm not in OSaS. Trying to think of critique, despite my amateur-ness... Looking back, I find it a bit odd that Seth hadn't learned by now that 'cubi are rarely of the same attitude as him unless it furthers their own goals (again, based on my understanding of the story and character). He is 600, after all.

Yeah.  What fooled him with Keaton was the fact that she was constantly projecting bubbly and friendly emotions to disguise what she really felt, that was a trick he hadn't really come across before.  (FWIW, Cass really is like that except when she's doing her seduction thing)

QuoteAlso, AFAIK, couldn't a 'cubi tell if there was a soul inside of a sugar ball? Once more, not the best of understanding of the race, or how the sugar ball was made, but I'd think it'd be at least noticeable to someone wary of what they were eating. Nonetheless, the lampshading worked quite well; I had to think in order to find the holes, which is not something someone does regularly when reading for entertainment.

Okay, you got me.  That's an actual plot-hole :P

I'll read through Corg's critique later when I have more time...

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on October 01, 2010, 04:51:17 PM
Point made, and taken. I didn't mean to suggest sloppiness, more one of blindness. And I'll admit, I let my own personal set of piques get in the way. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring any offense.

Ah, right, blindness is closer to the mark :P
It may well be that I'm still a bit too touchy about criticism after the business with PF recently  >:3

QuoteWords like "good" and "bad" are generally slippery when applied to writing. I mean, outside of personal preference in reading, what's the real standard or something meant to be read as entertainment? Personally, I think all 4 pieces are terrible, being stuff I tossed together in about 20 minutes. However, they served their real purpose, to highlight different narration styles, although somewhat clumsily, since the point wasn't intuitively obvious from them. So, overall, I'd rate them as rather poor :P

Well, back when I was first writing CJP, Sid gave a critique about the sentence structure, specifically he was pointing out that too many sentences began with "I looked at..." "I wondered about..." and so forth.  At the time I wasn't quite sure what he was driving at, until he wrote a definitive 'bad example' to emphasize the problem.  Then it properly hit home.

QuoteBut the first piece is me trying to be an omniscient and what I term "loud" narrator. He knows what Keaton is thinking, and he's certainly not narrating from the point of view of any of the characters, but he feels a need to fill our heads with details that aren't something that you'd be able to observe from direct presence, such as what Keaton's mood is, (teed off, not there to socialize, etc) or, to fill in background information, (long fruitless search for a healer), things which aren't directly in the frame of the story itself.

The second one was also a non-character narrator, but he's much quieter. Generally, the information given to the reader is solely in the realm of observations about fact, with no commentary about them. Looking back, I should have contrasted the first two by putting morally annotative words, "good", "evil", "cruel", "savage" etc, on the first work and not the second, bring things out more clearly. He's still all-knowing, and giving a bit of background (Keaton's long years of experience in intimidation blah blah blah), but he's not really trying to dress the story up with terms like "terminal stupidity" and the like.

Right, so it's basically a less verbose, less biased version of the first approach.  Makes sense.

QuoteThe third one was yeah, directly narrated out of Keaton's point of view. Her thoughts are given, some of her background, but otherwise, the only information is what she sees. Sometimes used with an "I" narrative style, "I, Keaton, went to the bar", but especially on a forum, I thought that would breed confusion.

Yes.  Chronicles of Jakob Pettersohn was done first-person, the intention originally being that it was supposed to be his memoirs or something along those lines.  Anathem also did this - it was written as if it was Erasmus' journal (including a line in one chapter three which reads "Plenty of ink and leaves were available, so I began to write down the account you have been reading.").
However, I found this style particularly limiting.  In particular there was a scene just after Azrael had been murdered which simply did not work in first-person style because it was referring to things which Jakob did not know about.

As a rule I tend to go for the omniscient narrator style because I find it is more flexible.  The degree of 'loudness' varies, depending on whether I'm trying to make it amusing or dry.

QuoteAs for the rest, I was trying to stop and utter what the bare minimum to any sort of written story would be. Generally, you need some sort of plot, some sense of action that opens and closes and brings the reader to a view that something worth reading about happened. You'll need a place and time for this plot to be contained in, and usually you need some character or group of characters to make sure that the plot moves from A to B to C. Generally, this would be considered the tripod that any piece of writing stands on, the bare minimum you absolutely *must* have. I've seen weird pieces of writing which try to do away with one of the elements, but they're usually either terrible or the sort of stuff that people only read to see "oh, look, here's a story with no characters".

My writing process usually starts with a basic idea of a concept, e.g. Cassandra impersonating Keaton and pretending to steal people's souls to scare them, or Jakob running scared in a cathedral while some mysterious agency picks off the clergy one by one.  The story usually starts to come together when I have a chunk of dialogue, which usually happens while I'm walking home.

One of the key pieces in this one was:

Seth: "Why would I want to do that?"

Keaton: "For your crimes, of course!  What are you, like, six or something?"

(Or something very much like this.  It was embellished as the story progressed.  But the line about him being six was definitely part of it.)

QuotePermeating all of this is probably some vague notion that word choice matters. "Keaton broke the being's elbow" sends a different sort of intonation than "Keaton shattered the being's elbow." And while I think there wouldn't be much disagreement as to there being some words appropriate for some circumstances, and others for different ones, the question of "what words should I use?" is probably the single hardest one for any work of entertainment. (Also, if you have any advice, I'd like to hear it, I always think my own stuff is garbage :P)

Yes.  That, again, is something I'll spend a long time over, constantly reading and rereading it and looking for ways to improve the impact and improve legibility.  It's not something I can do according to an algorithm, though - again it's a matter of personal preference.   That said, it would be kind of interesting to write one of these stories in some kind of version control system, to keep a log of the changes and see how it evolves...

QuoteFor me though, the single biggest breakthrough, was when I realized that narration style itself was a leg for the story to rest on as well, turning the tripod into a table. (This was a terrible metaphor to build on) When I set out thinking "What's going to happen, who is going to do it, and where and when will this be?" I also now really want to consider "Who is telling this, and how?" And while it won't settle all the word choice issues, I've found it really does help a tremendous deal.

Right.  Again, I usually try and default to an omniscient narrator.  With the 'Only Children' story, it could be taken as the narrator following Seth and only really knowing what Seth knows.  How much the narrator knows is a topic that I haven't really thought about until you mentioned it here, and it's something I'll definitely have to plan next time I write a story.

I do prefer this particular style because you can more easily fit in things which the main character would know, but which you probably don't, e.g. how that particular society works, or things which the character knows but are part of his or her innermost private thoughts that (s)he would never tell another soul, but without which the story would make less sense.

One of my pet peeves in terms of writing styles is where you have a character whose sole purpose is to act as the information dump.  It can be done quite well, but usually you end up with someone who comes across as a half-wit.
e.g. in the film Destination Moon they have something like two pilots in the ship, but one of them is taken ill at the last moment and has to be replaced with someone who doesn't really know what's going on.  That means that the other guy has to keep explaining things to him the whole time.

A more grating example was Lemmy, the radio op in the 1950s radio series Operation: Luna who apparently was a genius at designing communications and control systems for a spacecraft but didn't know that there was no gravity in deep space, or that space was a vacuum.

This perhaps isn't a fair comparison since for those media you'd have to either do that, break the fourth wall or have the crew remind each other, but it could have been done in a more subtle way.  Arguably my distaste of this style is one of the factors which makes the DMFA radio project stand poorly on its own, without the strips as a visual guide.

Quote
The guys who have had the misfortune of dealing with me on chats have probably heard one of my rants about how the Wheel of Time books suck with Sanderson writing them. One of my biggest beefs is that Jordan had a very period specific narration method. The books were set in a medieval/renaissance sort of world, and the entire thing is described in the sort of vocabulary you'd expect from someone living through that time. You don't see words like "suit", "lawyer", "doctor" "social class", and the like, whereas Sanderson uses them liberally, throwing a sort of modern tint onto a decidedly non-modern story.

Yes, that would annoy me too.

QuoteThe next time you write something, really try to sit back and think of form, the actual method of writing you're going to be bringing to bear on the work. Maybe better, you might want to try to retake an old story, or a segment of an old story, and re-narrate it from a wildly different perspective.

I'll definitely pay more attention to the narration style next time around.  And yes, I might try reworking an older piece, if I can settle upon a new take for it.

QuoteHoping whatever good points I made weren't lost in the general blather,

I think so.  It's certainly given me a clearer idea of what to take into account next time, which is always helpful.  Thanks.

It's been a while, a lot longer than I had intended.  Writing aside, I spent a long time (approximately three months) waiting on proofreaders, which stalled the process considerably as I had problems with the ending and needed the feedback.  I finally finished it a week or so back and figured "Publish or be Damned" as the saying goes.

It's a two part story, so I'll probably post the conclusion in a day or so.

Thanks to Keaton, Bas and Wuff for their comments, without which the ending would likely have been pretty lousy.
Thanks also to LoneWolf, whose backstory inspired the setting.



Fishing Trip - Part One

The border collie turned a key in the old door and touched his hand to it.  There was a brief glow and the door clicked open, gliding smoothly on its hinges at his touch.  The cabin inside was small and had just two rooms in it, but for all that it was well-equipped and made as good a hunting lodge as any, affording a good view of the river that ran through the glade.

"It's been too long since we came here," Dai said, holding the door for his 17-year old coyote son, Enoch.  "I'd bring your mother, but well, it's not really her kind of thing, she always has preferred the city.  Maybe one day I'll convince her...
"Anyway, first I guess we'd better check the gear, see what's kept and what will need replacing.  We may still have some bait - if not I'll show you how to catch your own.  Once we've got settled in, I'll see if I can show you how to hunt deer later in the week."

"Sweet," Enoch said, examining a case of knives.  "Be careful with those," Dai cautioned.

"There's no beer," Enoch said, examining the crude supply cupboard.  "I had... I thought..."

"You hoped that I'd allow you to drink now that you're free from your mother's watchful eye?" Dai smirked.  "I'm afraid not.  Besides, mixing hunting and alcohol is just asking for trouble."

A couple of hours later, the two of them had lit a small fire by the riverside, just outside the cabin.  Enoch gutted and beheaded the fish, wrapped them and set them baking.  He looked around to see his father in a somewhat pensive mood, his wings drooping slightly.

"What's the matter, Dad?" he asked.  Dai flickered a smile at him, and then spoke, choosing his words carefully.

"There's another reason your mother didn't come with us," he said.  Enoch looked scared.  "What's the matter?  Is she sick?"

"No, nothing like that.  It's just... the time has come for me to explain something to you.  It's a little bit hard, and... well, we've discussed it a lot and eventually we decided that the burden of the explanation had to be mine."

"What are you saying?  You mean I'm... adopted?  Born out of wedlock?  What...?"

"No, no, you really are our child.  But in a way, that's part of the problem.  It's about us, you and me.  You see, we're not like other folk.  We're not like your mother either.  We're Creatures."

"Well, yes," Enoch said.  "We have wings.  I know how some people look at us in the street, I know not everyone is happy to see someone with wings."

"So," Dai said, shifting position, "Have you ever wondered... What kind of Creatures do you think we are?"

"I'm not sure.  Mythos, I suppose.  Part Gryphon?  I'd say part Angel, but Angels are kinda rare these days, and I've heard they can't... well, reproduce easily anymore..."

"Hold that thought," Dai said.  "Supposing we were Angels.  Would you be happy with the implications of that?"

"Well, we'd be rather powerful... oh."  Enoch started.  "We'd outlive mother..." his wings drooped too.  "Yeah, that would not be fun.  But we're not... are we?  We can't be..."

"No, we're not.  But we're not Gryphons either, I'm afraid.  We will certainly outlive your mother unless something else kills us before our time.
"Look at me, Enoch.  Do I look like someone who should have a teenage son?  I could pass for twenty-three and I will stay that way for a long, long time.  In just a few short years, your age will catch up with mine... biologically we will both be in our twenties, though not physically.  But your mother will continue to age without expensive magical aid."

Enoch whimpered, and his father hugged him.  "Now, don't take it to heart.  It's not like she'll drop dead this instant.  You are still young - we should have many happy decades left with her, and we should both be there to take care of her in her old age, which is more than she'd have if I was a Being too.  I just... I just wanted you to know."

"There's more, isn't there, Dad?" his son said.  "I can feel it."

"Yes.  I still haven't told you what kind of Creatures we are, and I'm not going to.  But I will give you a big hint."  With that, Dai released his son and edged away from him.  As Enoch watched, a small pair of wings appeared on his father's head.

"I... Incubi...?" he stuttered.  "They're almost as rare as Angels, aren't they...?"

"We," Dai corrected him.  "And no, we're not exactly common.  Not terribly popular, either.  We have a dark reputation, and that is not completely unfounded.  Many of us have done terrible things.  But it's not all bad, we are not all bad, and for what it's worth, most other Creature races have similar tales of excess anyway - they just have better PR.
"Where we live... I chose it because our kind are at least tolerated here, if not exactly loved or trusted.  And I know that soon, probably in your twenties, your headwings will appear and then my secret would certainly be exposed.  I wanted to prepare you for this.
"Yes, I will try and take you hunting this week, but more importantly, I wanted you to know about us, about our clan and our affinity, which I'm afraid is 'hate', much as I wish it were otherwise.
"Also, I will teach you how you can shield your mind.  You won't have the power to do that properly yet, but I can teach you some exercises that will give you more privacy among other thought-readers.  And if you have any questions about us, or about this new aspect to me, I will do my best to answer those too."

"How old are you?  Is your name really Dai?  Are you really how you seem?"

"Yes, this is my true form.  I have only hidden my head-wings... I haven't tried to take another's place as some 'Cubi do.  That never works out well, not in the long term.  And for your information, I'm a little over 500 years old."

"H-have you ever... eaten... souls?", his son asked.

"Yes," the collie replied.  "At the Academy, when I was taught how to do it.  Does this disturb you?" his son went very quiet.

"Yes.  Yes, it does," Enoch said at last.

"Good.  I was afraid you might think it was cool or something.  Stealing souls is not 'cool' at all, it's a very serious matter indeed.  It's sometimes possible to reverse death to get someone back... but when the soul itself has been destroyed... there is nothing left to get back." he went silent for some time.

"Look, I was young and arrogant at the time.  I wish I hadn't, it is a stain upon my own soul.  One of many," he muttered as an afterthought, and then glanced at the sky.
"Anyway, it's coming on to rain, and the fish should be ready by now.  We'd better get back to the cabin - we can talk more there."

So saying, he reached into the fire and drew out the two wrapped fish with his bare hands.


Fish bones lay on the plate in a neat pile as Enoch heated up some water to wash them with.  There was a small wood-stove for when it rained, but it wasn't fired.  Instead the coyote stirred the pot with one hand, his finger glowing red hot and boiling the water around it.  He was still very young as 'Cubi go - even young for a Being - but old enough and powerful enough to know simple defensive spells.  Sometimes they came in useful for other things too.

Enoch's ears pricked up slightly and he turned towards Dai.  "Did you hear something?" he asked.  "Thought I heard a crack or something in the distance."  He looked at out the window and saw two figures coming out of the forest.  "Oh, hunters," he said.  Suddenly the window nearest to him cracked, a small shower of glass leapt away from it leaving the tell-tale pattern of a bullet punched through the window.

"Get down," the Border snapped.  Enoch obeyed without hesitation.

Dai unlocked a box with a wave of one hand and drew out a rifle.  His body was glowing very faintly and there was a strangely cold expression in his eyes.  "I said I was going to take you hunting this week," he said.  "It looks like today's the day."

"But... they're people!" Enoch squeaked.  "You can't do this... we can't hunt them, 'Cubi or not!"

"That's right," Dai said, affection cutting through the stress.  He smiled briefly at his son and continued to load the rifle.  "They are people and I don't want to fight them, but I have to.  We can argue morality until the crack of doom, but they're going to murder us both if we don't do something to stop them."

"Bandits?  I thought the forests had been cleared of those..."

"No, assassins.  Bounty-hunters, really.  I'm not quite sure what they call themselves, but they're after me and they'll surely kill you too if they find you here.  Either way, this is an unprovoked attack and we are well within our rights to kill them."

"How do you know?  What if they're just huntsmen, like us?  What if that was a stray shot?"

"Oh, I know, all right.  Those two caught me last time, said there was a price upon my soul.  I only just got away then and they won't repeat that mistake.  I was too soft - I thought I could sweet-talk my way out of it and I was wrong.  That's a mistake I can't afford to repeat either, unfor-"

An explosion shook the entire structure of the cabin.  It creaked but stayed firm save for the damaged window which had been blown inwards in the blast.  As they picked themselves up, dust and particles of wood fell from the ceiling.

With a sigh, the incubus healed a cut on his arm from the glass and made his way to window, punching away the fragments and kneeling in front of it.  From nowhere obvious, he produced what appeared to be some kind of rocket launcher.  There was a loud retort from some yards away and when Enoch next looked out he could see a large, smoking crater where two of the assassins had stood.  There was nothing else, save for a third man clutching his side and fleeing.

"Holy..." Enoch gurgled.  "Great Gods, Dad... you've kibbled them!  Now we'll be up on a terrorism charge!"  Dai knelt with his eyes closed, muttering a short prayer for the men he'd just killed.  Finally he opened one eye.

"They started it," he said.  "I didn't cast the first grenade, they did and that makes it self-defence even if we ignore that sniper round.  If it does come to trial I will gladly share my memories with the court.  Be that as it may, we'd be dead now if I hadn't warded the cabin against explosives.  Pity about the window, though..."

Enoch collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands.  "Look Dad... I thought I was in over my head when you told me what I was.  But this..." he gestured feebly at the rocket launcher.  "Never mind where you got that from, just tell me truly... what is this all about?!  Who is after us and why?"

"They want to kill me," Dai said.  "You see... Centuries ago... I did a very terrible thing.  Not a soul-stealing... I'm not sure I really want to talk about it, even now."

"I can't believe this!  What could you have done?  You've always been a good father to me..."

Dai Looked at his son and a tear formed in one eye.  "Thanks, kid.  I'm glad you think so.  I just wish I could have... well, but it's too late now.  I ruined someone's life and... and he's the one who sent the bounty hunters after us."

"What's his name?"

"Samuel.  He's been hunting me for decades,  Probably longer, but it's only recently he found out where I was."

"Centuries ago... he must be a Creature, then."

"Listen, Enoch... if something happens to me, I want you to know this.  You weren't my first child."

"What are you saying...?  That I've got a brother out there somewhere?  A sister?"

"Brother... half-brother, I guess.  He was my first child and... well, I didn't do a very good job of raising him.  Strike that, I did a frigging terrible job.  I never really looked out for him, I always thought of myself first... then one day... Ugh, I don't want to think about it.

"I got drunk.  Yes, that's the reason we won't allow alcohol in the house.  It's not some religious belief, it's not your mother's rule, it's mine.  With a hate affinity, it... it really lets go of you," he said, and began to sob.  "I don't remember what I said now, but it ruined them... my son left home and my wife killed herself.
"It was like surfing, like riding on the back of a giant wave, harnessing its power to feed your own exhilaration.  It was such a rush, like the best sex you've ever had... and in those few minutes of selfish pleasure, I destroyed a family I had raised for twenty years."

"I want," the Border said, and choked.  "I want you to swear that you'll never get drunk.  No matter what the peer pressure, it will ruin you and the people you love.  Just don't do it."  Enoch nodded, shocked.

"I never thought I'd marry again, but then I met your mother.  And one thing led to another... I wanted to make sure that you had a happy childhood.  I guess... I guess I was trying to compensate for before..."

Enoch gaped for a second as the grenade came in through the window and bounced under the table.  There was no time to run, no time to throw it back.  "I love you, Dad," he said.  Then there was nothingness.

To be continued

... Interesting place to leave it.


(damn cliffhangers)

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on April 05, 2011, 05:10:23 PM
... Interesting place to leave it.
(damn cliffhangers)

Yes, it did feel a bit lame leaving it there...

Point of terminology. I'm going to refer to the section before the ellipses as "part one" and the section after them as "Part two." Also, I've been having trouble with my spacebar, which is annoying for post-writing.

Part one does a whole lot of telling, not showing. And there are odd details missing, or at least not given all at once.


Take Dai, who seems to be the protagonist here. He's a

Quote"Border collie"

right from the beginning, and using a key gives him some anthropomorphism, although it's never actually said. We don't actually find out he has wings until after they catch some fish, (which is also more implied than stated, although that one I'm having a better visceral reaction to; let's face it, fishing is dull) despite the fact that unlike the headwings, his backwings should be clearly visible to even a casual observer.

Or when Enoch tells him that there's part of the reason his mother didn't come, he "looked scared". We have no way of knowing that, other than the narrator directly divulging the information. You can achieve the same effect by throwing a description that leaves a clear implication, something like "Enoch flinched at the sudden change of topic to his mother, and he recalled the time she fell ill last autumn, as his mind wandered down dark paths." You could do something similar to convey Dai's revulsion at his clan's history and affinity, tell some kind of horrific story, while vividly describing facial contortions, his hands clenching and unclenching as he paces around the fire, or whatever other modes of describing stress.


That being said, the awkwardness that Dai has about soul-eating struck me as very endearing. He sounds a *lot* like a parent trying to keep his kids off of drugs.


That being said, the second half was *great*. Action punctuating the dialog, people actually performing actions and the narrator taking a back seat; about the only oddity I can dig up is that after Dai shoots the rocket launcher, there's

Quote"There was nothing else, save for a third man clutching his side and fleeing."

Which there's nothing wrong with, but given that you've tended to describe characters by their anthro species, it gives the impression that the third assailant was an actual human, which I'm guessing is not what you're going for.

There are a few oddities plot-wise, but I'll hold off until I read the rest of it. On the whole, a very engaging piece, but it's still a mite unpolished. Eagerly awaiting part two. (And please, I know I come across as brusque, I'm bad at giving criticism, I really do enjoy your work, but at the same time I do think there are improvements that can be made.)

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on April 05, 2011, 07:59:12 PM
Part one does a whole lot of telling, not showing. And there are odd details missing, or at least not given all at once.

Yeah, that's basically what happens.  They go fishing and talk.  It's not like they're out looking for maidens to rescue or something.  I think of that part as the prologue, really.  It's setting the scene and mentioning some of the races and their traits - I'm hoping that it would make some sense to a non-DMFA reader.

QuoteTake Dai, who seems to be the protagonist here. He's a "Border collie" right from the beginning, and using a key gives him some anthropomorphism, although it's never actually said. We don't actually find out he has wings until after they catch some fish, (which is also more implied than stated, although that one I'm having a better visceral reaction to; let's face it, fishing is dull) despite the fact that unlike the headwings, his backwings should be clearly visible to even a casual observer.

I'm not quite sure how else I'd have handled the fact that they're DMFA races (i.e. not feral dogs), but revealing the race piece by piece was a design decision - in part, because Enoch doesn't fully appreciate it himself.  

FWIW my father never took me on fishing trips - he has often said that fishing would be a lot less popular if fish were fuzzy and screamed when you dragged them out of the water, and my mother would fantasize about running down the banks of the Thames at Lechlade and pushing the anglers into the river one by one.  So no, I'm not exactly in a good position to describe it in detail ;-)

QuoteOr when Enoch tells him that there's part of the reason his mother didn't come, he "looked scared". We have no way of knowing that, other than the narrator directly divulging the information. You can achieve the same effect by throwing a description that leaves a clear implication, something like "Enoch flinched at the sudden change of topic to his mother, and he recalled the time she fell ill last autumn, as his mind wandered down dark paths."

I can probably improve it by adding a description of what makes him look scared, but writing a flashback sequence seems overkill to me.  It can be done well, but in this case it would seem unwieldy and I'm not convinced it's necessary.

How about the fact that Enoch is described as being 17?  Do we really need a flashback of his birthday cake or him getting his provisional driving license or something?  For something vitally important, yes, some narrative device to demonstrate things can be a good thing.  But for things like this or the fact that his mother is not with them, frankly I think it would just be a distraction that would get in the way of the main story.

QuoteYou could do something similar to convey Dai's revulsion at his clan's history and affinity, tell some kind of horrific story, while vividly describing facial contortions, his hands clenching and unclenching as he paces around the fire, or whatever other modes of describing stress.

Noted.

One of the things I did do with this story a couple of weeks back was read through your comments on the last story.  I tried to treat the narrator as if they were a third, invisible member of the fishing trip.  I think I did a reasonable job of restricting it to things which someone there would notice.  Part 1 was already pretty clean in that regard, but unfortunately part 2 breaks that model a bit near the end.  I'll have another look and see if I can improve it but right now the narrator does see into Enoch's thoughts somewhat and I can't really figure out how to avoid it without destroying the story or stopping it from making sense.

Quote"There was nothing else, save for a third man clutching his side and fleeing."

Which there's nothing wrong with, but given that you've tended to describe characters by their anthro species, it gives the impression that the third assailant was an actual human, which I'm guessing is not what you're going for.

No, but I couldn't think of a way around that without describing them in more detail than is required.  I notice you haven't suggested an alternative either ;-)
"Figure" might work in this instance, but finding a way to describe them generically that also makes sense to the casual reader is not an easy thing.

Okay, here's the conclusion of the story, hope you've enjoyed it.

Fishing Trip, part 2

Enoch's eyes opened blearily.  He quivered as he remembered the last moments - some type of explosive device had detonated, smashing him out of consciousness like a hammer.  It should have killed me.
For a moment he thought it had been a dream, but his wrists and ankles were bound and he was lying on the floor of the cabin, which was still standing.  It must have been some sort of stun grenade, he thought.

"Of course it was," a voice said, answering his unspoken question.  "You don't think I'd want to kill my dear Dai quite that quickly?"

"Samuel...?" Enoch asked, and looked up.  Before him was an elegant specimen of snow leopard, dressed in a black leather trench-coat with holes cut into the back so as not to interfere with his large, feathery wings.  He was holding an ornate blade in one hand, the edge serrated in an intricate design.

"Yes, and I'm glad you are both awake.  I was beginning to worry."

"Sam," Dai croaked.  "Do what you will, but leave Enoch alone... he's just a boy!"

"Yes, I will certainly spare your young 'friend'," Samuel said, loosing Enoch's bonds with a single swipe of one wing-tentacle.  "Not for your sake, but because of his youth.  As you say, he's just a boy."

Enoch staggered to his feet and then knelt, checking his father for injuries.  "I'd leave now, sonny," the leopard advised.  "You won't want to see this, because I'm going to hurt him.  Badly.  See, I've waited centuries to pay him back for what he did to me," he cackled, and his wings twisted.  Wings became tentacles that became blades, corkscrews, instruments of torture.  He turned back to the bound canine.

"And I'm going to make sure it lasts, Dai!  You hear me?!  You're not going to die quickly, nor easily.  And when you're on the brink of death I shall heal you fully and begin again, and again.  But even this is only a fraction of what you truly deserve!"

"No!" Enoch yelled, snatching at the hunting rifle his father had loaded earlier and flicking off the safety.  He aimed at the leopard's head.

"Look - stay out of this, kid, it doesn't concern you," Samuel snapped, knocking the gun from the young coyote's grasp and pushing him aside with a tentacle that he had blunted for the purpose.

"The hell it doesn't!  I won't let you kill my father!"

Samuel froze, stunned.  Then his expression twisted into a snarling mask of rage and fury.  "You did it again!" he screamed at Dai.  "I swore I wouldn't let you destroy another innocent like you destroyed me!"  His eyes screwed up and taking a deep breath, he slowly mastered himself.

"Listen, kid," he continued, looking at Enoch and taking a softer, more reasonable voice - in any other situation it could have been called 'amiable'.
"Listen.  It looks like I got here just in time.  I'm sorry this had to happen while you were around to see it, but it's better that it happens now, before he can fuck you up too.
"If you don't want to stay and watch, then go.  If you insist I will make this quick for him, quicker than he deserves, but he has to die.  Believe me, kid, your 'dear old dad' is a monster and his time has come."

"Monster...?!  How can you say that?!  You sent assassins to kill us both!  You're trying to murder my father and you wanted to torture him to death!  How can you call him a monster?!"

Samuel stared at him and shook his head.  "Yeah, I'm sorry about sending those men.  Using live rounds and frag grenades... what were they thinking?!
"They weren't supposed to kill either of you - I wanted Dai alive and I didn't know you existed.  But as for killing him..." he looked at Enoch pityingly.  "Please, you must understand - this is for your own good!  However cruel it may seem at first, you will get over it and I'll be doing you a favour in the long run.  If you want a father, I'll adopt you myself.  I can be all the things he never was..."

"No!" Enoch screamed.  "I love him!  Don't you understand?  I couldn't ask for more in a father!  And if you do kill him, I swear... that as soon as I am strong and wise enough, I'll come after you myself and put an end to your evil!"

The incubus faltered.  "M-my... evil?"  He closed his eyes and probed with his mind.  As if sensing this, Dai let his own mind-shield fall and images washed through Samuel's mind, of Dai cradling Enoch in his arms... bouncing him on one knee... bringing birthday gifts for his wide-eyed son... of Enoch on fishing trips with him...   The memories were not just his father's, Enoch too had not yet learned to shield his own mind properly and Sam realised that it was all true.

His tentacles relaxed and the sword fell to the ground.  The snow leopard began to sob.  "I... I was trying to fight evil..."

"Don't you see?" Dai said softly.  "I was young, stupid and halfway out of my mind.   I did a bad job raising you, I know it and I'm ashamed.  But I swore it wouldn't happen again and I'd like to think that I... I learned from my mistakes.  Maybe I do deserve to die for what I did to you, but listen!  Not just for my sakes, but for the boy too...
"And for your children.  If you kill me now, you'll be depriving Enoch of his loving father and he'll want to avenge me.  And a century or so from now, when he's strong enough he will and he'll deprive your child of his or her father, and this stupid cycle of vengeance will never, ever end!
"Think what our Founder would say if she was alive to see this... It's not even like we're rival clans!  Is this kind of pointless, idiotic slaughter really what you want ...?"

The leopard did not answer.  He bolted, slamming the door open and running off into the dusk.

Dai yelled, "No, Sam!  Come back!", but all they heard was an echo of his voice and sobbing that faded into the distance.

"Do you think he'll return?" Enoch asked, cutting at his father's bonds with one of the knives - he did not trust the fractal-edged monstrosity that Sam had wielded.  For all they knew it was enchanted with some terrible soul-stealing curse.

"I'm not sure," the Border replied, worriedly.  "I think we're out of immediate danger now, but I really don't know what he'll do.  I'll stand guard tonight, but you'd better sort out a bed for yourself.  I might not need to sleep, but you will for a few years yet."


Nothing was heard from Sam during the night, nor the following morning.  With a certain amount of trepidation and a hunting rifle, Dai finally led his son out of the cabin and the headed off into the forest.

"What about Sam?" Enoch asked finally.  "Do you think he'll be back?  Should we tell the authorities?"

"I don't think so," Dai said.  "I'm not sure what they'd make of a family feud between two incubi.  They might let him run around unchecked, decide it's none of their business and that my death would be worth it just to make Sam go away.  Of course they might even arrest me too.  And I'm not sure that would help."  He sighed and put down the weapon for a moment.
"Look, if Sam wants me dead, he'll kill me.  Maybe I deserve it.  All I know is that I promised to take you hunting, and if today is the last day of my life, I want to live it as fully as I can.  If I die knowing that I finally made a decent father, I will die happy."

"Don't say that!" Enoch protested.  "Surely there must be something we can do!"

"I'm not sure it's really something that's in our hands," Dai shrugged.  "Maybe you're right, maybe I should go to the police.  I'll think it over tonight.
But right now?  You're going to need food."

Some hours later the two of them returned, a feral boar slung over Enoch's back.  "I'll clean out the fire," Dai said.  "You go in and fetch..." he trailed off as he saw the state of the cabin.
When they had left, the place had been a mess - stained with debris and pockmarked from the fire-fights and grenade attacks, one window shattered.  Now it was almost pristine.  Someone had evidently been very busy cleaning it up, repairing the damage.

"Sam...?" Enoch whispered furtively.

"I think so," Dai replied.  "You wait here, I'll go and check."

"No!" the coyote hissed, dropping the pig's carcass to the ground.  "He's not after me!  You stay here... I'll go!"

"But it might be a trap.  Either he's inside or outside..." he broke off as a winged figure emerged from the building.  A snow leopard incubus.

"Sam...?" the Border called out softly.  As the leopard turned to look at him, a flicker of anger played across his face for a moment but it passed and he looked at the ground.

"What do you want now, monster?" Enoch demanded, placing himself between the two of them.  "Decided you want to kill us both?  Come to collect the set?"

Dai put a warning hand on his shoulder and the coyote stood down.  "Let him speak," he said.  "I can't imagine this is easy for him.  Don't make it any harder."

"I don't suppose you'll find this easy to believe," Sam said at last with a glance at Enoch, "But I never wanted to be a monster.  I just wanted to put wrong to right.  I thought what I was doing was for the greater good.  Perhaps it is, I'm still not sure."

"It's been a long time," he said after a long pause.  "Many centuries.  It's given me a sense of purpose, a mission, some kind of a goal to achieve in life.  And now... now you... Dai has finally found a way to take that from me too, like he took everything else from me.  I want to hate you for that,  hate him... but somehow, somehow I can't.  My victory would have gone cold in time anyway.

"What are going to do?" Enoch demanded, leaping back in front of his father.

"I'm going to step back," he said.  "I'm going to think things over.  I can't kill your... our father now.  There seems to be a good thing going between you and I won't be the one to ruin that.  I... it would make me into everything I wanted to destroy.

"I'm so confused, I have to stop and decide what I should do next.  But what I will do... I will watch," he said, and looked Dai squarely in the eye.  "I will watch you.  And if you are false, if ever you break my little brother's heart like you broke mine..." he smiled unpleasantly.  "Well.  If that happens, you won't last the night."

Enoch stood aside, and Samuel turned away.  The snow leopard strode off into the forest.  As he reached the edge of the cover he glanced back one last time.

"So long, Dad," he said.

*applauds* And a nice one it is too. I especially like the biblical style names for a story that is essentially a twist on the supplantation themes, that the elder dispossessed son is *grateful* that the father shows more feeling to the younger son. What made you pick the names of Enoch and Samuel? (Dai being a phoenome of baby-talk "dad" reinforces the whole theme, assuming I'm barking up the right tree).


There are a few narrative bits that don't make a whole lot of sense to me, though. Coming in from the last story, someone throws in a stun grenade, knocks Enoch and Dai out, and then Samuel comes in and ties the two of them up, only to immediately release Enoch. The boy was unconscious at the start, so not a threat; I suppose Samuel could be waiting to evaluate whether or not it'd be safe to let his half-brother out before freeing him, but he doesn't really wait long at all before releasing his prisoner, and it begs the question as to why tie him up in the first place.

I do like to think that it's because Samuel really doesn't have the stomach to butcher his father, that he can plot and even half-execute premeditated violence, but look at how much time he spends ranting, about how he's not really the bad one here, and how much his father deserves a painful death, instead of just starting to heat up the irons and cut with the serrated blades. Is he trying to convince himself as much as anything?

Hopping back to narrative form, it's interesting, there almost seems to be a dual climax to the story, once where Dai and Enoch share their thoughts to convince Samuel that the old man isn't such a bad guy, and the second encounter after the boar hunt. Now, obviously, they're connected, really almost a delayed effect of the action in the "first" climax. I can't think of anything offhand I've read like that before, and it's fascinating.

There is, however, still a lot of narrative telling as opposed to showing. I want to apologize for being unclear earlier, I'm not talking about the heavy dialog. If you're interested, I can show you my very most recent piece, which is literally roughly a page long monologue from the narrator to a parole board. (Impromptu writing exercise, and long story. Also, it's really bad.) I'm referring more to an informational dump by the narrator, unfiltered by the characters. I think the best sentence for illustrating what I'm saying (poorly) is this one.

Quote"Listen, kid," he continued, looking at Enoch and taking a softer, more reasonable voice - in any other situation it could have been called 'amiable'.

"Listen kid," is an actual words by a character, and the next  nine words are all basic description of what Samuel is doing. He looks at Enoch, and he softens his voice. Then it becomes "More reasonable, and would be 'amiable in any other situation." Both of those are normative statements, or even a value judgment. At that point, the narrator is doing more than simply describing what's going on, he's adding a slant to what's going on.


Now, I'm going to reverse everything I said previously, a loud narrator who "tells" isn't necessarily a bad thing. I think I cited it previously, Nikolai Gogol's "Dead Souls" does an excellent job with a narrator who is informing us of whether people are kindly or mean, stupid or brilliant, and whatever other adjectives, without letting us see those characters perform actions which would lead to an establishment of those traits. It's also a brilliant work of fiction.

Furthermore, in this case, I really think the line you wrote works. It establishes Samuel as someone who is not only reasonable, but a sort of gentleness, that for all of his rage against Dai, he's not spilling it over to people connected to his father. But be careful how you use it, unless you really want to go full blown the other way, where the narrator is a carried away character in his own right, who is very, very clearly playing with the facts as given. (Which I heartily recommend you try at least once. It's a *lot* of fun to write like that, although it can be hard to follow.) It can be very jarring to read something that's kind of half and half of information given by declaration and information demonstrated through narrative.

Still, overall very nice, and I think stronger than the earlier part by a good deal. On a strictly personal preference level, it's a bit sugary for my taste, but that's a purely personal preference coming from someone who is admittedly an extremely dark writer for his own stuff.

Hoping to see more of your work,
Corgatha Taldorthar.

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on April 07, 2011, 01:56:29 AM
*applauds* And a nice one it is too. I especially like the biblical style names for a story that is essentially a twist on the supplantation themes, that the elder dispossessed son is *grateful* that the father shows more feeling to the younger son. What made you pick the names of Enoch and Samuel? (Dai being a phoenome of baby-talk "dad" reinforces the whole theme, assuming I'm barking up the right tree).

I struggled with the names at first, actually.  Early drafts had '??' instead of the names throughout the text.
I think 'Enoch' was the first name I settled on, 'Dai' came late one night - I got out of bed and scrawled a memo to myself.  It's actually a Welsh name (derived from Dafydd/David according to Wikipedia), and I think it may also be the Welsh word for 'two' but I'm not 100% sure about that.

I really had problems with the elder son.  'Samuel' just came out of the blue and it stuck.  Taking Amber's (and others) observations that there is a dearth of female characters in my stories I was very tempted to make him into Samantha, but that broke his offer to replace Dai as Enoch's father and I really, really wanted to keep that.
Swapping gender of the other two wouldn't really work as the fishing trip thing is typically more of a father-son exercise.

QuoteThere are a few narrative bits that don't make a whole lot of sense to me, though. Coming in from the last story, someone throws in a stun grenade, knocks Enoch and Dai out, and then Samuel comes in and ties the two of them up, only to immediately release Enoch. The boy was unconscious at the start, so not a threat; I suppose Samuel could be waiting to evaluate whether or not it'd be safe to let his half-brother out before freeing him, but he doesn't really wait long at all before releasing his prisoner, and it begs the question as to why tie him up in the first place.

He couldn't really tell until Enoch was concious.  A larger plot-hole is that if the ropes were strong/enchanted enough to restrain an angry 'Cubi, Sam should have had more difficulty cutting them.  But that's not something I'm terribly worried about - they may have been enchanted such that only the owner can cut them like that.

QuoteI do like to think that it's because Samuel really doesn't have the stomach to butcher his father, that he can plot and even half-execute premeditated violence, but look at how much time he spends ranting, about how he's not really the bad one here, and how much his father deserves a painful death, instead of just starting to heat up the irons and cut with the serrated blades. Is he trying to convince himself as much as anything?

That's mostly him wallowing in his emotions and/or trying to stir up Dai's.  Especially in view of Monday's DMFA [1207], 'Cubi just don't seem like a race who would plot for hundreds of years to kill someone and then just shoot them in the head while their back was turned.  Angels might, but 'Cubi are going to try and make a meal of it, no pun intended.

QuoteHopping back to narrative form, it's interesting, there almost seems to be a dual climax to the story, once where Dai and Enoch share their thoughts to convince Samuel that the old man isn't such a bad guy, and the second encounter after the boar hunt. Now, obviously, they're connected, really almost a delayed effect of the action in the "first" climax. I can't think of anything offhand I've read like that before, and it's fascinating.

Yes, the ending was hard to figure out.  Stopping it at the point where Sam realises that Dai isn't evil incarnate was one possibility, but I wanted to take the idea a bit further.  It would have seemed like a cop-out, frankly.
At the same time, having them all get back together would have been too soppy.  Wuff reasoned that Sam wouldn't be able to execute a 180 degree emotional turn like that, at least not immediately and that he'd need a lot of time to think it over.

One of my ideas was that they came back to the repaired cabin to find Sam in it, all apologetic-like, but again, I didn't want to make it soppy.  It was probably Wuff (or maybe Bas) who came up with the idea of Sam saying that he still hates Dai, but he cannot ruin Enoch's life so he's going to watch from a distance.  I adopted that and mellowed it slightly to try and give the impression that Dai's prodigal son may someday return, but without making it definite (and certainly not a snap decision).

QuoteThere is, however, still a lot of narrative telling as opposed to showing. I want to apologize for being unclear earlier, I'm not talking about the heavy dialog. If you're interested, I can show you my very most recent piece, which is literally roughly a page long monologue from the narrator to a parole board. (Impromptu writing exercise, and long story. Also, it's really bad.) I'm referring more to an informational dump by the narrator, unfiltered by the characters. I think the best sentence for illustrating what I'm saying (poorly) is this one.

"Listen, kid," he continued, looking at Enoch and taking a softer, more reasonable voice - in any other situation it could have been called 'amiable'.


"Listen kid," is an actual words by a character, and the next  nine words are all basic description of what Samuel is doing. He looks at Enoch, and he softens his voice. Then it becomes "More reasonable, and would be 'amiable in any other situation." Both of those are normative statements, or even a value judgment. At that point, the narrator is doing more than simply describing what's going on, he's adding a slant to what's going on.

Yes, I knew you'd pick up on that one.  Like I said earlier, the first part is relatively clean in terms of the narrator not making judgements.  I tried really hard to keep it that way, because I took from your critique of 'Time & Date' that it was a more desirable narrative style - and I'm still not honestly sure if you're taking that style as good or bad.  It seems a little sterile to me.

However, in the second part I simply could not do it.  Case in point is the line about the knife looking monstrous - that is a judgement by the narrator.  I tried to rationalise it by telling myself that the knife was pretty evil looking and that the narrator (as an invisible but present observer) would come to that conclusion.
But at the end of the day, the reason I did that was because I didn't want to be vague about it - it could be a carving knife, or a butter-knife for all a clinical description would say, and that really doesn't get across the point that Sam wants to cause as much pain to Dai as he possibly can without frying his nervous system (at least, not to begin with).

QuoteNow, I'm going to reverse everything I said previously, a loud narrator who "tells" isn't necessarily a bad thing. I think I cited it previously, Nikolai Gogol's "Dead Souls" does an excellent job with a narrator who is informing us of whether people are kindly or mean, stupid or brilliant, and whatever other adjectives, without letting us see those characters perform actions which would lead to an establishment of those traits. It's also a brilliant work of fiction.

I will try to remember to look that one up.

QuoteFurthermore, in this case, I really think the line you wrote works. It establishes Samuel as someone who is not only reasonable, but a sort of gentleness, that for all of his rage against Dai, he's not spilling it over to people connected to his father. But be careful how you use it, unless you really want to go full blown the other way, where the narrator is a carried away character in his own right, who is very, very clearly playing with the facts as given. (Which I heartily recommend you try at least once. It's a *lot* of fun to write like that, although it can be hard to follow.) It can be very jarring to read something that's kind of half and half of information given by declaration and information demonstrated through narrative.

Many, many years ago (20, I think) I was developing a text adventure set aboard a starship, where the player was the captain.  It didn't really get anywhere, but what I do remember clearly was that I found myself describing the technical parts of the ship a lot.  Lots of dials and controls, and I very quickly ran out of ways to describe them.  Then I had a brainwave - what if the captain was slightly mad..?

The lower down the ship the player went - and the further away from the security of the bridge - the more coloured and paranoid the descriptions became.  So it went from "Racks of dials and controls stand before you", through "Banks of dials and controls sit impassively as if watching you", and on the lowest levels it had things like "Monstrous racks of dials and controls leer at you menacingly, making you feel uncomfortable."

QuoteStill, overall very nice, and I think stronger than the earlier part by a good deal. On a strictly personal preference level, it's a bit sugary for my taste, but that's a purely personal preference coming from someone who is admittedly an extremely dark writer for his own stuff.

Well, I'm a sucker for a redemption story.

I bet Samuel's theme song is "Every breath you take" >:3
Anyways, nice story .... hard to say anything else after Corgatha's wall of text :P
Perhaps that it is nice seeing Samuel being able to re-evaluate in face of evidence... even with a mind-dump i would see many others going "ah, he's setting it up, just like he did with me" or something of equally tortured logic, especially if they are all cubi.
Main reason for writing though... the starship equipment descriptions were hillarious. Reminds me of "you are in a maze of twisty passages ,all alike" and "you are in a maze of twisty passages , all different"

Quote from: VAE on April 07, 2011, 01:58:36 PM
Main reason for writing though... the starship equipment descriptions were hillarious. Reminds me of "you are in a maze of twisty passages ,all alike" and "you are in a maze of twisty passages , all different"

"Different all twisty a of in maze are you, passages little."

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on April 07, 2011, 04:05:43 PM
"Different all twisty a of in maze are you, passages little."

Any comments on the story itself, now you've presumably read the whole thing? :3

Well, I thought I _was_ commenting on the story. ;-]


More seriously, it was an interesting ending. Other than that, I think Corgatha covered everything I might have wanted to say, although I will admit I don't agree with all of his points. I'd go into more detail, but what with being at work and stuff...

Fear's Child

The vixen looked up from her book and turned around with a start.  There was a figure behind her, sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed.  Like her, he was vulpine.  Unlike her, his head was crowned with two small, feathery wings and there was a larger pair protruding from his back.

"Hello, Lisa," he said simply.

"Begone, Demon!" she replied, making a gesture to ward off evil.  The creature merely shrugged at her.

"You aren't the first Being woman to have an incubus or succubus visit them in the night with questionable intentions and you won't be the last.  You may as well get used to it - pointing at me won't help."

"Begone!  My soul belongs to the gods," she cried.  "You shall not have it."

The incubus coughed politely, and for a few moments his posture became erect and almost regal.

"A word of advice, Lisa.  Preventing me from destroying you is really not that simple.  Many Beings far more pious than you have had their souls devoured - all their prayers and entreaties to the gods availed them not at all..."
He looked away.  "...Sometimes their souls were destroyed because of their faith," he added, and for a moment or two looked small and vulnerable.

Lisa took the advantage, reaching for a vicious-looking combat knife that she kept in her desk drawer.  There were numerous others scattered around the house as well.  Lisa's home was a little out of the way and secluded by bushes and trees.  Close enough for her to commute to work, but far enough away that no-one would hear her scream if she was attacked in the night.  Her knives had sent at least one Creature packing already.

Seizing the weapon, she brandished it threateningly; the incubus removed it from her, grabbing it by the blade with a glowing bare hand.  The vixen made a gesture of blessing upon herself, fear showing for the first time.  The incubus studied the knife intently, turning it over in his hands.  Finally he looked up at Lisa and his expression was difficult to read.

"Have you been sent here to kill me?" she whispered.

"Do you want me to?" the Creature asked, doubtfully.  The vixen shook her head quickly.
With a sigh the intruder placed the knife under the bed and flicked it out of reach with a tentacle extruded from one of his wings.

"Look," he said, "That's really not why I'm here.  I don't want you to die and I don't want your soul.  I want your body."

"Rape?!" Lisa cried, edging away.  "You mean to violate me!"

"We-e-ll, I did wonder," the fox confessed.  "Just for a little while.  I mean, it would be so easy.  I could become the man of your dreams, I could realise your most secret fantasies.  Well, maybe not the one about the beans and the lycra.  But yes, I did wonder about seducing you and placing you under my spell.  You would happily do anything I pleased, even kill yourself if you thought it would please me.
"Or, I could stun you and do it while you were unconcious.  But you know what?  All that stuff is nasty and besides, they'd be able to identify me from my DNA.  No, I think my way is far better."

"And what way is that, monster?" the Being asked, suspiciously.

"Consensual rape," he said.  The vixen blinked and said nothing.

"I have drawn up a contract.  Let me explain the situation," the fox said, raising one hand to silence her just as her mouth opened to protest.  "My name is Ikaarion.  I am the head of a large-ish and, uh, somewhat notorious clan of incubi and succubi.  But you see, something is about to happen."

"Something wonderful?" the Being asked sarcastically.

"I hope so.  But it might destroy me," Daryil admitted.  "I don't consider that to be terribly wonderful and my clan would consider it an absolute disaster, but then again, we're kind of biased.
"I do think I might be able to beat the odds, otherwise I'd be foolish even to consider this, but I'm sure the last few people to try it felt the same and they're dead now.  But then again, they never had the computing support and other preparations that I have been making...

"I'm rambling," he apologised.  "But the point is, even if this gamble of mine succeeds perfectly, I will no longer be able to reproduce.  It is part of the price I will pay.  And that brings us back to... well, us, I suppose.  You see, before this event takes place, I wish to father a child and I offer you the opportunity to assist me in this."

"Let me get this straight.  You want me to bear your child...?"

"Yes.  You have a lot in your favour.  A little too religious for my taste perhaps, but everything else is perfect.  You even resemble me," he added.

"No.  Go away."

"I haven't finished talking," the fox said irritably, and both pairs of wings fanned out threateningly.  "You will hear me out.  Otherwise I'll get angry, and that would be bad.  My kind is not known for our impulse control and I promise you, you don't want to provoke me."  He clicked his fingers for emphasis and a small flame burned between his fingers.  The Being gulped and the flame extinguished itself.

"That's better," he said, and his voice became calmer, almost wheedling.  "Honestly, all I want is for you to listen to my proposal, nothing more than that.  When I have outlined it, you will be free to make your choice.  You can refuse me and I will leave you in peace.  Okay, so I might paint swearwords on your fence or tip drugs into your goldfish pond, but in the grand scheme of things... well, you know what I mean.

"Right," he said, adopting a more businesslike air, and placing a leather document folder on the desk.  "My proposal is this.  I want you to bear my child, willingly.  Look after them for a few years, keep them safe, that sort of thing.  If the child is born a 'Cubi, I will reward you handsomely.  Twelve million gold dollars," he said.

"Twelve million...?" the vixen asked, sceptically.

"Oh all right, fifteen," the incubus grumbled.  "But no higher.  You're not the only one on my shortlist, you know.
"If my ascension succeeds I should also be able to add you to my clan and 'upgrade' you into a succubus, if you so wish it," he said.  "You would be comparatively weak and your nominal lifespan would be shorter, but that's still at least fifteen centuries.  Fifteen centuries of youth and beauty," he added.  "That, essentially, is my proposal.  Any questions?"

"Would I have to... become evil?" the vixen pondered, a shadow crossing her face.  "Will the gods still accept me when I die if I forsake my mortal span?  And what about all this soul-eating that you demons seem to love so much?"

"Let's take those one at a time," Daryil said.  "Whether you are evil or not is entirely up to you.  Some of my clan are evil.  I have done evil things.  But then again, so have you," he pointed out reasonably.
"Let me be clear - my clan relishes the fear of others.  I like confusion.  I have done many questionable things, but I don't like hurting people.  I have very little patience for murderers, and none at all for soul-murderers within my clan.  I have rules against that sort of evil, and all members of my clan are expected to obey them.
"So to answer your last question, no.  If you do go around stealing souls for shits and giggles then my wrath will be terrible."

"At the end of the day, power can corrupt.  Whether you can resist its lure is up to you.  All I offer is the opportunity, how you use it is between you and your gods.
"If your gods are just and you retain your piety, they will surely accept you as their child, Being or Creature.  After all, it will give you longer to prove your faith and perform righteous acts in their service.  If they really want to nitpick, well, they're just a bunch of powerful assholes who don't really deserve to have your worship in the first place and you're better off without them."

"What... what are the drawbacks?" she asked... the offer had clearly tempted her.

"Of being a succubus?  Not everyone will like you, and you'll outlive many people.  But that happens even for Beings - you tend to outlive your parents and often your siblings and friends, and even if you die fairly young you usually get to watch them become aged and feeble just as you would.
"Look, life sucks sometimes, but a longer life gives you more opportunities for the good times.  With more life, you'll have more and better opportunity to serve your gods."

Lisa nodded but said nothing.

"The other drawback is that you'll need to learn how to use your powers.  You'll suddenly get some wings and that's gonna be a bit weird at first.  Traditionally, most 'Cubi take a course at the Academy for a couple of centuries.  Things are a bit different nowadays, with part-time courses offered, several competing institutions and less need for us to hide in general.  That's up to you, really.  You can get away with living off-campus these days much more than you could have in the past.

"If you want drawbacks, I guess I could paint swearwords on your fence and drug your goldfish anyway," Daryil added with an eager expression on his face.  Then it hardened and became coy.
"Look upon me.  Am I not handsome?  Am I not all you could desire?  This is my natural form, I have not shapeshifted."  He looked at the vixen expectantly.

"You said that you weren't going to seduce me," she snapped.

"Oh, yeah.  Sorry about that.  Want me to entertain you instead?
"Never thirsting, never drinking, clad in mail, never clinking.  What am I?"

Lisa just stared at him for a moment and shook her head.  "A fish?  Look.  You were the one who wanted to talk about this proposal, and now I have a question about it."

"Oh, sorry," Daryil said.  "It's a dead fish actually.  The only good fish is one that's dead."  He produced a couple of lollipops and offered one to her.  "It's my own recipe," he added.

"Are you insane?"

"Frequently, but just ignore it, everyone else does.  And oh yes, a crappy attention span is another drawback of my race.  But before you ask, no.  You don't have to be mad to be a Daryil succubus, but it can help."  He glanced at the light fittings.

Lisa ignored that last remark.  "You say that you want me to father your child before you try to increase your powers," she began, taking one of the lollipops, while he was distracted.
"You say that this is risky and might kill you.  What happens if you do die?  Would I still get my reward then?"

"Ah yes," the incubus said and became a little subdued.  "If I die, the succubus offer is unfortunately void, since only a successful ascension would allow me to do that.  But you would still get your money, and my heirs can give you a substantially increased lifespan and youth, even as a Being if you should desire it.
"In the event of my death, control of the clan will pass to my protege, Jakob Pettersohn.  He has a dark past, and to some an ill reputation, but deep down he is a good and honourable man and he will make the necesary arrangements.  In any case, I can give you a small advance after the child is conceived."

"What happens if... if the child dies?"

Daryil blinked and looked as though he had just eaten something very sour.  "What kind of bedroom talk is that?" he asked.

"You said it was to be a contract," Lisa said.  "And by day I'm a paralegal researcher."

The fox sighed and looked upwards.  "Oh, all right.  Let's get the ugly stuff out the way."

"You... you would kill me?" she asked, edging away slightly.

"What is this obsession you have with me murdering you?" Daryil asked, cocking his head slightly and regaining some of his bounce.  "Look.  If, gods forbid, the child should die from natural causes, I or my heirs shall give you a percentage of your fee.  I'm not a vicious man.  I may not be very good with people but I try to be nice to them.  Well, when I'm not pranking them.

"If however, we were to find that the child had died due to something you had done deliberately..." he paused, struggling for words.
"Well then, yes, you would die and your immortal soul would be forfeit.  No, not destroyed, but rather it would be taken from your mangled corpse and sealed into crystal.  From there you would be cast out into the deepest oceans to contemplate your deed until the next geological age."
The Being whimpered plaintively.

"You asked," Daryil pointed out.  Then he sighed.  "Calm down, my child," Daryil said, "You don't strike me as the type to do thinks like that.  Any anyway, I'm pretty flexible - obviously if someone else were to murder our hypothetical child it would be them making the trip to the seaside, not you.  Unless you ordered it, of course.  And I would know.
"I think that covers all the bases, so let's get down to something more fun and christmassy, like making your wildest dreams come true.
"Lollipop?" he asked again - Lisa took a second one.

"Okay," she said, and began to peel off some of her clothing.  "Let's do this!"

"One thing first," Daryil said, holding out the document wallet and a pen marked with the Daryil Clan symbol, "Sign and date on the dotted line..."

The End

Okay, THAT was really awkward.

Quote from: Gabi on August 24, 2011, 01:23:42 PM
Okay, THAT was really awkward.

It didn't make it any easier to write.  The ending especially.

Read story, but class is about to start. I'll critique later. One quick comment.

Quote from: Tapewolf on August 24, 2011, 10:47:56 AM
Fear's Child
All that stuff is nasty and besides, they'd be able to identify my from my DNA.

Minor typo.

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on August 24, 2011, 02:52:24 PM
Minor typo.

Thanks.

Interesting.

I liked it, and found it well-written. It is a tribute to your technical skill that I really don't have any nitpicks about the way it's written. It's engaging, keeps you interested. The text flows naturally. I still have my usual nitpicks, I.E. that I find Dariyl's sense of justice horrifying, but that's not exactly news.

I guess the only real question I'm left with is why, exactly, he hates fish so much. I think he threatened to kill a pond full of fish almost four times. Wherefore this hate of all things piscine?

I don't know, I'm not sure that he'd put _lethal_ drugs into the fishpond. He didn't specify. And I can't think of anything funnier than watching a fishpond full of fish on LSD (or the piscine equivalent).

Also it'd be confusing, which, as he admits, is what he likes to see. And eat.


Being Dariyl, I can see him painting the swearwords in a paint that is invisible until you paint over it, or something equally obscure, mind-numbing, irritating, and offbeat.


Being picky, I find the change in attitude from "no way" to "okay, boink my brains out" to be a bit sudden, but perhaps that's just that I hang out with the wrong women...

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 24, 2011, 05:20:49 PM
Being picky, I find the change in attitude from "no way" to "okay, boink my brains out" to be a bit sudden, but perhaps that's just that I hang out with the wrong women...

Yes, that's my major gripe with this.  Though to be fair, she has been promised a one-night-only deal to increase her lifespan about 20-fold.

Character and dialog seems to be solid. Perhaps you could filter in a bit more of Dairyl's insanity by mentioning off the cuff perceptions, non sequiturs, or perhaps stray memories.


Some of the worldbuilding is of a concern though.  Lisa is a paralegal researcher, but lives in a lawless, secluded area where she needs to keep a knife in self defense. And the drawer, at least to me, is an odd place to keep a knife. You'd have to lean over, open it up, fumble, find the weapon, and then bring it out. Slow, slow. On top of the drawer might be better, or somewhere where she can have it in her hand immediately upon waking.


However, the biggest problem, to me, is that this seems to be in the same continuity as the project future setting, right before Daryil ascends. If we have the futuristic technological and sociological background, it just seems odd that he'd have to go through this whole rigamarole. Put an ad on Craigslist, or look into in vitro fertilization, hell, just hire a hooker and pay her to raise the kid.


OTOH, we balance that against Daryil's insanity and emotional feeding off of fright, so maybe this sort of approach appeals to him.

Very good on keeping away from author characterization, and tightly focused on  the details that kept moving the plot forward. If you re-write, I might like to recommend something detailing the level of lighting. Especially from Lisa's point of view, you can create a much more ominous atmosphere if you have vague shapes seen in starlight, a voice (what does Daryil's voice sound like?) moving around the bedroom, seemingly at random, and maybe the lights turning on when you want it to take a more pleasant tone.


Overall, quite entertaining. I hope to see more of your work :)

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on August 24, 2011, 05:45:14 PM
Some of the worldbuilding is of a concern though.  Lisa is a paralegal researcher, but lives in a lawless, secluded area where she needs to keep a knife in self defense.

That perhaps could do with a bit more explanation.  What I was trying to get at was that she's not in the middle of the desert, she's in an out-of-the way location on the outskirts of a town.  Close enough to commute, but far enough away that no-one will hear you scream if a Creature tries to have a go.

EDIT: I've amended that.  See if it works better.

QuoteAnd the drawer, at least to me, is an odd place to keep a knife. You'd have to lean over, open it up, fumble, find the weapon, and then bring it out. Slow, slow. On top of the drawer might be better, or somewhere where she can have it in her hand immediately upon waking.

Yeah.  She actually has several - the one in the drawer is closest to her.  At one point she was sat on the bed and snatched the knife from the bedtable, that might have been a better idea.  I might amend that.

QuoteHowever, the biggest problem, to me, is that this seems to be in the same continuity as the project future setting, right before Daryil ascends. If we have the futuristic technological and sociological background, it just seems odd that he'd have to go through this whole rigamarole. Put an ad on Craigslist, or look into in vitro fertilization, hell, just hire a hooker and pay her to raise the kid.

There is something in that, though I'm not sure a hooker would provide the kind of upbringing that Daryil wants.  A classified ad might have worked, though that leads into another idea I've been playing with as to why people might not want to answer it, and besides, Daryil was (mostly) in jail at that point so getting the replies would have been impractical.
At the end of the day, the story grew out of the idea of Daryil's own take on the stereotypical 'Cubi seduction thing, so "Daryil places a wanted ad, gets laid" wouldn't have been quite as interesting a story to read.  Or write, for that matter.

QuoteIf you re-write, I might like to recommend something detailing the level of lighting. Especially from Lisa's point of view, you can create a much more ominous atmosphere if you have vague shapes seen in starlight, a voice (what does Daryil's voice sound like?) moving around the bedroom, seemingly at random, and maybe the lights turning on when you want it to take a more pleasant tone.

Nice idea, but I really really was gunning for the "Where the hell did you come from?!" approach.

Quote from: Tapewolf on August 24, 2011, 05:28:47 PM

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 24, 2011, 05:20:49 PM
Being picky, I find the change in attitude from "no way" to "okay, boink my brains out" to be a bit sudden, but perhaps that's just that I hang out with the wrong women...

Yes, that's my major gripe with this.  Though to be fair, she has been promised a one-night-only deal to increase her lifespan about 20-fold.

... From someone she has no reason to trust, and whose entire race's reputation is built on deception. And has just proved that he cannot be locked into jail. And he may well be extremely difficult to locate for the arrest in the first place.

You can bet that, as a paralegal researcher, she keeps up on the news in her field. And his arrest, trial, etc, would make for excellent gossip-bait.

Quote from: Tapewolf on August 24, 2011, 06:01:58 PM
There is something in that, though I'm not sure a hooker would provide the kind of upbringing that Daryil wants.  A classified ad might have worked, though that leads into another idea I've been playing with as to why people might not want to answer it, and besides, Daryil was (mostly) in jail at that point so getting the replies would have been impractical.
At the end of the day, the story grew out of the idea of Daryil's own take on the stereotypical 'Cubi seduction thing, so "Daryil places a wanted ad, gets laid" wouldn't have been quite as interesting a story to read.  Or write, for that matter.

Oh, I don't know. A series of vignettes of Daryil going on a number of blind dates might be amusing. The guys who show up, having totally misunderstood the advert, for example. I'm sure he'd have _fun_ with them, but... ;-]

Maybe that's a story for another day. ;-]

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 25, 2011, 09:58:33 AM
... From someone she has no reason to trust, and whose entire race's reputation is built on deception. And has just proved that he cannot be locked into jail. And he may well be extremely difficult to locate for the arrest in the first place.

Very true.

QuoteYou can bet that, as a paralegal researcher, she keeps up on the news in her field. And his arrest, trial, etc, would make for excellent gossip-bait.

Depends.  If her field is patents and the high tech sector, she might not necessarily keep track of someone causing a public nuisance.  EDIT: Though that said, it did make the news.

QuoteMaybe that's a story for another day. ;-]

Heh.  I'm not sure I could really do that one justice and I have a whole heap of other stories which I need to finish.

Heh. _That_ story might explain where the plethora of various relations that show up in the main story came from.

Lots of, well, the phrase "extra-marital relations" comes to mind. Only, since he isn't married, it doesn't apply. Hrm.


One is tempted to see what I could come up with, but...

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 25, 2011, 11:44:22 AM
Heh. _That_ story might explain where the plethora of various relations that show up in the main story came from.
Lots of, well, the phrase "extra-marital relations" comes to mind. Only, since he isn't married, it doesn't apply. Hrm

"Furrae's little cuckoos", indeed.

Some cubi go with trickery to get children.

Others go with honesty and love.

Daryil uses contracts, haggling and lollipops.

Still seems rather odd that Daryil would be thinking about having a kid just before his ascension attempt. Though just realising this might be his last days would probably make him think about what he leaves behind.

This whole thing has made me curious as to if a 'cubi could freeze store sperm/ova and then use them for in vitro after becoming a tri-wing. I don't see why it shouldn't work, but then, I don't know all the magical effects of ascension.

Quote from: joshofspam on August 25, 2011, 09:31:05 PM
Still seems rather odd that Daryil would be thinking about having a kid just before his ascension attempt. Though just realising this might be his last days would probably make him think about what he leaves behind.

Here's the thing. It's not necessarily just before his attempt. It may well be just before he and Jak _start_ working on the attempt, which is a good 50 years or so in the past of "now", as per the webcomic; I don't recall anything specific about timing, although I can't say I paid it close attention when reading through. So... the child in question may well have enough time to reach adulthood before he ascends.

This doesn't jibe well with the offered payment, but he may be underestimating how long it'll take to get the thing working... not an unreasonable thing to do with a large, never-before-attempted project.

Quote from: Corgatha Taldorthar on August 25, 2011, 09:37:04 PM
This whole thing has made me curious as to if a 'cubi could freeze store sperm/ova and then use them for in vitro after becoming a tri-wing. I don't see why it shouldn't work, but then, I don't know all the magical effects of ascension.

Unless, of course, one of the magical effects of the assention process ends up creating a magical 'shockwave' -- keyed to blood relations, of course -- that ends up frying any stored sperm as well as doing whatever happens to various other blood relations. Which also could mean that you'd want to make sure any children you had were at least a certain age(thinking in terms of months from conception here), lest they get fried in the process...

As far

Quote from: Tapewolf on August 24, 2011, 05:28:47 PM

Quote from: llearch n'n'daCorna on August 24, 2011, 05:20:49 PM
Being picky, I find the change in attitude from "no way" to "okay, boink my brains out" to be a bit sudden, but perhaps that's just that I hang out with the wrong women...

Yes, that's my major gripe with this.  Though to be fair, she has been promised a one-night-only deal to increase her lifespan about 20-fold.

And don't forget the rediculous amount of money... Sure, it's a gamble, but you'd probably have better odds than with the lottery.
Oh, and of course, the fact that he didn't kill her right off counts for something -- and, despite him saying that she'd be free to go if she declined, well... Yeah.

Great stories!  :)

So, after a gap of several years, and an epic on the scale of which I wasn't sure I'd be able to write again, here's another one-off short story.  It was intended as a side-story to replace 'Heads, you lose', which was considered too violent for a comic, but I don't think we're likely to see it for a while. 

I have a feeling there are still a couple of rough spots but emotionally the story feels complete so I figure I should probably post it as-is.

There are two chapters, but I'm going to post them together.

The Axeman Cometh

Warning: While it's considerably less violent than 'Heads', it was conceived as a sort of 'lite' version.  it does contain strong violence.  Because Furrae is a violent world.  And I have been reading too much 'Ice and Fire'.

Part One

Wings concealed to preserve the illusion that she was a Being, Illiath was clanking softly as she climbed up the wooden steps of the scaffold.  The noonday sun shone brightly down, casting strange, shifting patterns of light across the floor as it reflected off her armour.

Such a beautiful day, the Doberman thought.  Being executed on a day like this... it's just not right.  Once again, trepidation played across her mind, but her face remained impassive, the grim look of faint disapproval that she used to mask her feelings.  All the same, she found herself swallowing as she approached the block.

Below, a large crowd had been steadily building up as men, women and children thronged to witness the spectacle.  In this town, public executions were mercifully rare, but this very rarity had made a novelty of them, and the Queen had declared a public holiday so that all who wished it could see justice be done.
Hawkers strode through the middle and rear of the crowd offering recording orbs, opera glasses and periscopes for a better view of the condemned losing their head.  Market stalls were set up purveying hot snacks, sweetmeats and fruit for those who desired it.

A cheer ran though the crowd as Illiath strode into view.  She waved a gauntleted hand, and the cheering increased.

Why are you doing this...? she asked herself again.  Dad won't like this.  Daryil won't like it.  Even Taun won't approve.

And just like the last time, the answer came back the same.  If I don't do it, they'll get someone else.  Someone who'll botch it.  If I make the kills, they will be quick and merciful.  With my magic, they needn't suffer at all.

The execution block was flat, a configuration Illiath preferred since it gave a wider choice of implements that could be used for the beheading.

Reluctantly, Illiath drew her broadsword.  She stood for a moment, doing a few warm-up exercises with it.  Standard stuff, really, but it still drew applause from the mob.  
Finally, she placed a large gourd upon the block, and with a flourish, sliced it clean in two with a single stroke to rapturous applause.  With a sly grin, the Doberman gathered up the halves and threw them into the crowd.

Illiath bowed before her audience and sat on the edge of the scaffold as she cleaned the fruit's juices from the sword, the enchanted metal gleaming ominously in the sunlight.

The noon-time bell rang out in the temple, and she pulled herself back onto the scaffold.  The doberman waited by the block, the sword shimmering slightly in her hands as she cleaned it and checked the edge.

A roar of approval ran through the crowd as the condemned was marched towards her by the two deer guards.  She was a wolf, eyes downcast, staring at the floor, remarkably calm for someone about to die so violently.  Illiath could feel her mind, now.  Sorrow, but also triumph.

"Where do you want her?" the guard asked.  Illiath glanced casually at the prisoner, at the block and the crowd.

"Make her kneel," she said.  "I don't think I'll use the block today."

"Good choice, Ma'am," the deer said.  "The head'll fly higher that way.  Always a winner with the crowd!  Just make sure it doesn't fall off the scaffold, okay?  If it lands in the crowd we'll never get it back."

"I have done this before," Illiath reminded him, a note of haughtiness entering her voice.  Before you were born, she added mentally.

"Lianna White," the herald declared. "You have been judged and found guilty of foul murder, and treason.  To whit, you did interfere with the execution of your late husband, resulting in the death of the Queen's executioner.
"For this crime, you are hereby sentenced to death by beheading, to take place immediately.  Have you any final words before that sentence is executed?"

"No," she said softly.  "I am done with this life."

The herald glanced at Illiath and nodded, who in turn nodded to the guard.  "Blindfold her," the Doberman said, and gently knelt down, patting her unfortunate victim on the shoulder in a reassuring manner.  Magics flowed invisibly from her hand, dulling the senses and numbing the pain.  "You'll be together soon," she whispered gently.  Illiath stood up and hefted her sword.

The murmured noise of the crowd became silent as she stepped behind the condemned woman.  Beneath her steel armour, the Doberman's powerful muscles rippled as she raised the blade high, like a golfer preparing to take a swing.  The sword whistled as it cut through the air and came down hard, the enchanted, razor edge slicing cleanly through the flesh and bone of her neck with no hint of resistance.
There was a spray of crimson, as the she-wolf's head was struck off, sailing through the air in an arc.  Her body spasmed as the spine was severed, quivered for a moment or two and then collapsed, blood still spurting messily.  The crowd screamed with delight.

For a few moments, Illiath basked in the warm glow of justice done.  But it ebbed away all too soon, replaced with horror at what she'd done, and the fact that she'd enjoyed it.  Deep down, Illiath knew that it was because she was 'Cubi, that she could get caught up in emotions like that and her rational mind would switch off for a bit.  Yet somehow it didn't make her feel any happier with herself.
Feeling rather sick, Illiath retrieved the head, held it up before the crowd and then placed it reverently upon a waiting cart.  The wolf's body followed shortly afterwards.

Illiath sat down once more, cleaning the red from her sword as the assistants washed the blood from the scaffold.  Just as she was finishing up, the crowd roared again, eagerly awaiting the second death that she had been contracted to provide.

She looked up, and a sinking feeling welled in the pit of her stomach.  This one is going to be harder, she thought.  The condemned man was a pitiful thing in prison rags, his eyes widened with terror as he took in Illiath, who waited calmly with the sword that would claim his head.

"You can't..." he babbled, "I didn't do it... I didn't do it... it wasn't me... I didn't do it..."

"Arthur Stadt," the herald declared. "You have been judged and found guilty of high treason, to whit, the theft of our most noble Queen's royal sceptre, the symbol of her office.
"For this crime you are to be put to death - death by beheading, to take place immediately.  Have you any final words before that sentence is executed?"

"I didn't do it!" the fox screamed.

"They all say that," the Queen's herald muttered.  Illiath nodded to the guard.  "Same again," the Doberman said, and once again patted her victim on the shoulder.  A stronger spell for this one, she thought, and calm spread through the young man, his terror melting away into a state of vague awareness as if he was about to fall asleep.  Satisfied, Illiath stood up and raised her sword once again.

As before, the crowd became silent, collectively holding their breath as she raised the blade high, preparing to sever her victim's furry neck.  Then she hesitated.

"No," she said, lowering the sword.  A chorus of booing welled up from the crowd.

"What the fuck?" the guard asked.  "You chickened out?!  You already killed one... what's the difference?"

"Told you we should 'ave got a man to do it." one of the other guards leered.  Illiath's expression did not even flicker, but she locked eyes with the deer and made a threatening gesture with her broadsword.  The guard slunk away like a whipped cur.

She glanced around to see the herald scurrying back.  "What's the hold-up?" he asked.  "Is it about the pay?  We paid for both, I checked!"

"Of course it's not about the pay!" Illiath snapped loudly.  "I won't kill this man... Because he is innocent.
"I am an adventurer, a mercenary.  I slay monsters.  Sometimes I execute criminals," she gestured at the cart where the headless wolf still lay, a peaceful expression on her face.  "But I will not kill people who have done nothing wrong.  That's murder."

"Bullshit!" someone from the crowd called out.

"He has been judged and found guilty," the herald pointed out.  "Due process has been carried out.  Justice must be done.  He must die."

"Due process has been carried out wrong, you mean," Illiath snarled.  "He didn't do it.  I won't kill him and I won't let stand by while someone else kills him either.  He's done nothing worth dying for."

"What the hell is going on?" the Queen demanded, a large poodle in ornate robes.

"She says the condemned man is innocent, your majesty," the herald protested, bowing low.

"That's right, your majesty," Illiath said, attempting to curtsy in her armour and failing miserably.  "You bring me a murderer or a traitor, a guilty one, I'll gladly remove his or her head for you.  Well... maybe not gladly, but if someone has to die, better they're killed by an expert, right?  Amateurs tend to botch the job and it gets real messy.
"Point is, I came here to carry out the just and lawful execution of two criminals for you.  I don't have a problem with that, but I did not agree to lop the heads off any old random peasants for no good reason."

"Nonsense," the Queen said.  "He is guilty!  The sceptre was found in his house.  He could not explain its presence there."

"With respect, your majesty, does it matter?  You got the sceptre back, right?  Is there any reason he absolutely has to die?"

"In taking the sceptre, he has insulted the authority of his sovereign ruler, nay, his country," the Queen retorted.  "It is high treason, and he must pay for his crime."

"But he didn't take it!"  Illiath protested.  "Er, your Majesty,"

"You keep saying that," the Queen said.  "What proof can you offer that he did not take it?"

"You could equally say that about your herald, or your guards, Ma'am, but yes.  You've asked him to explain how the sceptre got in his house, but did anyone think to look inside his mind?" Illiath asked politely.
"I just did.  He found the sceptre in his house.  He didn't take it, he was framed and is therefore innocent.  I'm very sorry, but I can't kill an innocent man."

"His mind?!" the Queen snarled.  Fear showing in her eyes, she took a quick step backwards as if Illiath was contagious.  "Incubus!" she shrieked, pointing at Illiath, who rolled her eyes.

"That's 'succubus,' your majesty," she said, taking a step back.  Small, leathery wings appeared on her head and her armoured back creaked as the wing-panels folded back to let her back-wings loose too.  A moan of shock rippled through the crowd and she leapt into the air, wings guiding her fall until she landed between the fox, still waiting meekly for his death, and the guards who had brought him.

"Guards, destroy it!" the Queen screeched.

Part Two

"Guards!  Kill the monster!" the Queen screamed again.

"Oh, that's precious!" Illiath cackled.  "Kill the monster because it refuses to kill someone?  Your Majesty, that is ass-backwards."

She glanced around, just in case anyone had a mind-shield, but all she could make out were the guards she could feel in her mind, their weapons drawn but keeping their distance, reluctant to attack.

"Pathetic.  You'd be mincemeat if I actually was hostile," Illiath remarked.  "Listen, fellas, your Majesty... No-one has to die!  I came here to do a job for you, that means you're my client.  Killing my client will reflect badly on the Guild.  Likewise, if you do manage to kill me, the Guild and my Clan are going to stomp right over here and kill the lot of you as well.  Who benefits from that?"

"Are you threatening me?" the Queen demanded.

"No.  Though I'd be well within my rights to," Illiath pointed out.  "I'm simply questioning whether declaring war on an adventuring guild is a sound decision.  Especially one that's backed by a large number of elite incubus and succubus warriors."

"You need a better bluff, monster," the Queen informed her.  "No adventuring guild would willingly accept Creatures into their fold.  When your winged head is sent back to the guild, they shall thank us for uncovering you."

"Executing myself is not part of the contract," Illiath said.  "Look, your Majesty... why not just ask them?  You have telephones or messaging orbs, right?  Call the guild up.  Or have one of your underlings do it for you.  Tell them Illiath Taun is a succubus, and see what they say..."

There was a whimper from nearby.  Illiath glanced over and swore as the fox began to move around... the spell that she had used to cloud his mind, the trance that should have carried him peacefully into death as his severed head fell, that magic was now rapidly expiring.
The fox glanced around confusedly as he returned to his senses.  The Queen saw it too.  "Grab him!" she shouted.

"Over here!"  Illiath called urgently.  Still confused, the fox dodged one of the guards, tripped and landed in front of the succubus.  She offered him a shining, gauntleted hand, and as he took it, the fox glanced up and stared into the face of his executioner.

"No, no, no!" he whimpered.  "I'm innocent!  Don't do it!"

"I believe you," Illiath said, protectively.  "I won't kill you."

"You're lying!  Y... Oh my gods... Demon!  Succubus!"

The fox backed away, terror rising.  Finally he broke free from the horrified succubus' grasp, and dashed back towards the guards.  "I get it now... she wants my soul!" he cried, "Kill me, quickly!  Kill me!" he begged, "Don't let her get me!"

"Easy enough," one of the guards said, catching hold of the errant vulpine.  He grabbed the whimpering man by the hair, and with the other hand, raised his sword to hack off his victim's head.  As the crowd roared with approval, the fox shut his eyes and emitted a keening sound as he awaited the deadly kiss of the guard's steel.

The deer glanced around with shock as a wing-tentacle wrapped itself around his sword-arm.  Illiath stared back at him with a wrathful expression.

"Let him go," she grated.  "If he loses his head, you'll lose your arm.  Or arms.  Strictly it should be your head too, but I'm feeling generous."

The deer just stared back at her.  He kept the sword raised, but he made no motion to strike with it either.

"Don't let her get me!" the fox whimpered.  "Don't let her get my soul!"

"Gross!" Illiath said, making a face.  "I'm not into that kind of stuff, dammit!  It's disgusting!  My father would disown me if I did something like that!
Listen to me, fox - you have two choices.  You can stay there and get your head chopped off, or you can come with me and live."

"Kill them!" the Queen raged.  "Kill them both!"

"I'm starting to get fed up with you, your Majesty," Illiath said, an evil grin forming on her face.  "Maybe I should execute you instead."

"GUARDS!"  The Queen shrieked.  Illiath blasted them both with a spell and they fell, only just missing the condemned man, who grabbed at his would-be killer's sword.  He held it with shaking hands, trying to ward off the succubus as if it was some kind of charm.
Illiath brushed past him and stood before the Queen.  "Naughty," she said.

"I have an army at my beck and call!" the Queen squawked.  "You can't possibly win!"

"Yes," Illiath said.  "Many would die, but an army would slay me in the end, or drag me back here to lose my head.  But the thing is, I can take your head off where you stand, before you even finish giving the order."

The Queen stared numbly for a few moments, and then, realising she was still alive, a shrewd expression crept across her face.  "Can take my head off?  Or will?"

"I keep saying I'm not a monster and I don't want any trouble," Illiath said.  "The things I have to do just to get you to listen..."

Behind her, a guard crept slowly, sword raised.  He marked the distance to her neck, and raised the blade.  Illiath's steel boot took him in the nuts, and he folded up like a flower, the broadsword crashing to the ground.

"That was very stupid," Illiath said, grasping the Queen by the throat and squeezing.  "You're down to your last chance.  If that happens again, I'm taking over."

"Taking over?!" the poodle choked.

"It's easy.  First, I chop your head off, maybe stick it on a pike.  Then I proclaim myself Queen Illiath the First.  You've summoned the whole city-state here to watch that fox die, so they'll hear every word.  Then I grab your sceptre - the symbol of my reign - and finally, if anyone objects, I chop their heads off too.  Only one thing is stopping me right now."

"What...?"

"I don't like killing people," the Doberman barked, releasing her grip.  "I didn't want to have to kill any of your subjects in the first place.  I only came to do that because I was ordered to, because it was the law, and because I can do it painlessly.
"That wolf was guilty, but the fox is innocent.  Killing an innocent man is not the law.

"I've had enough of this, your Majesty," Illiath decided.  "I'm taking the fox, and I'm leaving.  The guild will offer you a refund and/or compensation.  But I'm sick to death of being forced to kill people who don't deserve it."

"So be it," the Queen said.  "I so decree.  Arthur whatever-your-name-was... I sentence you to exile for your crimes against the state.  If ever you return, the death sentence passed upon you this day shall be carried out immediately.
"You - " she pointed at Illiath, "Get out of here.  Run, and keep running, Demon.  I'll put a price on your head - a million gold pieces for anyone who brings it to me!  Herald, take that down!  Make a proclamation!  I want that Demon's head on my wall!"

"I'll add that bounty to the list," Illiath said.  "Bounty hunters usually have prices on their heads too, so this could be quite profitable for me."

"You will die for this!" the Queen screamed.

"You'll die first, your Majesty," Illiath said, giving her the finger.  "Of old age.  Come on, fox," she added, grabbing the whimpering fox with her wing-tentacles, "We're leaving."


"I quit," Illiath said, crashing into a chair in the guild hall.  It creaked slightly under the weight of her platemail, but held firm.

"What's happened this time?" the commander asked, a buff German Shepherd with Demon wings.  "I know you don't like executions, but you're so good at them.  It's not like they can run off," he chuckled.

"Fuck you, Steve," Illiath said.  The commander sighed.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Okay.  They had two condemned.  A murdress who wanted to die, and another guy they wanted executed.  Only he was innocent."

"Shit."

"The Queen was very insistent.  I blew my cover trying to save the guy, now she's put a price on my head.  Just because it has wings on."

"It happens," the commander shrugged.  "Less than it used to, but it happens."  He leaned over and handed her a facsimile.  'WANTED DEAD', it read.  Illiath's face, a dithered mess but still very recognisable, peered back at her underneath the heading.

"You knew?!"  Illiath cried, horrified.

"It got here first, but I wanted to hear your side of it," the commander shrugged.

"What's it matter?  I quit."

"Oh no no," the other dog scolded.  "I don't accept your resignation.  You're a succubus, Illie, prone to emotional outbursts.  I won't have it."

"You can't force me to stay!  I've brought the Guild into disrepute!"

"Look, Illie, you're one of our best and brightest.  I don't want to lose you.  For the record, I think that blowing your cover to save an innocent man's life was a noble deed, and it speaks very highly of you.  I can take you off execution duty.  But I want you to stay."

"But there's a price on my head!"

"You might want to see this too," the commander said, proffering another notice.

'WANTED NOT DEAD', it began.  There was a higher-res picture of Illiath smiling beneath, and terms and conditions.  Including the bounty to be put on the head of anyone who did kill her.  Illiath had never seen a bounty that large.

"Daryil did this..?" she said, voice breaking.

"Yes.  It's an offer to outbid Queen Morin's bounty on you."

"I... I owe him," Illiath said.  "I'm not sure I can repay that.  Listen, Steve, there's something I've been thinking about for some time.  When I said I want to quit, it's not just because of what happened today, though it helped me make up my mind.  Commander, I've been thinking, and, well... I want to start my own business."

"What?!"  Steve stared at her, disbelieving.  "A rival guild?"

"No, no no.  Nothing to do with that?"

"A pizza place?!  Be serious, Illiath."

"I've never been more serious," she said.  "I want to start a training school.  Not just for combat, a school to teach young 'Cubi.  Like SAIA, but different.  SAIA had to make a lot of compromises to get all the clans on board, and they taught us a lot of evil things.  I want to strike a different balance, and I think the world is ready for us to try."

"This is really heavy, man," Steve said, staring at Illiath with an expression of dismay.  "I wasn't kidding that you were one of our best.  I'm not sure how we'd replace you."

"Find another Taun," Illiath suggested.  "I'm sure High Command can recommend someone.  They might be a bit more blood-thirsty... Granny always said I was hamstrung by Daryil's moral constraints.
"But yeah.  You've been good to me, Steve.  I don't want to leave you high and dry and Granny would have a hissy-fit if I put down my sword for good.  Make me a reservist.  Call me up every so often to keep me on my toes, or when something comes up which needs your best."

"That'll have to do," the commander said.  "I hope you're doing the right thing.  And look, there will always be a place for you if your training school idea doesn't pan out..."

"You guys had better see this...!' someone yelled.  Steve and Illiath turned around.  The fox was standing in the doorway, unsteady and confused.  He had wings on his head, and some kind of enchanted bracelet in one hand.

"The fuck...?"  Illiath swore.  "You... you little faker!  You lied to me?!  Do you know what you've done...?"

"Look whatyou did to me!" the fox screamed back.  "I've got these... wings!  Change me back!  I don't want to be a Demon!"  He was radiating terror, and pawing and clutching at his head-wings frantically as if he was trying to pull them off.

"It's okay, it's okay," Illiath said, trying to comfort him.  "That's perfectly normal.  It's not something we've done... you've grown up, kid, that's all.  Probably the stress triggered it."

"But I've lost everything..." the fox sobbed, "My home... my family... nearly my head... and now I've turned into this... thing... My life is over!"

"No," Illiath said, "Your life has just begun."

The conception of ISIS, eh? Hmm, "Arthur"... would he be one of the previously unnamed students, perhaps?

Quote from: CubiKitsune on June 04, 2014, 01:11:36 AM
The conception of ISIS, eh? Hmm, "Arthur"... would he be one of the previously unnamed students, perhaps?

He'd be one of the older students, since the school has been running since at least Project Future, possibly before Daryil ascended (I haven't decided when this took place yet).  Hence he might not show up in-comic since the other years tend not to.

Quote from: Tapewolf on June 04, 2014, 04:08:55 AM

Quote from: CubiKitsune on June 04, 2014, 01:11:36 AM
The conception of ISIS, eh? Hmm, "Arthur"... would he be one of the previously unnamed students, perhaps?

He'd be one of the older students, since the school has been running since at least Project Future, possibly before Daryil ascended (I haven't decided when this took place yet).  Hence he might not show up in-comic since the other years tend not to.

Ah. I didn't realize it was that far before Epsilon.

I'd say having an open creature and being membership guild is a pretty interesting idea.

While it probably cuts back on backstabbing from fellow members of their guild, it probably makes a little more difficult when it has to interact with guilds with pure being membership. Especially when the members of the other clans might have anti Creature views.

Still I like how Illie reacts to learning the fox is more then a simple Being. "The fuck...?"  Illiath swore.  "You... you little faker!  You lied to me?!  Do you know what you've done...?" I really grinned at that line.

I feel there might be some needed in terms of explaining Illiath's swap in reaction at realising he's just a noob, rather than sneaky.

_We_ understand it; I don't know that it's clear that the poor fox would. "da heck you on about, lady? First you want to kill me, and now you want to comfort me? are you on something?" might not be the first thing running through his head, but it sure as heck went through mine...

The mess around the execution, with the fox demanding it was beautifully surreal, though it got me at the point when she pointed out they could call her guild and check whether they're fine with her being a cubi.

Out of interest, why was the queen so insistent in having him executed? It's the sort of insistence that generally comes with trying to cover up for a crime of your own, but like, she definitely had no need to do that, as the pocket realm's sovereign.

Quote from: VAE on June 15, 2014, 05:32:53 PM
The mess around the execution, with the fox demanding it was beautifully surreal, though it got me at the point when she pointed out they could call her guild and check whether they're fine with her being a cubi.

Got you in a good way or a bad way?

QuoteOut of interest, why was the queen so insistent in having him executed? It's the sort of insistence that generally comes with trying to cover up for a crime of your own, but like, she definitely had no need to do that, as the pocket realm's sovereign.

She saw him as a threat to her authority, I think - not having him killed when she'd ordered it might be seen as a weakness, losing face etc... clearly not the kind of person who admits to her own mistakes.

I should perhaps mention that I was tempted to do an overarching plot which tied the two executions together, and had I done that I'd probably have closed the loop completely and tied in the business with the sceptre as well.
But one of my proofreaders pointed out that reality doesn't have such neatly tied-up endings, and doing that would be a bit cliche.
So I just left the loose ends dangling.

Quote from: Tapewolf on June 15, 2014, 05:50:00 PM

Quote from: VAE on June 15, 2014, 05:32:53 PM
The mess around the execution, with the fox demanding it was beautifully surreal, though it got me at the point when she pointed out they could call her guild and check whether they're fine with her being a cubi.

Got you in a good way or a bad way?

Good way. It was hillarious seeing her assailants somewhat derailed by reality.

Quote

QuoteOut of interest, why was the queen so insistent in having him executed? It's the sort of insistence that generally comes with trying to cover up for a crime of your own, but like, she definitely had no need to do that, as the pocket realm's sovereign.

She saw him as a threat to her authority, I think - not having him killed when she'd ordered it might be seen as a weakness, losing face etc... clearly not the kind of person who admits to her own mistakes.

I should perhaps mention that I was tempted to do an overarching plot which tied the two executions together, and had I done that I'd probably have closed the loop completely and tied in the business with the sceptre as well.
But one of my proofreaders pointed out that reality doesn't have such neatly tied-up endings, and doing that would be a bit cliche.
So I just left the loose ends dangling.

Makes sense - I guess I wasn't giving her bullheadedness enough credit, which is funny when it's me doing it.