@IvyLB yeah, i basically realised that given how influential on the high fantasy genre Tolkein was, just because i use hobbits and dwarves and dragons doesn't mean it has to be fanfiction of this specific story. so the route i'm heading towards now is working out which character dynamics and stories were what interested me, and how do i go about rearranging and appropriating them for my own story.
Hey, story I'm looking for commentary on, have the first two parts complete, I'll put them under spoilers individually. Warnings for: Zombies. Spoiler: Walker: Chapter 1 “...those who love you best, an’ are with you to th’ end...” There’s a person, a living one, singing. I recognize the song, from ages ago, I could sing along, if I wanted to, but I don’t. Why would you do that, I think, you fuckin’ idiot, you’re drawin’ ‘em right towards you. Whatever it is that’s bringing people back doesn’t make them deaf, after all, it just makes them slow and stupid and hungry. And even with her eyes rotted off, a shambles can still hear, can still know from where the sound is coming. It can still go through the basic thinking process of “the sound my food makes is in that direction, therefore my food is there, too,” even if in its stupid, rotted brain “noise food makes” means “every little fucking sound ever.” The singing vanishes, which isn’t surprising. These tunnels are rabbit-warrens dug by humans, sprawling under what was a city, once. Sound carries strangely down here, as though Echo were living always a few steps ahead. I don’t speak, down here, unless I have to, or like to think I don't. Too much of a risk of shambles using it to find me, or worse, another reborn mistaking me for someone to help them get out. A few moments later, the voice is back- whoever they are, they can’t be going very far around, just in circles, maybe, which is easy down here. I can’t hear the exact words, here, just vague sound and what almost sounds like “rise again,” before they go quiet. Great, one of the cuckoos then, probably. Singing an old song as a new hymn to whatever it is they call the shambles. The blessed, I think, or something, I don’t have to remember what they call it to know that they’re stupid. I’m carrying a softball bat, which is smaller than a baseball bat sure, but it’s still metal, and it still can destroy the only thing that keeps a shambles walking easily. And softball is just the better sport. I just have to make sure not to get overwhelmed, which will be easy enough. I consider seeking out the person who was singing and just whacking them over the head. Smash the skull so they don’t go to shambles, put them out of whatever misery induced stupidity they’re in. Stop them from drawing all the shambles in this little section of corridors to me. Maybe, if they have something on them, get food, or ammo for Laina. Maybe they even have pills on them. That would be nice. But no, that would mean finding them, and there is a sound to a skull being hit by a bat. It’s a good sound to hear when the thing I’m hitting is only formerly a person but with a real person it’s not worth the risk. And maybe they’re nice, not an idiot, maybe they’re just lost. Their voice was broken, even though it’s stupid as fuck for them to be singing, their voice was broken. And I know that song they were singing, and maybe it’s desperate hope and not idiot after-made religion. It turns out I don’t have to worry too much about finding them. I’m making my way through a tunnel with old, long unelectrified tracks running along part of the floor, seeking an almost entirely blocked from the outside world subway station I originally entered the tunnels through. I hear the singing again. It cuts off suddenly. I hear laughter and a gunshot. Sound of rotted flesh collapsing on itself. They’re close. Running footsteps, and the sound of worn rubber soles halting suddenly on metal and concrete floor. “You’re not rotted,” the person says. They’re bleeding, or possibly were bleeding, but they’re definitely not a shambles- could they be a reborn, stuck down here somehow? They’re holding the gun in one hand- some old lesson from forever ago makes me automatically think don’t hold your finger over the trigger, idiot but I don’t know what kind of gun it is specifically. Handgun, obviously, but beyond that, I don’t know. The bullets will probably fits Laina’s. If they have a gun, then he has ammo. That’s just how this works. Maybe I can get some. “No,” I say, and they grin, broad and horrible. They’re wearing a worryingly stained labcoat- there’s a cut to them, you can recognize them even if they’re not white, even if it looks like most of the stains are from shambles. They’re wearing a hat. “Oh, good,” they say, “did you hear me singing?” they ask, and I nod. “You gonna try and hit me over the head with that?” they say, looking at my bat. “I could shoot you if you did, I have four bullets left.” “It wouldn’t hurt me long,” I say, and their grin widens. “You only have four bullets?” “I had more, but the shambles come to singers,” they say. So they know how stupid they're being. Maybe they are a cuckoo after all. “I wonder if I’ll ever get enough to come to me that I’ll be overwhelmed, there’ll be some many that I won’t be able to regen under all those mouths,” they say, their smile suddenly wiped. “You want me to hit you over the head a few times instead? That might just do the job too,” I say. Talking is so stupid, it might just fulfill this crazy’s wish but they’ve been fucking singing, so I don’t know if me staying quiet would make any sort of difference. And I’ve been talking too, without thinking about it, am I so desperate to hear words? Strange. They cackle, the smile still gone. “Oh, so you haven’t experimented so much with it, have you?” they say, “You could bash my brains in and I’d be fine and dandy moments later. It takes mouths to kill the reborn.” “Mouths?” I ask, almost stupid. I know what they mean, but I still ask it and they shift their grip on the gun. They’re now holding it two handed, apparently solely for the purpose of looking down at it contemplatively. “Mouths,” they answer. Spoiler: Walker: Chapter 2 I can taste blood in my mouth as I hit the ground. I’ve bitten my tongue, or my lips, something, it doesn’t matter, that will go away in seconds. I hear a thud as the singer lands near me. I look up at them, they’re graceful, still on their feet. Catlike, and from down here they look impossibly tall. They already looked impossibly tall when I saw them first, but when I’m lying on the ground it forces me to look up at them. I’m still gripping my bat, obviously, it banged into my side as I fell but that’s healing already, like the cuts in my mouth and my possibly broken leg. I'm doped up on enough scrounged pain pills that I can't tell what exactly has happened to my leg, but that doesn’t matter because whatever it is is gone, and I pull myself to my feet. “How do you do that,” I say, and the singer shrugs. “Luck,” they say. “Your leg broke, and fixed itself, why aren’t you screaming?” they say, and I have to grin a little. “Not quite luck,” I say. I shift my grip on the bat, so I’m holding it in my left hand. I use my right to poke at my recently fucked up leg. I wince, a little, as something pushes through the fog of whatever it is I’ve downed today. “Do you have a name?” they ask. This is funny to me. We’ve been walking, or falling, or whatever, for a while now, maybe a few hours, I have bad time sense, and I haven’t thought of asking their name, and they haven’t asked mine. “Yes,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to tell you.” “Alan,” they say. “My name,” they go to explain, laughing, “it’s the only thing that makes us different from the cuckoos, you know?” “They don’t have names?” I ask, “Roe, and how can they not have names? That doesn’t work.” “Oh,” Alan says, “and you ready to walk again?” I nod, “c’mon, and they have words to call each other with, of course, but that’s different, I guess.” I knock my right hand violently against my leg. It hurts less. Okay, I can definitely walk now. “I thought I was guiding you out?” I say, and they shrug. “I’m not the one always falling,” they say, “that can’t be good for you, you know.” “Who was the one making vaguely cryptic sounding references to being eaten alive?” I retort, and to my surprise that makes them laugh. It’s a sudden, surprised noise, but different from the manic giggles I’ve been hearing since we started walking together. They stop laughing after a moment, and looks like they're about to say something when a low moan from a few feet behind me declares the ridiculous luck that has kept the shambles out of our path for this long has run out. “You have four bullets left?” I ask. They nod. There’s only one shambles that I can see, walking with a broken-puppet gait towards us. They don’t walk like in the really bad movies, with their hands out in front of them, because it doesn’t matter, I think, to them, if they bump into something. There’s no reason for them to care, if it’s alive they can eat it, if it’s not they go around it, or continue banging into it, depending on the intelligence of that specific creature. “Yes,” Alan says, and they’ve flipped tones back to the giggling idiot I first encountered. “You know, if there were more-” “Don’t start,” I say. It was almost funny the first time, their pseudo-graphic description of what it must feel like to be eaten alive, but this isn’t the time. I have enough intrusive thoughts about going shambles as is without their help. “Oh, fine, you're boring,” they say, raising the weapon, two-handed, all half remembered training and learned experience. “Don’t,” I say, bringing my right hand, palm flat, up. “You have four bullets, and there's only one.” Before they can protest, before they've even lowered the gun because I have no reason to care about being shot, I rush at the shambles, which is now much closer to the two of us, gripping my bat two handed. This one’s so old that it only takes one swing to bash its head it. Second hit to make sure as it crumples. It’s not so old that it’s naked though, it’s wearing what looks like the remains of some kind of official uniform, paramedic, maybe? “That thing must be at least five,” I say, backing up. “Three,” Alan says. I turn to look at them, they're still standing nearer the ledge, gun now lowered again, in their right hand. They shrug, “at least where I was living.” “You had a permanent home once?” I ask. It’s a sorta dumb question, not everyone has my semantic quirk of refusing to call staying in the towns ‘living.’ “Yes,” they say, “with a mother and father and everything.” They frown, adjusting the lab coat. “You don't live anywhere?” “I mean,” I say, “I stay in one place, you know the shanty towns near the drawbridge?” they nod, “my partner and I stay there with some free.” “You're not alone?” they ask, and I nod. “You want to see it?” I say, not entirely sure where impulse to invite them comes from, exactly. Lainy will kill me, or try to, shoot me, maybe, when I bring them back, but I don’t know how long they’ve been down there, and I want someone to speak to while I go back. And they have that luck that let them land on their feet. They nod. The motion is sudden, like their laughs, and they smile, a real smile. It’s not just broad enough to read as false, like the hundreds they’ve flashed me since we crossed paths. “Was it really necessary to go through the part with the ledge?” they asks, as I begin walking again. They’re following closely behind me, and I continue doing my best to ignore the fact that they’re holding the gun like they want to accidentally pull the trigger. Knowing them, they might actually want to. “Yes,” I say, “it’s the only path to the station.” “So the exit is lower than that tunnel?” they say. Of all things they seem to be the most incredulous at that. I shrug, resisting the urge to look behind to check their face. “Basically, yeah- you ever been down here before?” I ask. “I- have been down here for a time,” they say, “do you have food, where you stay?” Oh. Oh. That’s- “How long have you been down here?” I ask, and their footsteps stop, then start again, a break in the pattern of their steps. “Time,” they say, “I don’t know, my watch-” they laugh, this laugh is the same sort of breaking their singing had been, “it’s gone, and anyway, batteries are hard to come by, since the world ended,” they say the last part like it’s meant to be a joke. “I have some functioning batteries,” they say, “actually. Maybe that will be useful to you.” “Useful?” I ask, surprised. “Why that qualifier?” Another break in the rhythm of their footsteps, “So that you might want to keep me,” they say, “I’ve found a lot, here, in the tunnels, off people, there are a lot of old shambles down here, from when they were building it, I think, and I want you to need me.” “You don’t need to be necessary, not if you’ve not eaten for a long time,” I say, “you just need to help defend.” “Okay,” they say, and they fiddle with the coat again. I notice for the first time a small shoulder bag, flat enough not to bulge under the coat- how tall was the person it was meant for, whoever it was whose named used to be on the entirely rubbed out metal name-pin? They’re tall, even when I’m not lying down, and the coat is still bit on them. “I can shoot,” they say, and I nod. “Come on,” I say, sort of mimicking how they’d said it to me. “We’re almost there.”
Update for my story, if anyone's watching! @Vacuum Energy I've updated the sharing settings on the doc I sent you. Spoiler: Walker: Chapter 3 I can taste blood in my mouth as I hit the ground. I’ve bitten my tongue, or my lips, something, it doesn’t matter, that will go away in seconds. I hear a thud as the singer lands near me. I look up at them, they’re graceful, still on their feet. Catlike, and from down here they look impossibly tall. They already looked impossibly tall when I saw them first, but when I’m lying on the ground it forces me to look up at them. I’m still gripping my bat, obviously, it banged into my side as I fell but that’s healing already, like the cuts in my mouth and my possibly broken leg. I'm doped up on enough scrounged pain pills that I can't tell what exactly has happened to my leg, but that doesn’t matter because whatever it is is gone, and I pull myself to my feet. “How do you do that,” I say, and the singer shrugs. “Luck,” they say. “Your leg broke, and fixed itself, why aren’t you screaming?” they say, and I have to grin a little. “Not quite luck,” I say. I shift my grip on the bat, so I’m holding it in my left hand. I use my right to poke at my recently fucked up leg. I wince, a little, as something pushes through the fog of whatever it is I’ve downed today. “Do you have a name?” they ask. This is funny to me. We’ve been walking, or falling, or whatever, for a while now, maybe a few hours, I have bad time sense, and I haven’t thought of asking their name, and they haven’t asked mine. “Yes,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to tell you.” “Alan,” they say. “My name,” they go on to explain, laughing, “it’s the only thing that makes us different from the cuckoos, you know?” “They don’t have names?” I ask, “Roe, and how can they not have names? That doesn’t work.” “Oh,” Alan says, “and you ready to walk again?” I nod, “c’mon, and they have words to call each other with, of course, but that’s different, I guess.” I knock my right hand violently against my leg. It hurts less. Okay, I can definitely walk now. “I thought I was guiding you out?” I say, and they shrug. “I’m not the one always falling,” they say, “that can’t be good for you, you know.” “Who was the one making vaguely cryptic sounding references to being eaten alive?” I retort, and to my surprise that makes them laugh. It’s a sudden, surprised noise, but different from the manic giggles I’ve been hearing since we started walking together. They stop laughing after a moment, and looks like they're about to say something when a low moan from a few feet behind me declares the ridiculous luck that has kept the shambles out of our path for this long has run out. “You have four bullets left?” I ask. They nod. There’s only one shambles that I can see, walking with a broken-puppet gait towards us. They don’t walk like in the really bad movies, with their hands out in front of them, because it doesn’t matter, I think, to them, if they bump into something. There’s no reason for them to care, if it’s alive they can eat it, if it’s not they go around it, or continue banging into it, depending on the intelligence of that specific creature. “Yes,” Alan says, and they’ve flipped tones back to the giggling idiot I first encountered. “You know, if there were more-” “Don’t start,” I say. It was almost funny the first time, their pseudo-graphic description of what it must feel like to be eaten alive, but this isn’t the time. I have enough intrusive thoughts about going shambles as is without their help. “Oh, fine, you're boring,” they say, raising the weapon, two-handed, all half remembered training and learned experience. “Don’t,” I say, bringing my right hand, palm flat, up. “You have four bullets, and there's only one.” Before they can protest, before they've even lowered the gun because I have no reason to care about being shot, I rush at the shambles, which is now much closer to the two of us, gripping my bat two handed. This one’s so old that it only takes one swing to bash its head it. Second hit to make sure as it crumples. It’s not so old that it’s naked though, it’s wearing what looks like the remains of some kind of official uniform, paramedic, maybe? “That thing must be at least five,” I say, backing away from the rapidly disintegrating corpse. “Three,” Alan says. I turn to look at them, they're still standing nearer the ledge, gun now lowered again, in their right hand. They shrug, “at least where I was living.” “You had a permanent home once?” I ask. It’s a sorta dumb question, not everyone has my semantic quirk of refusing to call staying in the towns ‘living.’ “Yes,” they say, “with a mother and father and everything.” They frown, adjusting the lab coat. “You don't live anywhere?” “I mean,” I say, “I stay in one place, you know the shanty towns near the functional drawbridge?” they nod, “my partner and I stay there with some free.” “You're not alone?” they ask, and I nod. “You want to see it?” I say, not entirely sure where impulse to invite them comes from, exactly. Laina will kill me, or try to, shoot me, maybe, when I bring them back, but I don’t know how long they’ve been down there, and I want someone to speak to while I go back. And they have that luck that let them land on their feet. They nod. The motion is sudden, like their laughs, and they smile, a real smile. It’s just not broad enough to read as false, like the hundreds they’ve flashed me since we crossed paths. “Was it really necessary to go through the part with the ledge?” they asks, as I begin walking again. They’re following closely behind me, and I continue doing my best to ignore the fact that they’re holding the gun like they want to accidentally pull the trigger. Knowing them, they might actually want to. “Yes,” I say, “it’s the only path to the station.” “So the exit is lower than that tunnel?” they say. Of all things they seem to be the most incredulous at that. I shrug, resisting the urge to look behind to check their face. “Basically, yeah- you ever been down here before?” I ask. “I- have been down here for a time,” they say, “do you have food, where you stay?” Oh. Oh. That’s- “How long have you been down here?” I ask, and their footsteps stop, then start again, a break in the pattern of their steps. “Time,” they say, “I don’t know, my watch-” they laugh, this laugh is the same sort of breaking their singing had been, “it’s gone, and anyway, batteries are hard to come by, since the world ended,” they say the last part like it’s meant to be a joke. “I have some functioning batteries,” they say, “actually. Maybe that will be useful to you.” “Useful?” I ask, surprised. “Why that qualifier?” Another break in the rhythm of their footsteps, “So that you might want to keep me,” they say, “I’ve found a lot, here, in the tunnels, off people, there are a lot of old shambles down here, from when they were building it, I think, and I want you to need me.” “You don’t need to be necessary, not if you’ve not eaten for a long time,” I say, “you just need to help defend.” “Okay,” they say, and they fiddle with the coat again. I notice for the first time a small shoulder bag, flat enough not to bulge under the coat- how tall was the person it was meant for, whoever it was whose name used to be on the entirely rubbed out metal name-pin? They’re tall, even when I’m not lying down, and the coat is still big on them. “I can shoot,” they say, and I nod. “Come on,” I say, sort of mimicking how they’d said it to me. “We’re almost there.”
so, a while back I had a weird dream and ended up with a chiasmata oc. annnnnnd I finally got around to writing about her tagging @peripheral cause I rambled about her at him, and @K25fF cause it's their universe. Spoiler: nora heather has a bad day Nora groaned. She’d called out sick from work, so she really had nothing to do all day. Boredom was setting in. She’d turn on the tv, but everything was either reality shows or people talking about the Cold Lights, which she did not want to hear about right now. She’d go on Topplr, but again, either Cold Lights or Discourse. Or people fighting over RPF, once again. That’s what her dash had been last time she checked. And really, none of that was something she wanted to deal with. She could go read the forums? No, bad idea. Terrible idea. Maybe she could finally organize her room? That sounded like a practical way to spend the time, and it should keep her from freaking out. Of course, that idea lasted until she found the old ballet photos she’d shoved under her bed, and immediately threw them back and left. On her way out of the room she snagged her stuffed cat, cuddling it close. Ugh, today was turning out awful. When she flopped back in her chair, her phone was blinking. With a sudden burst of energy, she snatched it. It could be a friend! A friend who she could talk to! About something, anything! Unfortunately, when she checked, it was her father. Nora froze for a second. How the hell had he gotten her new number? Did he give it to her mother? Was she going to have to switch phones again? That would suck. Her family having her number sucked in general. She could block them. Actually, that was the best option. Just had to take a second to calm herself. Deep breaths. In and out. She could deal with this. And then her phone rang. She didn’t even realize that she’d reacted until she looked around and noticed that she was in the doorway to her room, and her phone was lying on the chair where she’d dropped it, still ringing. That was the other thing she’d have prefered to avoid thinking about. At least it didn’t seem like an awful power? Teleporting wasn’t destructive, or anything. But still. She’d have liked a bit longer to have a perfectly normal life, thanks. Cautiously, she checked herself for any sparks. Electricity may not have been the worst side effect, but possibly breaking her electronics or shocking people was Not Good. When the phone stopped ringing, she cautiously walked back to the chair, clinging to the stuffed cat like a lifeline. Gently, she placed it on the chair, before picking up her phone. Apparently, she’d been left a voicemail. With shaking hands, she went to play it. If she didn’t, she’d be worrying about it for the rest of the week, or month. Hell, probably the year. When the message began to play, she heaved a sigh of relief. Just a telemarketer. Wow, good. That could have been far, far, far worse. Today was not good for her sanity. Nora decided that once she blocked her father’s number, she was going to sit down and eat the last of her ice cream. Double down on her relaxing attempts. With that, she went ahead and began to try and work out how to block numbers on her new phone. It turned out to be fairly simple, fortunately. At least that was going right. The second she was finished, she plopped the phone on the small table by the chair and headed to grab her ice cream. She deserved it. and with that, I'm going to sleep. finally.
I had an idea for a setting that I would actually ENJOY writing vampires in, where basically there are multiple, contradictory kinds of vampire running around? Like, most of them drink blood, but there's one that feeds off emotional energy. Most of them are hurt by sunlight, but the degree varies - one kind outright lights on fire, one kind is okay unless they're in direct sunlight at which point they start to burn at a supernatural but not "I am definitely going to die NOW" pace, one kind isn't HARMED by sunlight but has to try exceptionally hard to stay awake in the daytime, gets physically weak, and will do full narcoleptic "fall dead asleep in the middle of the street" if hit by direct sun.
So I just wrote what may be my favorite exchange yet in my fic. (For context: They're planning to hang out at a dead mall.)
So, I'm writing a podcast type a deal, following the misadventures of one Jhenya Sage as they try to uncover the source of the people-eating mist enveloping their home town, and learn the meaning of friendship along the way. here, have the first episode, in text form: Spoiler: Mist Fisher 1/8 It's difficult to imagine that not many pink moons ago, you could stand on the roof of the stargazers tower and see all the way to the edge of Kiliskalea, where the land just stops and gives way to air and clouds and a sharp drop to whatever barren wasteland remains, down there. Is there life down there, either some that, by some whim of Perachat, or by the world recovering enough for new life to sprout? Would four hundred season cycles be enough? Or are we the last remnants of life? ... The things I'm contemplating when I can see jack shit in front of my eyes, If you gaze into the abyss for too long it will gaze back into you, and here I am, trying to strike up a conversation, and it's not even answering. Rude. -- Merle suggested I actually introduce myself, even if I doubt anyone else will ever listen to this. Why should they? It's a recording of a bored seventeen season-cycles old mist fisher, recorded during the down time between wandering the mist, when it thickens again. Gotta pass the time some way, these are not exactly reading conditions. I'm Jhenya. Jhenya Sage. Seventeen season-cycles old. Tech gift. Mage gift. Student at the Glorious Academy of the Omnipresent Magical Arts of Kiliskalea. Currently in the middle of a mist that hasn't let up for eight pink moons, only periodically getting worse, eating people and even more magic than it usually does. Suck it, mages. So, uh, hello, whoever you are? If you are listening to this I'm probably disappeared and dead like the rest, and you are the one stuck here trying to survive. Your gods can't help you now, any more than ours have helped us. My condolences. -- When it comes down to it, the mist has two states: "Safe", and "Unsafe" - or, rather, "Technically Survivable", and "Deathwish". During the first one, you can see a hundred and twenty paces about at best, sixty at worst, everything below means state two is imminent. Life goes on, in that time, the brave and the foolhardy alike who deliver supplies from the Shards, who pass on messages. Keep the city - or what is left of it, anyways, running. I'm not one of these people. I am a mist fisher. Where the others keep to their paths, I try to discern the root cause of this. Where did the mist come from? What is triggering its thickening or lightening? Is there a pattern to where people disappear? Why is it eating magic? How is it eating magic? What can be gleaned from the thick spots? And, if we can find answers, will the mist finally dissipate? -- When I was little and still lived in Sage Hill, I kept my mage gift hidden. Bad luck having that between the Sage, where we keep the ancient technologies alive, built from brass and steel and animated by steam, continuously repaired and reworked. Reimagined. But I would look across the river, where the mages lived. Glowing pavement, hoering signs, silent, so very silent. -- Can this thick spot let up already? I'm sick of this. -- Look. I tried to get along with my - classmates, alright? It's not my fault that everyone hates the Sage just because we don't believe magic to be the be-all-end-all! And now everyone is suddenly, "Oh, Jhenya, can you build me one of those non-magic lights to carry around? Jhenya, can you fix my clockwork pocket watch, it doesn't match the one in the common room to the second? Jhenya, if your technology is so great, why haven't you disappeared the mist yet?" ... Thank you, Sasa. Fuck this, and fuck you. -- Most of them just stared at me blankly when I asked them why they were doing what they were doing. It's not that hard of a question! Phoibe, why are you still here, and haven't joined your family on the Shards, where the mist is lighter? Merle, why are you a mist fisher? ... That wasn't entirely fair, was it. Merle answered. They said -- -- What. In Verenyan and Debarach's name. Was that. -- (heavy breathing) -- Is… Is it gone? I think it is… I hope it is. … But what in Verenyan’s name… (deep breath) I… have a… hunch, and… I don’t like it. … I need to find Merle. -- In the beginning, the strangest thing about the mist was that we could go outside at all. Our mists are dense and wet and cold, freezing limbs on touch, and all that survives long enough is torn apart by the raging sparks. It did not use to be that way, once upon a time, many hundred season-turns ago, when Kiliskalea was at the coast of the great Spineridge, just at the border to Laefa’s Forest. There are not many stories left, not about the weather, at least, but Amber told us a lot about it. About mist, and clouds, and rainfall, and snow… she would take us to the edge of the Shards, mountains deep below, things that our people barely have reminiscence of. The words remain, but no understanding. After all, we are safe and alive here on our floating island, why should we bother with the land below, half-hidden beneath the clouds that pass below? The mages, for all their grandeur and claims of superiority over all existence, are very content keeping to and ruling over their little city. Calling the outside world barren and not worth the magic needed to transform it to life neatly absolves them of being afraid, too. -- Is this… What’s it say? … Dew Road? Verenyan, I’m all the way to Millstone Edge. -- No lights from the windows. No sounds. Street lights and signs inert, scattered across the cold pavement, half overgrown with moss. Millstone Edge, between Castle Road and Maberly Square, the bustle between inner city and the rich edge of town… deserted. Windows and doors neatly closed, no hint of a squeaking hinge, or a nailed board, or a broken lock or window pane. Untouched, except for the mist rolling in from the direction of the castle… But why would Debarach send it? -- The visibility is dropping again, I need to go. Pondered detouring through Maberly Square to visit Gwyned’s house, but I’d just end up defacing the front door to show their sorry excuses for gene donors just how much I think of them, and Gwyn’s section would be too depressing. There’s better places to let Merle or Phoibe find me. -- I need to find Merle. I hope I’m not too late. -- I can’t even fault the mages for running and hiding, not when I’m doing the same damn thing. There’s things out - here, that are beyond our understanding, and, even worse, beyond our capability to overcome. We fashioned ourselves the hunters, when we are, and always have been, the prey. -- It’s days like these that Amber’s absence shakes me, not just that of Gwyned and Vaska. She would’ve known what to do, always did. Amber was brilliant, and she didn’t need her magic - which was fucking mind-blowing all on its own - to flatten you. She could’ve probably analyzed us out of this mess by now eight times over. If she hadn’t been one of the first to get eaten by it, that is. -- Merle…? Where are you…? -- Thump. Thump. A deep sound, reverberating if not for the mist swallowing all but the fewest of sounds, and thus more felt than heard. Less sound, and more a shiver in the stone fluttering under my feet. Thump. Thump. Like lying on the floor and someone passing by. Thump. Thump. Like steps. Something so heavy it makes the very ground we stand on quake in fear, as if threatening to push it down towards the surface we left behind so many hundred season-turns ago. Joke’s on it, though. Kiliskalea can’t sink. -- I ran. Through alleys and up stairs and over walls, and, where there were no stairs, over window sills and along trellises. Never atop the roofs. There, the thing would’ve grabbed me right off. No. Narrow alleyways, it is. -- In the case that-- -- Just in case. Just in case I don’t find Merle, or one of the others, or that neither of us makes it back. But… I need you to know what’s out there. Because I saw it. -- It was... It... It wa… -- I can’t. -- In the wake of eight pink moons of not knowing what was out there eating people, of no survivors among those who go out during the Unsafe stage of the mist, eight moons of our imaginations running wild from an unknown foe… It’s a bit of an anticlimax, finally seeing it, but… I… Words can’t accurately convey that thing reaching towards me, first a shadow, a scheme in the mist, less a change in what could be seen but more a change in its pressure, its density. Then, slowly differentiating itself from it. Not in colour, but in sharpness, huge beyond reason and yet leaving no trace. And then it hesitated, as if it could not advance into the light patch that began forming behind me, not being able to grasp a reality in which it could be seen, and I booked it. -- Didn’t even look where I was running. Ended up in circles. But away from it, whatever it was, spindly grey hands with too few fingers, and closer to Merle’s area. -- Oy! Merle! Let’s call it a day, it’s been all sorts of downright perachati in my quarter. Concrit welcome, I want a definite mysterious/unsettling feel about it, but I don't want it clunky with all the listener doesn't know about the setting. Are there things I should elaborate on in the first episode to help with understanding? Things I should break up a bit more?
Im going with the assumption that I read this right, and that you are putting this in podcast form, so audio. 2 ways I would go about this. If you want it to be first person current narrative, I would honestly ignore the description entirely. Only dialogue, make it like a pure audio recording. Go in on the heavy breathing, have the noises be on a heavy bass line and soft enough not to overshadow. "This is...this is [name] of the [academy], mist fisher 1, im going in" like that. I would SUPER listen to that (I never listen to podcasts, btw). second way which would require much less change but would require a separate voice, would be to add a paragraph in the beginning. Make this an after action report. "This is Janessa Silta of the review team, with our analysis of the found audio..." Then the descriptors would be 'Janessa' speaking 'A Mist Fisher is this...'. Which, i think, dramatically increases the spooky. If someone is analysing the footage...well, what happened to the main character? Beyond that, for pure writing style, awesome. I had to read it out loud but its meant for that. It gets a bit clunky with the names, but thats just due to me being first into the story.
anyone wanna help me with some SCIENCE???? basically, here's a couple of out of context quotes from one of my rp characters. I just want to know how you read her voice, any sort of accent you read it in, whatever. Spoiler “Ivy, go put a jacket on, and tell Tom I’m here. I’m assuming you know where he is in this...place.” "Idiots with no common sense. That is who." "Keeping her away from the rest is top priority, I suppose. Because your family is terrible." "She would be better off if she paid attention to those around her, but she still is looking at her life as if it's a young adult novel. One of the very bad ones." "I don't seduce anyone, I do /not/ need to read this. If this entire human generation is eaten, we will know why. Also, if you start wearing body glitter and seducing high schoolers, I will assume you've been possessed and take the appropriate measures." I can post more tomorrow when I dig them up, if ya want
completely accurate she is so very done (for some context, she's stuck dealing with: an obnoxious baby vampire, a slightly less obnoxious adult vampire, a grouchy mage, and a mage who has hit levels of pep previously unknown to mankind. also an adorable friendly werewolf)
I should listen to William Ascenzo's work more, his stuff is basically the backdrop for my entire setting. Spoiler: City of Wonders Across the woods and sand and sea To where the gifted and the haunted flee Where steel and magic, side by side Draw thought and wonder to collide There lies great Kiliskalea Machines and sorcery, foes since old Since times unremembered, as truth been told Like night and day, like sea and ground With no connection to be found And yet exists Kiliskalea But dusk and dawn, like shore and tide Stand between, cross the divide Are the bridge where opposites touch Take a first step beyond the grudge And gave birth to Kiliskalea This city in the evening sun To where all streets and rivers run Its glow shines far into the night From days afar you see its light Oh, radiant Kiliskalea It beams and shines eternal day What lies beneath, no words may say What lies beneath the sea of chains Pulleys, pistons, gear refrains Of marvellous Kiliskalea For down below, there is no spark Only infinite blinding, soothing dark That grasps into the cold hard steel And turns and moves its every wheel And beats the heart of Kiliskalea While mind weaves magic into form To see a cloud and make a storm Turn ice to wood, and flesh to stone Never to reap what it has sown In glorious Kiliskalea A craft without masters but curious fools Wh bend existence to uncover its rules To try and make sense of its symbols and lines To one day move beyond its current confines For a grander Kiliskalea And steel rose from within its core It ruled the depths and wanted more To reach high up and touch the sky To spread its wings and soar and fly Sang the Steel of Kiliskalea And magic seeped into the inbetween Slow and silent, where it was not seen A delirious embrace of both love and hate And a thirst for power, hopeless to sate Breathed the Magic of Kiliskalea Thus they raged, torn and entwined And by their moves and grasps combined They danced until the seasons turned Until they could no more, and the city burned And only ash remained of Kiliskalea Of the City of Wonders, nothing remains And with time, the wild took the plains Farmsteads in ruins, deep beneath the waves Or between the roots, they all are graves But who mourns Kiliskalea?
so i just discovered a method that has blown my fucking mind for outlining, which expands the story in my head instead of compressing it into a lifeless, unworkable list-format knot... but i can't articulate the precise way in which to do the thing, because i am Very Tired, but my brain is insisting it is So Brilliant Tell Everyone Exactly How it Works Immediately. aaarrrggghhhh
oh man i completely forgot about this! to my knowledge it doesn't exist somewhere already (or if it does i haven't seen it); i'm at work currently so not much time to expand on it, but i'll try to summarine it when i get home tonight if i'm still awake! :D
so once again i have forgotten to try explaining the thing, but also i just pfrted out some sad and poorly edited snippet thing for the writing guild i joined on neopets lmao so here it is Spoiler: snippet “Enner,” hissed the frantic voice of his little sister, jarring him out of a sleep that had been dreamless for once. “Enner, she’s here. Mum’s here!” For half a second he believed her--for half a second, lights danced in his vision with the dizzying rush of hope-- --and then he saw the pendant around her neck, glowing soft and mocking yellow, and something inside him collapsed like pale wet paper. “Go back to sleep, Issy,” he croaked. “You were dreaming.” “It’s real! Enner, she’s real, she’s really here!” “Please go back to--” “If you cared about her at all you’d listen!” Issy squeaked, smacking him with a tiny fist in her anger, and her next words died in the frozen silence that followed the thing she’d said. “I don’t want to hear this tonight,” he said, slowly, when his mouth remembered how to make words again. His voice came from somewhere faint and far away. “If you won’t go to sleep, go to bed.” He lay down, every muscle stiff, and pulled the covers up tight around his head. Minutes passed. There were no hoofsteps clipping across the floor. The room’s shadows turned in silence with the moon. A shift in the mattress, then; the musical little clack-and-jingle of a necklace being left on his pillow. A tiny muzzle pecked his forehead in apology, in confusion, in love; and then she was slipping out of the room, click-click-creak-click, and for once the door shut quietly behind her. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He couldn’t bring himself to put it in the pewter bowl and spend the night grinding it to dust, either, despite the way his fingers clenched and twitched. So he left it, and felt it cold against the back of his neck, and stared at the wall with hollow eyes until the sunlight crept in again.
A formatting question for chatlogs: Given no use of color to differentiate, is an unbroken wall of text easier to read? Broken up by "sender"? By individual line/message? Spoiler: 1: Wall O Text [Divebomb]: no how dare [Divebomb]: xcues [Salvo]: How dare YOU bro [Salvo]: Come on db meet me in the pit [Divebomb]: BRING IT BRO [Whisperwind]: [image] [Divebomb]: wow wispy i thought we were friends [Divebomb]: i am at LEAST a majextic bird of prey [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Er [Hailhide]: :OOO [Venture]: SHUN THE NONBELIEVER [Salvo]: YOU COMIN DB [Venture]: shuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Had a question for jets, but can leave if channel is supposed to be closed =[ [Divebomb]: later fragface, SOME people are on shift [Hailhide]: Nah youre fine bro [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Salvo]: Liiiiiiiiies [Congessi]: ...assuming Salvo’s message was aimed at Divebomb, not disagreeing with the others. [Hailhide]: Aaaaand again youre good [Hailhide]: Theyre being fighty fraggers at each other not you [Hailhide]: Trine thing explaining which is exactly why we have our own channel so uh [Congessi]: Yes. [Congessi]: So… ah. If I may-- is anyone willing to explain how one balances trine relationships with conjunx-type relationships? [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Venture]: oooOOOOOOOO [Venture]: lil icecube’s dating a jet??? :D [Divebomb]: who who who? [Congessi]: IF I receive an explanation, can offer a hint. [Hailhide]: Hey lets make it a race [Salvo]: Good idea, HEY DIVEBOMB [Salvo]: LOSER HAS TO FRAG OFF [Divebomb]: rood [Divebomb]: no Spoiler: 2: Sender [Divebomb]: no how dare [Divebomb]: xcues [Salvo]: How dare YOU bro [Salvo]: Come on db meet me in the pit [Divebomb]: BRING IT BRO [Whisperwind]: [image] [Divebomb]: wow wispy i thought we were friends [Divebomb]: i am at LEAST a majextic bird of prey [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Er [Hailhide]: :OOO [Venture]: SHUN THE NONBELIEVER [Salvo]: YOU COMIN DB [Venture]: shuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Had a question for jets, but can leave if channel is supposed to be closed =[ [Divebomb]: later fragface, SOME people are on shift [Hailhide]: Nah youre fine bro [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Salvo]: Liiiiiiiiies [Congessi]: ...assuming Salvo’s message was aimed at Divebomb, not disagreeing with the others. [Hailhide]: Aaaaand again youre good [Hailhide]: Theyre being fighty fraggers at each other not you [Hailhide]: Trine thing explaining which is exactly why we have our own channel so uh [Congessi]: Yes. [Congessi]: So… ah. If I may-- is anyone willing to explain how one balances trine relationships with conjunx-type relationships? [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Venture]: oooOOOOOOOO [Venture]: lil icecube’s dating a jet??? :D [Divebomb]: who who who? [Congessi]: IF I receive an explanation, can offer a hint. [Hailhide]: Hey lets make it a race [Salvo]: Good idea, HEY DIVEBOMB [Salvo]: LOSER HAS TO FRAG OFF [Divebomb]: rood [Divebomb]: no Spoiler: 3: Message [Divebomb]: no how dare [Divebomb]: xcues [Salvo]: How dare YOU bro [Salvo]: Come on db meet me in the pit [Divebomb]: BRING IT BRO [Whisperwind]: [image] [Divebomb]: wow wispy i thought we were friends [Divebomb]: i am at LEAST a majextic bird of prey [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Er [Hailhide]: :OOO [Venture]: SHUN THE NONBELIEVER [Salvo]: YOU COMIN DB [Venture]: shuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn [Whisperwind]: [image] [Congessi]: Had a question for jets, but can leave if channel is supposed to be closed =[ [Divebomb]: later fragface, SOME people are on shift [Hailhide]: Nah youre fine bro [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Salvo]: Liiiiiiiiies [Congessi]: ...assuming Salvo’s message was aimed at Divebomb, not disagreeing with the others. [Hailhide]: Aaaaand again youre good [Hailhide]: Theyre being fighty fraggers at each other not you [Hailhide]: Trine thing explaining which is exactly why we have our own channel so uh [Congessi]: Yes. [Congessi]: So… ah. If I may-- is anyone willing to explain how one balances trine relationships with conjunx-type relationships? [Whisperwind]: [clip] [Venture]: oooOOOOOOOO [Venture]: lil icecube’s dating a jet??? :D [Divebomb]: who who who? [Congessi]: IF I receive an explanation, can offer a hint. [Hailhide]: Hey lets make it a race [Salvo]: Good idea, HEY DIVEBOMB [Salvo]: LOSER HAS TO FRAG OFF [Divebomb]: rood [Divebomb]: no
