I’d love any sort of constructive criticism on The Cost – I’m writing one small chunk of it a day, and posting it to the site with very little editing or rumination.
You know, like I do.
This is a continuation of Another Story – and this character is very near and dear to my heart. I know a lot about him before and long after this moment, but I’m curious how effective this piece is without much context for the main character.
Let me have it!
The wide hall was silent.
Each door that the squire passed was flung open, green corpse light gleaming.
A group of dead children and their governess, chests and lips covered with yellow vomit. They were laid out in a perfect circle, feet to the center. A basket of apples placed at the center.
Three men dressed as nobles slumped around a silver table. One man’s arm had been cruelly spiked to the table, the flesh and bone laid bare. Golden forks and knives were still clutched in all three’s hands – gibbets of meat hung from all three’s lips.
The green doorways opened their arms, as Jonas began to move faster.
A fat man that brained himself against a stone ledge.
A room stacked high with furniture, dressers and bureaus pulled in close. A thick stench rose from the center of the barricade.
Two skeletons huddled in the ashes of a massive marble fireplace, hands still clasped.
Jonas found broad stairs, and climbed.
He kept his eyes on the steps ahead, and forced his wounded leg to move faster.
The final step caught him unawares, and he stumbled forward. His shoulder screamed as he crashed into a stone pillar. He leaned against it for a moment and caught his breath.
He heard laughter, and jerked his head up.
The wide doors were twenty feet high and enameled with steel and silver. They were slightly open, and the sound of brittle glass-laughter came from within. The green light was brighter here, forcing him to squint as he stared at the crack between the doors.
Jonas took a step towards the door, then stopped. He passed his sword from hand to hand for a moment, wiping the sweat of his palms on his sodden trousers.
Glass-laughter, knife-laughter – the laughter of breaking. It sounded again, and the squire found himself backing up slowly from the door.
He leaned his head forward, shaggy hair fallling forward. He gripped the hilt of his sword , each knuckle a sickly yellow-white.
Too far. Too far to turn back now. I must know what happened here, I must.
Jonas of Gilead stepped through the silver doors.
Jonas closed the door behind him, the sound of rain hushed.
The grand entryway was covered with mushrooms. Sickly, purple and pulsing slightly – as if each bulb was taking a slow breath.
The green light bloomed from a pair of corpses sprawled on the marble stair. A pair of guards. The squire 
moved towards them, but then stopped. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to find the faces of old friends rotting on the steps. The light seemed to pour out of the vicious wounds on their neck and back, like an echo of blood, burning green and merry.
Jonas kicked the mushrooms aside in disgust and made his way up the steps.
At the top of the stair, a hand print had been charred into the wooden door. The squire placed his own hand next to it, to compare. The other hand was thinner, long fingers splayed.
Is this the devil? Luthen’s devil?
The squire wiped the water out of his face, and entered the hall.
Jonas landed hard on the stones of the parade ground, blood seeping from the deep gash in his leg. He retied the crude bandage, and forced himself to stand.
The rain fell.
The church was hours ago. It felt like weeks ago.
He had passed through the wet night, the sudden slide of cobblestone and slate roofs. A brace of once-men has surprised him in a narrow alleyway. His sword had prevailed, but one of the dark things had left the bleeding wound on his leg.
Now, at last he had pulled himself over the stone walls of the castle. An abandoned hay cart had provided a suitable ladder.
The windows of the castle blazed with green light. The same green light that filled the empty eye sockets of the dead of Gilead.
Jonas laid one chilled hand on the hilt of his sword. He pulled the good steel free, and stepped carefully through the open gates of the castle.
[This piece continues the tale of Another Story.]
ALTUS INFO DUMP
[This is condensed from several sources, there are very little hard “facts” about the Mysterious Continent — but these seem to be the most likely.]
The land mass of Altus wasn’t discovered until well after the Vardeman Accords in Year 54. The races of Aufero had mastered sea travel, and were eager to explore as much of the globe as possible. They found Altus to be almost impenetrable to sea access – massive rocky slopes, with shear sides, sharp as razors. The few expeditions that managed to penetrate the interior suffered tremendous losses, and brought back strange tales of volcanoes that spoke, rivers that sang, and roads that climbed into the clouds.
Few believed these tales — but the difficulty of travelling to the distant land mass – added to the lack of resources discovered lead to the exploration of Altus being abandoned.
[“There wasn’t any gold! “ Bragg chuckled. “ If one half-mad sailor had tumbled back with a fistful of gems, or some silver bangles — you can bet the world would have found a way to shinny up those cliff sides”.]
Airship travel was first developed circa 1006, and after the Flenelle Renaissance of 1019 hundreds of vessels of different designs and propulsion type filled the skies of Aufero. Despite the political turbulence of the past few centuries, a few brave explorers turned their sights to the Mysterious Continent.
And never returned.
It wasn’t until 1029 that a successful expedition returned. Led by Jaiden Moore [b.1010].
[“Seafoam was a mom and pop tugboat operation in those days. They had three scows that worked the harbor of Bard’s Gate, and a couple of ratty old hotels. Rent by the hour, if you know what I mean.” Tom, of House Brighella winked. “ Young Jaiden scraped up enough coin to get a an old airship up into the air, and across the sea — he was the talk of all Aufero when he came back unscathed. Toasted in every port and kingdom across the globe — he used the connections he made to slowly build trade agreements, and shipping covenants. Not to mention the rumors of the lost technology he discovered. I haven’t found any records of him showing off any discoveries, but it is a fact that Seafoam engineering soon outstripped almost any other airship firm — becoming the industry standard in a manner of years. Time passed, and soon Seafoam became the de facto governing body of the skies — and any ships that wander too close to Altus are turned aside by Seafoam cruisers and battleships. For their own ‘safety’, of course.”]
Seafoam’s fascination with magical relics, and any sort of Precursor technology has long led to many people theorizing that Altus is the lost Arkanic homeland.
[“Kythera.” Cai said weakly, his frail form covered with a blue blanket. “The Precursor’s greatest city – their home. The man who finds Kythera is heir to all of their knowledge, all their secrets.”
“I found a metal plate on the back of a strange mechanism in Carroway, it was covered with Arkanic script and a crude map of the globe. It took me a few months to decipher it — but imagine my surprise — it was an order form! For replacement parts, from the central depot in Kythera! The map showed a few symbols on the Altus landmap, but the largest was marked with the sigil for Kythera.”]
And we can all breathe a sigh of relief.
And now we can return to the regular nerd-scribbling.
Unveiling all this poetry from my younger days, has actually been sort of interesting.
After I stopped cringing.
A lot of the same images turn up in my current work – the red sword, the ocean, the angst. The drippy, drippy angst.
It’s also revealing to see how much of these themes and concepts have coalesced into one character, Izus Torrossian. A lot of these poems could have been written about him, or BY him — even though I wrote these years before that character ever existed.
So, Lodestar Crew, take note. Izus is some sort of manifestation of my adolescent id. Be afraid — be very afraid.
So, would it get weird in here if I posted some angsty-ass poetry that I wrote nearly a decade ago?
I’m cringing at even the thought of doing this, but this blog is supposed to be about me as a writer — and for better or worse – GULP – I wrote these things.
All of them are super bad, but I dug through and found the ones that are the least embarrassing – I think…
Sound off in the comments!
Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.
The subway stank. Yellow plastic, scrubbed by rot and ignorant crustaceans.
Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.
George looked out the window, the stone walls and blips of color a gray river.
His suit had been nice once, the red tie brighter and well pressed. Now the shirt was stained at the cuffs, the elbows of the jacket patched with the wrong shade of black thread. His hair was thin, and his face lined.
The subway emerged onto a wide trestle, and he could see it.
The stadium. Four spotlights waved, yellow, white, green and blue.
He pressed his forehead against the glass, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could smell the grass.
George sighed, and leaned back. He brought a hand to his collar, and ran a finger around the silver collar at his neck.
He had been Shackled for years — but he never forgot that he was wearing it. Not once. Not even for a moment.
George dug into the white cup of boiled peanuts, and fished around for a large one. He pulled out one that suited, and popped it into his mouth. He looked at the stadium again.
Placing the cup between his legs, George stared at his right hand – at his fingers. He covered it with his left, like a lighter in the wind. He pushed his eyes close to the little cave of his fingers.
George snapped. The barest wisp of green sparks popped to life at the end of his fingers.
He leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes, and smelled the grass of the stadium.
Take any fantasy plot, and try to explain it to the uninitiated with a straight face.
Guess what?
You sound like a crazy person.
I tried to write out the plot of Lodestar, leaving out all side plots, character plots, backstory, and world building — and reduce it to it’s essence. THE MAIN PLOT. How I would explain it to someone who knows nothing about the story, and nothing about fantasy. Here’s my first pass.
So, there’s this Gate.
Behind the Gate, is something Very Bad. VERY, Very Bad.
The only way to open this Gate is with Three Magical Items.
The Crimson Key.
The Blue Shield.
The Blood of the Precursors.
The first two items are fairly straightforward, but the third is the problem. It’s a bloodline, carrying the genetic structure of the Gate’s creators down through the centuries in a few human families.
Bad guys have sought the descendents for a long time. Other bad guys have been killing the descendents for a long time.
Bad Guys A want to control What’s Behind the Gate. Bad Guys B want to make sure that their Nefarious Plans aren’t disrupted by What’s Behind the Gate.
Enter the Heroes.
They’ve been protecting a Little Girl. A Little Girl who is the true scion of the bloodline.
Bad Guys A have managed to capture the Little Girl.
The Heroes have to get the Little Girl back, before Bad Guys A can open the Gate – or before Bad Guys B kill the Little Girl.
Can you hear me trailing off lamely towards the end? Cutting my eyes to the right, and regretting even starting? Let me try again.
There’s a Little Girl, and she’s awesome. And important. The Heroes have to keep her safe or the world blows up. Or something.
Now imagine me explaining this to someone on a subway, or an elevator. Can you see that person quietly reaching for their mace?
I guess it would help if I was wearing pants.
[What? Were you visualizing me with pants? Well, I guess that’s your mistake.]
spell-sword.com 