Print Page - The Forum's Scriptorium

Creative Corner => Writing Board => Topic started by: Nimphy on January 18, 2015, 10:57:02 AM

Title: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on January 18, 2015, 10:57:02 AM

The literary equivalent of the Art Museum! Share your stories here!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on January 18, 2015, 03:40:47 PM

would like to share the one I gave to Fen Shen for christmas here. Yet she has to decide, it is her gift.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: DzigaWatt on January 18, 2015, 05:56:16 PM

I'd like to share an oldie from some pages back.

"After losing the other eye in a sudden friendly fire, the Legend of Ulmir the great began. No troll nor giant could ever predict his sudden tripping, he never ran from a fray, charging always with a cane in his left and fork in his right. When asked why a fork, he'd answer "A fork?! I thought this sword was light!". His story still travels from mouth to mouth and has stood tall against the lashes of time, his fork standing proud with the other relics of the fallen heroes in the hall of fame, inspiring children and adults alike in the never ending battle."

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Fen Shen on January 19, 2015, 05:10:42 AM

@Kex: Sure, why not. After all, the audience doesn't know which parts hit the mark and which parts don't. ;)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on January 19, 2015, 06:42:05 AM

Quote from: Fen Shen on January 19, 2015, 05:10:42 AM

@Kex: Sure, why not. After all, the audience doesn't know which parts hit the mark and which parts don't. ;)

To be honest I am not sure myself how near to the truth I got :D

well here it is. As it is dated back to year 0 and leaves out trolls and the like I feel that it fits better in here than in the SSSS-Scriptorium

have fun (https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B4Wbry8h69ACZFRkbGtrVXVGR00/edit?pli=1)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on January 19, 2015, 02:37:13 PM

I'm writing a piece for a literary competition, but it's long, unfinished and in Italian so I'm not going to post it here. Just a section I wrote lately...

"Some people think that Paradise is a sea of puffy white clouds full of naked children with wings who play the harp all day long, Purgatory a something not better defined, Hell a giant sea of flames with red men with horns and pitchforks. According to others the Afterworld is like a waiting room, giant version. Others think it's perpetual darkness, Honestly I never cared what the Afterlife looked like.

But honestly, I also never imagined that the Afterlife would look like Rome."

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Sigrid Marie on January 19, 2015, 02:59:28 PM

Quote from: Nimphy on January 19, 2015, 02:37:13 PM

I'm writing a piece for a literary competition, but it's long, unfinished and in Italian so I'm not going to post it here. Just a section I wrote lately...

"Some people think that Paradise is a sea of puffy white clouds full of naked children with wings who play the harp all day long, Purgatory a something not better defined, Hell a giant sea of flames with red men with horns and pitchforks. According to others the Afterworld is like a waiting room, giant version. Others think it's perpetual darkness, Honestly I never cared what the Afterlife looked like.

But honestly, I also never imagined that the Afterlife would look like Rome."

Oooh, that sounds really interesting! What kind of competition is it?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on January 19, 2015, 03:26:48 PM

Quote from: Sigrid Marie on January 19, 2015, 02:59:28 PM

Oooh, that sounds really interesting! What kind of competition is it?

A third year student committed suicide the first day of school. Everyone was sad, but his classmates... well, they were in real need of a psychologist, let's put it like that. But after a while they came back with a few projects to both remember their friend and make everyone reflect upon the importance and beauty of life. We will paint a murales, there's been a biiiiig piece of cloth with all of our signatures in it, and now came a friendly competition, whose theme is, as said, the importance and beauty of life. I'm taking part mainly for Marco (the dead boy) and for his friends, buuut also because I want to write about it. Anyway, I don't expact to win but I'm having fun. The story is about two suicidal girls, who are taken to ~~see Past, Present, and Future Christmas~~ various scenarios of death and struggle for life aaand I kinda want to arrive to an ending where both understand the importance of life. Not very original but it's my little contribute. This part is just after one of them jumped down. And for the record, the Afterlife does not really look like Rome. She's in the actual Rome. (And here comes a story of a friend who just lost someone dear to her and wanted to write about it but did not have the courage. )

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on January 19, 2015, 03:33:41 PM

That is a very nice way to remember someone and point to opportunities aside from ending ones life so early.

If ever there is time for translation when that story is done, maybe you might share it a summary with us :). Good luck with the story.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Sigrid Marie on January 19, 2015, 04:18:18 PM

Dang, I was so pumped about posting something on this thread, but then I came to the realization that I haven't actually written anything post-worthy in years ;n;

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Solovei on January 19, 2015, 06:08:25 PM

Quote from: Sigrid Marie on January 19, 2015, 04:18:18 PM

Dang, I was so pumped about posting something on this thread, but then I came to the realization that I haven't actually written anything post-worthy in years ;n;

I've been writing lots but most of it is for roleplays and won't really make a lot of sense out of context...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on January 20, 2015, 01:50:26 AM

For any who might find it interesting: http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2013-Day-1-382282968 (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2013-Day-1-382282968)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on February 27, 2015, 10:33:53 AM

I was on a spontanous word race with nimphy, here is the result. I did no further corrections so have fun by finding the mistakes:
The rain went on for hours. Never did he think that he would see so much rain in one go. Where he came from, rain was rare and welcome. Mostly it went on only for a short while. He could breathe about hundred times but then it would have been gone. So when he saw his first rain, he ran outside and jumped joyfully around the yard, while the others were cheering from indoors. They were aware that he had never seen this much water in one gash and also knew, that he had not seen rain in this country before.
That was in the morning though. Noon had passed but he would not have known it by the sky. Its color had not changed a slightest bit, just dully grey hurting the eyes if he looked too intensely. “Why don’t we drown mommy?” he asked. At home rivers would swell and go over the banks when huge amounts went down. Yet the happened only twice in his entire live. It seemed unnaturally that they were not drowning any moment, especially as there was no river bed where the water could have gone. “See the wholes over there?” mommy said “The water goes down there and vanishes” “Vanishes?” he echoed in disbelief. “Why should anyone want all this water to vanish? We could use it for cooking, cleaning and maybe give some to the neighbors!” he exclaimed. His face was a mask of questions. “You made a joke mommy, didn’t you?”
“Listen young one” one of the old men said out of a dark corner “they do not need so save water as we need to do back home. If it rains the water goes down into big pipes. Some of it they save and clean and some goes back into their rivers and ponds”. “Clean water?” Now that was stupid, why on earth should anyone clean something that was not dirty at all? It came from the sky not from the ground! The old men heaved himselv out of the sofa he sat on. “Let me show you something young man, maybe you will understand better”. His hand stretched out for him to take and as his mother gave a short nod he took it and went behind. Through a long, dark corridor they went into a room which was of greyish brown color. The furniture was wooden but worn down from time. In one of the pieces was a metal sink, which seemed to be the destiny of their journey.
“Pull it” the old man kindly said. Carefully he turned the silvery knob around and was amazed about the stream of pure water coming out of the small pipe. Quickly he closed it for he was not thirsty. “You can keep it running, do not fear. They have plenty of it. And thus they clean it, because they want it to be pure and free of mud. They seldom need it for drinking just for washing and playing.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Fen Shen on March 18, 2015, 01:21:56 PM

I wrote... a thing. ??? (I was supposed to write a book review about a book dealing with everyday life in the Roman Empire... I got distracted a bit.)

This is the first story I've written in English since high school (more than five years ago), so I'll be happy about any corrections. :)

The shortest escape

She knew she wasn’t stable; she knew this feeling wouldn’t last; she knew they’d catch her eventually. She couldn’t have cared less. The usual mess of senseless messages had ceased to flow through her mind, all these angry and sad voices had shut up for a moment. She felt like she was flying. She was free, if only for now.

Her feet worked the pedals with ease. She had climbed a small hill. At the summit, she stopped pedaling and rolled down on the other side, without moving a muscle but still rushing through the light wood. The ticking of the wheels running at idle fit the lapping and splashing of the small stream that was running alongside the cycle path. Birds sang to greet this first day of spring.

Why had they hid the bike?, she wondered in a small corner of her mind that wasn’t stunned by the beauty of nature around her. This was the best she had ever felt in a long time, maybe even a year. Her long chestnut hair was streaming behind her in the wind and for a moment, she was tempted to let go of the handlebars. As she reached level ground and had to pedal again, the moment of intense joy was gone. Fear and pain started to creep back into her thoughts. They are going to find you. They’ll lock you up once more and you’ll never feel this happy again. She tried to ride faster, but already she felt the energy drain.

No! I will not let this happen! With a final effort, she pushed aside the dark thought and made a sharp U-turn. She had to go back. Only if she came back by herself and hid the bike, they wouldn’t know she had found it. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed she was gone.
The way back up the hill was hard. She was out of breath. The birds now seemed to mock her efforts, they who could fly and escape so easily. Tears started to fill her eyes, but she didn’t stop. Finally the white buildings came back into sight. Although she could barely think clearly through the screams and cries now filling her head, she managed to sneak back in through the creaky old side gate and hide the bike in the small shack that was almost invisible inside the hedge, overgrown by vines for decades.

When she reached the door to her building, she was sobbing and knew she was on the brink of losing it. Before she could turn the handle, the door swung inwards and a stern voice addressed her: „You didn’t think of running away, did you? Poor girl, you know there is no way to escape yourself.“ The woman in the white dress ushered her back into the building, into her room, into her bed. She didn’t resist. Before the drugs knocked her out, she remembered again the happiest moment of her stay in this establishment. One day, she hoped to ride the bike again.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: partofacitygiant on March 22, 2015, 01:39:35 PM

potential start for a stone age adventure, dated c. 5000HE , it looks like people of stone age repeat words that need repeating.

While we were checking the fish traps on the river yesterday, our acquaintance living far in the south paddled to us, apparently agitated. "I saw a new kind a tree yesterday!", he told us, "only a half a days' trip from here!". We invited him to dine with us and tell us more exactly, though it sounded like a rope of ash, stories of strange trees are always far, far away. A youngster living near us had returned from his Wandering two years before. He had told us of remarkable trees far, far, far in the south, so we told to our acquaintance to ask him. Nevertheless, he obeyed common courtesy and helped us with the traps instead of just waiting there. A new sort of tree? Here?? Have you ever heard such a ludicrous claim???

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Oh Deer on April 11, 2015, 12:20:17 AM

I made this up the spot after a random spurt of creativity. It's the meeting of the two main characters. And it's from the same universe as the Worker Birds!
His slender form smashed through the window, shattering it into thousands of pieces. The dagger was in his hand, tug against his body. "So, my time hasn't come yet?" He yelled at the horribly disfigured figure following him. I can tell that this 'thing' was once a bear, but never again it would be a bear. Again he yelled something, in a language I can't understand. His blade flashes a bright green, then dies down. The creature comes forward, through the broken store front. Then it promptly gets its head ripped off by the green glow-y guy. "Ha! I knew it wasn't my time yet!" Seeing that the creature was dead, I decided to get a better look at this guy. He was tall, slim, and had short choppy hair. He was also a Bovid, a race of people with antelope type antlers and whispy tails. I've never seen one in real life, and the rumors are true. They're truly beautiful.
He's wearing a leather tunic, and baggy tan pants, a popular fashion statement in Cau. He must be very far away from home, Cau is almost halfway across the world. In the Southern Hemisphere. I wonder what he's doing so far away when I heard a noise close to me. My perch was being given away! I was currently sitting in the rafters of the building. I looked down and saw bright green eyes staring at me. "Oh crap." I thought. "What are you doing here? This city was supposed to be overrun!" I leap down, hooves hitting the ground. "Well, until you came, I had this building under control." My large ears twitched, and I swished my tiny tail. "Oh! You're a Cervi! (Cervi are deer-like people) Don't get many in the north do we, now?" I replied with "We don't get many Bovid in the north either, like how we stick to the west, you guys usually stick to the south."

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on April 14, 2015, 04:23:04 PM

I am going to start a new comic soon, but here is some concept of how it will begin if written.

Ivy stood up. The wind rushed around her face, whipping her long, dark chestnut hair around her. "This is a dream." She told herself. She could tell, because her hair was down,she was standing on a rock in the middle of a vast expanse of water, glimmering like silver. Also, when she stared down at the glassy water, her eyes glowed violet. "Perfect." She said aloud to herself. She stepped back on the rock, backing up untill she was at its far edge, and then strode forward, into a jog, then she sped up and ran as fast as her strong legs could. And then, as she reached the water, she jumped. She flew into the air. . . And stayed there. She put her feet down gently, and when the flattened, the air sort of gathered at her feet, turning violet. She began walking forward carefully. One wrong step in the dream realm, and no more you in the waking world. 'Well, when you have magic.' She mused to herself. Her to younger brothers, Max and Jay, had no magic. She had visited their dreams often, watching them play, unaware that Ivy possessed powers far beyond them. They only knew that sometimes she would pop in to their dreams from time to time, to play soccer or falling down tree, a game of their own invention. She looked up at the clouded dream sky. 'That isn't right. It was clear a minute ago.' She thought. Ivy closed her eyes, sending out a mental radar. She sensed a disturbance, but not like some stray dreamer in her realm. 'The Dream Council.' She thought.

Sorry, that is all I have time for. I will be back Tuesday!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on April 17, 2015, 05:26:24 PM

Kind off getting a little wierded out that I posted and then everything stopped on this thread... hello, anyone home?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Noodles on April 17, 2015, 05:29:07 PM

I've been lurking, but I'm not much of a one for writing fanfics. IDK where everyone else went.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Sunflower on April 17, 2015, 05:51:08 PM

Quote from: Willowham on April 17, 2015, 05:26:24 PM

Kind off getting a little wierded out that I posted and then everything stopped on this thread... hello, anyone home?

Actually, this forum doesn't normally get a lot of traffic, day-in and -out. Don't worry.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Adrai Thell on May 21, 2015, 06:19:05 PM

Last night, I realized I had to write a story for a class this morning. What resulted was an hour of writing and a story I'm inordinately proud of...

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zKcggEPEr-e4NsPw0alhAUsi1Q4ZAD06De5AH2MjumE/pub (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zKcggEPEr-e4NsPw0alhAUsi1Q4ZAD06De5AH2MjumE/pub)

You can probably tell that this didn't go through any other drafts, but darn it I made somebody nearly cry with it, and I 'm proud of that!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Mélusine on May 21, 2015, 06:35:39 PM

Quote from: Adrai Thell on May 21, 2015, 06:19:05 PM

Last night, I realized I had to write a story for a class this morning. What resulted was an hour of writing and a story I'm inordinately proud of...

It's a good idea to make the reader see by the eyes of a young character. (Huuuuuuu, this end...)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Adrai Thell on May 21, 2015, 06:39:21 PM

Quote from: Mélusine on May 21, 2015, 06:35:39 PM

It's a good idea to make the reader see by the eyes of a young character. (Huuuuuuu, this end...)

Thanks! I've never done anything quite like this one before... and I wish I could've fleshed it out more, but the five-page limit and hard formatting rules are cruel.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: KicknRun on June 26, 2015, 09:37:40 AM

I found a website where you can make a directory of your characters
So here is the oc i posted in the art thread ages ago

Julia Freeman (https://charahub.com/character/588682/Julia-Freeman/public/)

(ask questions about her plz)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: ButterflyWings on June 26, 2015, 10:29:30 AM

Semi-horror story I banged out in 15 minutes:

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on July 20, 2015, 01:43:45 PM

So wolfie talked me more or less into writing again. It did not really end nor does it have a certain point. I just let my mind flow and tried to see what happened.

Spoiler: show

Eyes moved restlessly over a rough surface of surrounding walls. Desperetaly they tried to find a point to fix upon but despite being of various pattern the greyish-black stone seemed flowing away and offered no rest. Carved in natural rocks small cracks and grooves shaped the generell look of the wall. Splintered all over shadows moved while constantly changing shapes.

Uncountable time had passed. Was it weeks, years or just days? It was impossible to leave marks on the wall without letting the fingers ripped raw and bleeding. A thin curtain of water had softened all edges and leaving blood had been useless since it was steadyly washed away before it even dried somewhere.

First the heart had been pounding hard and fast. Rapid beats pushed adrenaline through the veines on the search for a way out. Quickly acceptance of defeat gentled the thrusts until apathy settled in. Food and water got replaced but only during unconsciousness. Every attempt of spotting the service of supplies ended in deep sleep no matter how hard the pinches and bites on the bare skin. Not touching the food had no effect and surrender settled in.

So the days, if one could call them that, consisted of wakening, rationing the food for the hours left till sleep and eventually close the eyes. From time to time a rag and a bowl of water stood next to the iron bars and vanished during the next dreaming phase. Aside from own smell of decay near wounds and self produced utterances no sound was to be heard or any colours to be seen. Whatever light there was allowed to see grey in all its might.

Slowly incertainty crept in. Was this the real world indeed? Not a dream caught into each night repeating itself? Daily life continued steadily between servings in the cave. A leading position in job finally reached while friends had kids and the cinema had changed films at least thrice. The doctor praised the health in generall but reminded to check in during the next half term again. The partner had some achievements fulfilled as well and the next journey showed up on the horizon.

But this reality had bleached colours, muffled sounds and numbed tastes. Each night between stone walls felt more real. Family felt distant while friends seemed not listening at all. The cold walls, the hard stone, the aching fingers and the hot flesh around the wounds. Each bite felt more vivid at the taste of iron than anything else happening in the other world. Coughs gave hints that the whole boddy still had muscles left, each sensible when another fit crept in. Fear tried to make an entry but suddenly the eyelids fell and the mind drifted away in the black space between caves and everyday life.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Mélusine on July 20, 2015, 01:53:37 PM

Quote from: kjeks on July 20, 2015, 01:43:45 PM

So wolfie talked me more or less into writing again. It did not really end nor does it have a certain point. I just let my mind flow and tried to see what happened.

Spoiler: show
Eyes moved restlessly over a rough surface of surrounding walls. Desperetaly they tried to find a point to fix upon but despite being of various pattern the greyish-black stone seemed flowing away and offered no rest. Carved in natural rocks small cracks and grooves shaped the generell look of the wall. Splintered all over shadows moved while constantly changing shapes.

Uncountable time had passed. Was it weeks, years or just days? It was impossible to leave marks on the wall without letting the fingers ripped raw and bleeding. A thin curtain of water had softened all edges and leaving blood had been useless since it was steadyly washed away before it even dried somewhere.

First the heart had been pounding hard and fast. Rapid beats pushed adrenaline through the veines on the search for a way out. Quickly acceptance of defeat gentled the thrusts until apathy settled in. Food and water got replaced but only during unconsciousness. Every attempt of spotting the service of supplies ended in deep sleep no matter how hard the pinches and bites on the bare skin. Not touching the food had no effect and surrender settled in.

So the days, if one could call them that, consisted of wakening, rationing the food for the hours left till sleep and eventually close the eyes. From time to time a rag and a bowl of water stood next to the iron bars and vanished during the next dreaming phase. Aside from own smell of decay near wounds and self produced utterances no sound was to be heard or any colours to be seen. Whatever light there was allowed to see grey in all its might.

Slowly incertainty crept in. Was this the real world indeed? Not a dream caught into each night repeating itself? Daily life continued steadily between servings in the cave. A leading position in job finally reached while friends had kids and the cinema had changed films at least thrice. The doctor praised the health in generall but reminded to check in during the next half term again. The partner had some achievements fulfilled as well and the next journey showed up on the horizon.

But this reality had bleached colours, muffled sounds and numbed tastes. Each night between stone walls felt more real. Family felt distant while friends seemed not listening at all. The cold walls, the hard stone, the aching fingers and the hot flesh around the wounds. Each bite felt more vivid at the taste of iron than anything else happening in the other world. Coughs gave hints that the whole boddy still had muscles left, each sensible when another fit crept in. Fear tried to make an entry but suddenly the eyelids fell and the mind drifted away in the black space between caves and everyday life.

It gives a... disturbing impression. I'm curious :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on July 22, 2015, 07:58:49 PM

All these stories sound so great!
So I wanted to join, too. :P
And why not make it my first post here? It is as good a place as any to start!

I translated this form German, so sometimes it sounds a bit weird. But sometimes the formulation is on purpose, to better reflect that the normal expression wasn't used in German.

It's part of the background story of something I have worked on for a long time, but still haven't really started writing.
To be precise, it's the creation story of an imaginary magical people, told by 18 year old Chenean to his 3-4 year old brother Ferusch, who will grow up to be the protagonist of the story. Both of them were born into a troublesome side branch of the ruling family, and they constantly have to prove their right to exist.
If you look carefully, you will find many themes I want the story to focus on. In fact, there is a lot in what they say that has a far deeper meaning than apparent in this snippet and many of the characters personal issues also appear...
"Meïva-ta-Johnë" is the "sovereign of the 900", meaning 900 main families.
In any case, this is also the first draft and susceptible to revision later on. Well, at least the German version is.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on July 22, 2015, 08:29:17 PM

Quote from: Asterales on July 22, 2015, 07:58:49 PM

All these stories sound so great!
So I wanted to join, too. :P
And why not make it my first post here? It is as good a place as any to start!

I translated this form German, so sometimes it sounds a bit weird. But sometimes the formulation is on purpose, to better reflect that the normal expression wasn't used in German.

It's part of the background story of something I have worked on for a long time, but still haven't really started writing.
To be precise, it's the creation story of an imaginary magical people, told by 18 year old Chenean to his 3-4 year old brother Ferusch, who will grow up to be the protagonist of the story. Both of them were born into a troublesome side branch of the ruling family, and they constantly have to prove their right to exist.
If you look carefully, you will find many themes I want the story to focus on. In fact, there is a lot in what they say that has a far deeper meaning than apparent in this snippet and many of the characters personal issues also appear...
"Meïva-ta-Johnë" is the "sovereign of the 900", meaning 900 main families.
In any case, this is also the first draft and susceptible to revision later on. Well, at least the German version is.

Spoiler: show

Ferusch sat in an alcove of the passage running along the main house.
On the trees, snow weighed heavily, encumbering their branches, mushy and wet.
Dainty wisps of haze impended the air and the Mountains of the Souvreign in the distance seemed like relievo on finely woven cloth.
Ferusch pulled his legs onto the ledge and wrapped himself more tightly into the woolen fabric of his cape.
Silently lost in his thoughts and the sight of scenery, intoxiated by the sweetness of the air, the boy did not perceive the footfalls drawing closer in his back and startled when a warm hand fell on his nape.
His brother’s hand brushed over his hair and shoulder, then he slid next to him into the alcove.
His brother’s warmth on one side, the rigid cold of stone on the other, Ferusch looked at the older’s face.
Chenean’s skin was pale and tenseness made his eyes wan and hungry, his mouth pinched with the bitter taste of adverse words.
Ferusch wanted to say something, but Chenean pushed away the snow at the base of the wall and looked at him with a sudden grin.
„Let me tell you a story.“
His eyes flicked sideways and for a moment the smile vanished from his lips to reveal suppressed fury.
Ferusch closed his mouth, but fondness returned to his brother’s gaze.
„Surely you know it already.“ Chenean searched for his eyes. „But but let me tell it anyway.“
Ferusch looked at the hand between them, as it restlessly drew patterns on Chenean’s thigh and then closed around his fingers with gentle pressure. Chenean stared at the white landscape spread before them and then begann to speak:
„Far to the north and the east, in the lands that were once our homelands, where there is more snow and cold than you can imagine, there was a mother, who gave birth to two children and thereby died.
As She lost Her sight, Her gaze fell upon Her children: Their bodies were frail; their skin so thin their veins painted their flesh into the thousand pieces of breaking glaze. Their hair and eyes were colourless as the land they had been born into and they could not see.
Just as their Heart had entered the world, it wanted to leave again.
The Mother was overcome by horror and sadness and anger and as Her Heart departet from Her body she called upon the Changers and the Wandering for help so that Her children would not have to die.
The old spirits felt for the woman and told Her that there was enough life in Her children that they would not be forced to contiue on, but not enough that their Hearts might abide to give and take.
But knowing this did not give solace to the woman and she bid and pleaded and wept and begged until finally the spirits relented and bestowed a gift upon the children, so that all those continuing on would give them life and strength.
Their gift was so potent, so wonderous, that the twins not only abided in their Heart, but soon learned to command the energies of those continuing on and to use it to their advantage.
This is how our people was born and we came to be called Blessed Children.“
Chenean looked at Ferusch. When the boy didn’t say anything, he smiled and stroked his cheek.
Ferusch looked down.
„You have light hair, too.“
Chenean considered his brother.
„Yes, I do.“
„All Meïva-ta-Johnë have light hair.“
„Not all of them do.“
Ferusch looked up.
„Our mother’s family carries the blood of the older twin, the daughter.“ Chenean was silent for a moment and kicked some more snow to the side. „Our father’s family isn’t relatded to the first Blessed Children. His family was born farther to the east. Weaker spirits gave this family power.“
„But father is powerful.“
„Yes. Each family was free to do whatever they wanted with the gifts they received. To this day new families continue to be born. And some families die. Sometimes because they mix their blood until it is too diluted, sometimes because of their own stubbornness or an unwillingness to cultivate their powers.“
Chenean stroked his brother’s cheek once more, then he stood and offered a hand.
„Let's go back inside. It’s cold out here.“

This story is not DSA-inspired by chance? The names just sound kinda fetched of that genre. I really like that story =)

Maybe you might want to introduce yourself here?. (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=131.0) *waves over from middle of germany*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on July 23, 2015, 03:53:19 AM

Quote

This story is not DSA-inspired by chance? The names just sound kinda fetched of that genre. I really like that story =)

Maybe you might want to introduce yourself here?. *waves over from middle of germany*

Naw, not DSA-inspired. My flatmate seems to like it quite a lot as well, but I have not the first clue about it...
It's a mix of approximately five others of my stories that were about to die a silent death and possibly Harry Potter and Howl's Moving Castle. Although looking at it now, not even I can tell anymore.

And thank you for the link to the introduction thread! I was planning on visiting, but still a bit hesitant about it.
*Waves back from the south-east*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Viisikielinenkantele on July 23, 2015, 05:34:35 AM

Kjeks: Huh, creepy... it reminds me of a certain short-story, let me see, if I can find it...ah, yes: "Der Winterkrieg in Tibet" by Friedrich Dürrenmatt.

Asterales: Oh, a very intriguing story! I would love to hear more of it! I am waving from the south-east of Germany too :) . Nice to see a neighbour here.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on July 23, 2015, 11:46:12 AM

Quote

Oh, a very intriguing story! I would love to hear more of it! I am waving from the south-east of Germany too :) . Nice to see a neighbour here.

Thank you! I am not sure how much I want to write. I was actually contemplating which of my other stories I could put up in it's entirety, since I am not much one for fanfiction, but they would all be too long. I'd need another account somewhere and I am just too lazy for that :P
Greetings to you as well! *bows prettily* Though as for the neighbour thing... you are faaaar to my south. Well, at least more than an hour drive away (I saw your name on the reader map, it's so long that it's easy to remember!)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 09:18:21 AM

I'm going to do something crazy here, something that I'm not sure if I should actually be doing, but I'm going a bit crazy without any feedback, so here goes.

Hi, my name is Marienara, I've been following SSSS for a while, and have even made a few comments. This is the first time I've visited the fan forums, as I've been afraid they would suck me in if I let them, but I feel I'd get the best response here. Just so you know, I like to write. It's something I've always enjoyed, and for the last decade or so (okay, 17 years, so I guess it's closer to two) I've been working on one "story" in particular. I've got some rough drafts started, and lots of different notebooks full of notes, and some charts, and spreadsheets, and...well, you may be starting to get the point. One thing that I've never actually done, is to sit down and actually write an outline for the thing. So I've decided to go ahead and do that, because I think it's time and that I'm ready to do so.

I've decided to write things out as a timeline, and got started typing it up some time last week. I didn't get very far, as I've been forgetting to spend much time on it and so have been writing up more detailed outlines for way down the line bits of things that happen. Today I committed to actually sitting down after dinner and putting some solid work into it. It is now 6 in the morning and I have been wandering around for an hour looking for people to read what I just spent the previous ten hours on. So if I sound a little crazy, then yes, I've already admitted that I think I am.

I did have fun working on the timeline though, I even wrote an excerpt that won't actually show up in any of the books (assuming I ever get it completed enough to publish that is, I imagine it'll probably take another decade or two at the rate I've been going...) but I do like doing things like that. It's a bit rough, as I just sort of puked the text out of my brain onto the screen, and have really only been through it a couple of times (mostly correcting spelling and tense errors, I kept switching from past to present for some reason...though the changes left should be deliberate) and I usually edit things a ton of times before I'm happy with them, and then they're often edited again as I change things that happen later on. For me, writing is all about discovering new things about the characters and their history, and this time I discovered something fantastic and am just itching to share, but it's early in the morning, and I recently moved, and have no one to share it with yet, so I'm turning to you, the minnions, to help me stay simply crazy, and not move on to insane. You'll find the link below.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PFJ7Iv533deHHY_fCF_PYlU2f1bDheQbla5mTPJ6rAA/edit?usp=sharing

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Aierdome on August 27, 2015, 09:40:17 AM

Hi and welcome to the forums! Here, have a welcome cookie of your choosing. *passes the plate*

The timeline certainly sounds interesting to read. The only problem I see with it is the age of Brook when he makes all of his discoveries - the cure, the teleporter, etc. I understand he's supposed to be a genius, but a ten-year-older is rather improbable - perhaps it would be better to have him start when he's fifteen?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on August 27, 2015, 09:47:00 AM

Hello and welcome!

While the project is interesting (first: need more time to read through all of it as I only read the first part; second: consider joining the Creative Writin Group!), I'll echo the user above: ten years us really too young for such an important work. Ten years is also a susceptible age where you don't make many important decisions on your own because you are easily influenced, so it does sound very improbable.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 09:51:43 AM

Negative, when he is fifteen, he is already abandoned on the planet and deep into researching the folding of space/time. Brook is a very unusual child, the likes of which have never been seen before or since. If someone like me could understand college level science when I was nine (which I did) then someone like Brook would be leagues beyond what our current top scientists can achieve. Also keep in mind that his world was far more advanced then ours, they were able to build a fleet of interstellar ships after all, so Brook had a head start on his learning to give him even more of a boost. His parents were top government scientists, they began his scientific training before he could even walk.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jethan on August 27, 2015, 09:56:18 AM

Welcome to the forum! *Sets a tray of tea, cookies, and cakes out*
I read through the whole outline, and I found the time travel paradox potential to be quite suspenseful. And that High Priestess Regent, does she become a problem later on in the story? You almost destroyed the universe!!! Oops...
But mostly I'm curious about what happened to Aryn's original inhabitants and did their government ever get reformed or did they continue on and become an antagonist for the later Yachet worlds?

And I don't think you're crazy for wanting feedback, especially after working ten hours on this!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 10:01:31 AM

Honestly, this is the first time I've ever met the High Priestess Regent, I didn't even know she existed before tonight. I knew that Brook encountered a life threatening situation on Yachet that Tekesh and Sarah rescued him from, but I had no idea what it was. As far as the original inhabitants of Aryn. I hadn't really given them much thought, they were always just, gone, but what I imagine happened to them was that after a few generations they turned in on themselves and were totally wiped out. Perhaps at some point I'll write a story about someone encountering the empty ruined hulk of the fleet, drifting about in deep space.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jethan on August 27, 2015, 10:04:44 AM

Man, being trapped in space and having everyone fight each other...that sounds pretty grim. And then all the life-support systems would get damaged and everyone would die faster...
The crazy time travel and dimensional hopping sounds like much more fun.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 10:19:02 AM

Indeed, which is why that is the focus of my story, though I haven't done a whole lot to flesh out Brooks life and adventures, and he's the one that gets to do all the time travel stuff, at least originally.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on August 27, 2015, 10:20:12 AM

Quote from: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 09:51:43 AM

Negative, when he is fifteen, he is already abandoned on the planet and deep into researching the folding of space/time. Brook is a very unusual child, the likes of which have never been seen before or since. If someone like me could understand college level science when I was nine (which I did) then someone like Brook would be leagues beyond what our current top scientists can achieve. Also keep in mind that his world was far more advanced then ours, they were able to build a fleet of interstellar ships after all, so Brook had a head start on his learning to give him even more of a boost. His parents were top government scientists, they began his scientific training before he could even walk.

You can modify age. If anything, and I mean anything at all in your story is set in stone, you've already made a mistake. I know authors who created a main character and sometimes later turned them into the antagonist. I know writers who while editing their work completely eliminated 100k+ words of the idea that actually gave birth to the book in the first place. Age? That's nothing.

You could understand college level science at 9 - I read science books aimed at teenagers when I was 6. Does that mean that any of us could have the practical knowledge to invent something new and of this importance level at 10? Nope. That would require first and foremost a bit of abstract thinking, and that develops in all children at about 13. Even 13 is a good age to me, but 10? Definitely not. Not enough to think about something new. Not enough to think about defensive measures. Not enough to decide who to trust and who not to trust.

Then again, it's your story - I'm just offering my opinion. I once tried to write a story with little geniuses - they ended up being in their early twenties because intellect or not, to face certain situations you need a kind of emotional maturity that no child, even a genius, could have. Repeat: your story. You decide. Offering my POV as a reader, telling you that I am willing to suspend disbelief under certain circumstances, and not under others, I obviously can't force you into anything, nor do I wish to.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 10:31:25 AM

I understand what you're saying about the emotional maturity and appreciate the thought. As I have stated previously, Brook is a very special case. I think it may have something to do with all the time travelling he did during his life. When you cross as many dimensions as he did, you leave your mark on the universe, almost like footprints. I believe that the older "footprints" found their way to him when he was born and so contributed to his rapid maturity and intellect. Some of those bits were around for a very very long time.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Aierdome on August 27, 2015, 10:32:42 AM

In addition to what Nimphy said, there's a matter of time. IIRC, kids usually learn to read when they're about four-five years old and write (whether by hand on on keyboard) when they're six-seven. Even with tutoring from parents, for such an important work as this, Brooke would have to do some studying and notes-keeping of his own, which requires both. This leaves him with four years to find the cure. Now, account the fact that as the government's "miracle child" he's being the centre of attention, and that he works essentially alone, perhaps with his (no doubt busy otherwise) parents' input. You also have to account for the fact that Brooke needs rest, socializing and the like. Developing a cure, even when it's big concerns that work on it, can take years. Even if Brooke started to work on the cure from the moment he learned how to read and write, he'd still have to take at least three years to gather adult's knowledge of biology, virology and medicine. Then there's the matter of developing the cure, which I'd say would take at least three years as well, and of course testing, which should take a year at least to check for any possible bad consequences. Add to that the fact that government is clearly not happy about someone breaking their threat stick and it's even more time.

Of course, there's no problem with child prodigies. It's just that the reader may cry foul at seeing such a great accomplishment at such a young age.

Then again, the supernatural influence may play its part.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 10:39:53 AM

Quote from: Aierdome on August 27, 2015, 10:32:42 AM

In addition to what Nimphy said, there's a matter of time. IIRC, kids usually learn to read when they're about four-five years old and write (whether by hand on on keyboard) when they're six-seven. Even with tutoring from parents, for such an important work as this, Brooke would have to do some studying and notes-keeping of his own, which requires both. This leaves him with four years to find the cure. Now, account the fact that as the government's "miracle child" he's being the centre of attention, and that he works essentially alone, perhaps with his (no doubt busy otherwise) parents' input. You also have to account for the fact that Brooke needs rest, socializing and the like. Developing a cure, even when it's big concerns that work on it, can take years. Even if Brooke started to work on the cure from the moment he learned how to read and write, he'd still have to take at least three years to gather adult's knowledge of biology, virology and medicine. Then there's the matter of developing the cure, which I'd say would take at least three years as well, and of course testing, which should take a year at least to check for any possible bad consequences. Add to that the fact that government is clearly not happy about someone breaking their threat stick and it's even more time.

Of course, there's no problem with child prodigies. It's just that the reader may cry foul at seeing such a great accomplishment at such a young age.

Then again, the supernatural influence may play its part.

Well I have kids in school who could read well at the age of four.
then the contest "Jugend forscht" (youth researches) has an 11 year old in the winning categories. She had designed a robot that helped people putting stuff in storage technical environment into order. She won against many people older than her. And she was alone on her project...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Aierdome on August 27, 2015, 10:54:33 AM

Quote from: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 10:39:53 AM

Well I have kids in school who could read well at the age of four.
then the contest "Jugend forscht" (youth researches) has an 11 year old in the winning categories. She had designed a robot that helped people putting stuff in storage technical environment into order. She won against many people older than her. And she was alone on her project...

??? Alright, my bad then. However, that's still more than ten, and making a functioning cure requires more of more complicated know-how, time and study than designing a robot.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 11:02:45 AM

Quote from: Aierdome on August 27, 2015, 10:54:33 AM

??? Alright, my bad then. However, that's still more than ten, and making a functioning cure requires more of more complicated know-how, time and study than designing a robot.

indeed. I think the guy who designed the proteinbased strip for recognizing cancer in the US was 15 when he won the prize for his method (way more effective than before and way cheaper). But then who knows where humanity will go during the next few years...

It does not say that Brook acted entirely on his own though. Also at the age of ten he could have found out about the government as source of the disease because maybe his childish naivity did not allow fear of a government. If he really "learned" about corruption or just learned that trusted people cause suffering is another matter though.

If he was too naive to be afraid of the government he never would have experienced corruption as the cause of adults being not trustworthy because that requires a theory of mind level that would cause fear of your government.

eh the robot acutally identified balls by colour in different shades of light and thus shortened work processes ;) that is still not curing a disease but to know about that stuff, design, built it and use the right colour identifying software is really awesome. Though that is one of those projects the industries will never buy and actually use.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nimphy on August 27, 2015, 11:18:35 AM

Quote from: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 10:39:53 AM

Well I have kids in school who could read well at the age of four.
then the contest "Jugend forscht" (youth researches) has an 11 year old in the winning categories. She had designed a robot that helped people putting stuff in storage technical environment into order. She won against many people older than her. And she was alone on her project...

Yeah, I could already read on my own at four too, and learned how to write before other kids. And yes, there are some very young geniuses. As Aier said, I don't believe that someone could outright invent a cure (programming is one thing, medical research another, I'd say, but then again I may be mistaken. I'm not a programmer nor a researcher.)

Anyway, as said it's their(her?his?) story, so they should do what they prefer - but maybe specifying all these reasons they mentioned.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 11:26:33 AM

Another reason Brook was able to so easily "find" the cure for the disease is because it had been artificially been created in the governments labs. Labs that he had free access to use at the time. That was also how he discovered that the government was responsible for creating and distributing it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 11:40:21 AM

Quote from: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 11:26:33 AM

Another reason Brook was able to so easily "find" the cure for the disease is because it had been artificially been created in the governments labs. Labs that he had free access to use at the time. That was also how he discovered that the government was responsible for creating and distributing it.

I should send ahead that I like your setting and the story. My head just keeps asking questions like: How could a government hold a girl in custody without a genius knowing while this genius discovers so much inside stuff in their labs. If the kid had free access, how did the parents not know anything about stuff going on there?. And how on earth could that dumb government evacuate an entire planet if they manage to get caught by someone they have allowed access to the lab while knowing that this person is pretty smart?

Also shouldn't it be possible to clone enough cells with Brooks gen material to let a 3d printer produce some genetic material which lets them enter his realm? (OK, dunno if there is 3d printers invented in your universe).

Actually I am pretty interested in what happened before AR1 XD.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 12:07:04 PM

The government didn't hold Brook's sister in custody, they threatened to take her from her parents should they ever step out of line, and that included them disillusioning their son. The parents knew exactly what the government was doing, but fear for their daughter kept them in line. The government was caught by Brook because they grossly underestimated him. They saw him as just some ignorant child who happened to be good with machinery. They didn't think he was mature enough to make the needed connections to recognize what was in the biology labs, let alone be able to deduce that they had created it instead of thinking they were searching for a cure. As far as the 3d printing of his genetic materials is concerned. They would have had to clone his entire body, including his neuron network. The teleporter was powered on when he stepped on it and a scan of his body was complete. If all they had was a hunk of flesh with his dna on it, it would not have been enough.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: kjeks on August 27, 2015, 12:13:15 PM

Quote from: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 12:07:04 PM

The government didn't hold Brook's sister in custody, they threatened to take her from her parents should they ever step out of line, and that included them disillusioning their son. The parents knew exactly what the government was doing, but fear for their daughter kept them in line. The government was caught by Brook because they grossly underestimated him. They saw him as just some ignorant child who happened to be good with machinery. They didn't think he was mature enough to make the needed connections to recognize what was in the biology labs, let alone be able to deduce that they had created it instead of thinking they were searching for a cure. As far as the 3d printing of his genetic materials is concerned. They would have had to clone his entire body, including his neuron network. The teleporter was powered on when he stepped on it and a scan of his body was complete. If all they had was a hunk of flesh with his dna on it, it would not have been enough.

smart child indeed. 3d prints are "only" able to provide mice with artificial kidneys as far as I read.

If people just had known how inept their government has been...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 12:35:14 PM

Yes, if they had known how inept they were indeed, things would have gone differently, but they were extremely cowed and ruled by fear at this point. Remember that the government had been killing off all opposition for over a decade.

I also think there is some confusion as to the teleporter. Brook did not have it when he was ten, he began developing it after the first raid on his lab. He completed it when he was twelve.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 27, 2015, 02:17:25 PM

After further work, the timeline is now 20 pages long and stops just before the War of Cleansing begins. There's still a lot to go, but I've been awake for over 24 hours now and my boy needs lunch soon. Then it will be time for a nap. Please feel free to make comments and ask questions. You've all helped me tremendously. I honestly hadn't even thought of some of the things you asked about.

I will continue to spit forth content until I come to the end of the timeline, and over time you'll probably see some of the gaps (like most of Brook's travels) filled in, but I need to call it quit for now, and probably won't get back to it for at least another 24 hours.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Sunflower on August 27, 2015, 04:04:43 PM

Marienara, you've had a very impressive debut. Can I persuade you to introduce yourself properly in the Introduction Thread? (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=131.0) I'm sure we'd all love to learn a bit more about you.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on August 28, 2015, 01:00:12 PM

Okay, my introduction is complete. I'll make another post here when I've got more added to the timeline, but I'm at the point where it starts to get somewhat detailed and complicated, so it may take a bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on September 03, 2015, 06:11:46 AM

New information has been added to the entry 3142 GE. The first information outlining the events of the War of Cleansing have been added, including the introduction of Tekesh and Sarah. Most of the details of the war have yet to be chronicled, and so information following the first events will likely be sparse. I'll let you know when I have more written down, in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the passage I have included in this section.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Marienara on September 23, 2015, 01:19:24 PM

The entry Before Rebirth has been edited to include a passage from Brook's memoirs explaining his unusual intelligence and shedding light on the fate of his native people.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on October 26, 2015, 02:44:15 AM

I'm posting here as an assessment of interest (or, more probably, lack thereof): Would anyone like me to start posting (links to) two "ghostly" love stories I've been contemplating for some time?
or
If I posted said links, would readers mind critiquing/commenting on the stories?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 11, 2015, 08:43:58 PM

Hi Looney! I've just found this thread, in my slow and cautious explorations of the forum. And, I'd love to see what you've written. Don't know how much use my critiques would be, but I'm game!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 12, 2015, 10:25:16 PM

So, here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/The-Literate-Prologue-372638774)'s two (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2013-Day-1-382282968) I started a long time ago. Most common criticism: too wordy.

I'll try to have the first bits of the two I mentioned earlier up and linked soon.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 16, 2015, 01:53:23 AM

I read both, and want to find out what happened next (which to me is the mark of an interesting story). I. Typed out a lengthy comment, but DA won't let me post it, and ignores my attempts to join up. Got to go just now, but willtry to post it here later.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 29, 2015, 12:46:33 AM

Well, thanks for reading, at least.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 29, 2015, 01:41:11 AM

Hi Looney! So, my second try at commenting on your stories didn't work either? Let me know by PM if this one does, please? Technology is not my friend; sometimes I doubt if it is even my nodding acquaintance! Third time's the charm, I hope!

To recap briefly: 'The Literate': I like the tale, so far. The background hints at a generally high-tech world somehow, so I'll be intrigued to discover why the boy is fleeing through a forest. And who or what is hunting him, and for what reason. I don't object to the language, since I feel strongly about not 'dumbing down' one's natural voice. I'm a fan of Mervyn Peake, William Burroughs, William Morris, George MacDonald and Charles de Lint, so erudite writing doesn't bother me. In fact I enjoy it, since beautiful and precise words convey meaning better. I look forward to reading the next chapter.

Going to post this bit now, and follow with the other one shortly. That way I can come back to the thread and see if it did post.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 29, 2015, 03:33:09 PM

Uh, oh… now I have to post the next chapter.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 29, 2015, 06:59:29 PM

Good! One writer I forgot to mention was Dunsany. If you don't know his work, I highly recommend it. I could see your style maturing into something similar to his. He uses the learned and exact words, lots and lots of them. He writes sentences a whole paragraph long. He is wonderfully lyrical. And when you see it on the page, his prose sings. He breaks all the modern rules, but as a reader I wouldn't want to omit a word.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on December 21, 2015, 10:44:04 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on November 12, 2015, 10:25:16 PM

So, here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/The-Literate-Prologue-372638774)'s two (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2013-Day-1-382282968) I started a long time ago. Most common criticism: too wordy.

I'll try to have the first bits of the two I mentioned earlier up and linked soon.

I don't see that your prose is too wordy! But something you should pay attention to is your narrator's voice and pacing, I think.
Now, I don't know what your aim was, but Literate has an awfully distant and omniscient feel to it, which comes partly from the very strong perspective of the narrator, but mostly from the pacing of your sentences and where you inserted information.
If you want to go for scenic, it is natural to use long sentences. When it is action, they should be short.
But no-one says you have to separate the two! Try to incorporate the action into the description and vice-versa. Use action verbs to describe states. When you try to build tension using contrast, don't go on about it at length, just put both of them right next to each other and let the readers figure it out by themselves.
The problem with adjectives is that they are great (I am addicted to them, too) but there are certain places you shouldn't use any or no more than one. Find out where they are.
Try to use exactly this to your advantage: as I have said, tension can be produced by contrast. That includes a contrast in sentence length! Try to make the pace of your sentences varied, use punctuation marks as points of smooth connection - or as disruptors!
Read what you wrote out loud and find out the parts that don't follow the rhythm of the story!

Also make sure your metaphors and images suit the tone of the story so the reader takes them in but doesn't need to think about them so much they enter the sphere where they see your text rather than your story.

I think the best literature is the one where you can appreciate the style but could just as well forget about it because you are too absorbed to care. All kinds of different style can achieve this.
Personally, I do prefer the wordy styles :D
So keep at it, okay?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on December 21, 2015, 10:48:04 PM

Forgot to say this, but remember, that sometimes there is pleasure in simple words.
And that sometimes, you will want to use vageness.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on December 22, 2015, 01:46:42 AM

Quote from: Asterales on December 21, 2015, 10:44:04 PM

(snip

Thank you!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on January 24, 2016, 02:28:47 AM

A couple months ago I wrote a short story for LA class. We were supposed to write sci-fi, but I strayed into fantasy, because thats more my sort of thing. Some of the speech is in elvish, but I added english annotations for them.Here is the result! (https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B_SQNL8oGCdxa2FDU3pvQnJrME0/view?usp=sharing)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 08, 2016, 10:55:06 PM

So, I'll just drop these snippets here, and link in the Books thread.

These are bits from the beginning of a WIP fanfic for a series Sunflower, urbicande and I were reminiscing over in the Books thread.

Spoiler: Excerpts from The Truth About Basidium-X • show

Story 1: The Bassyd

Part 1: The Old Man by the Sea

The old man looked like a single breeze would blow him away. His frail body seemed much too wispy for his large, liver spotted head. He was completely bald, not even a trace of hair remaining, and his voice was as frail as his body.

I had to come to Pacific Grove, California, in search of some long-lost relatives from a century or so ago, and my searches had led me to this isolated beach and the old man sitting there, watching the waves. So far, though, he had been of little help, but that was about to change.

The beach’s isolation gave it an odd air of intimacy, as though it were a cozy corner secluding you against the world.

After a moment, the old man began to hum under his breath. Usually, I would have paid him as much as heed as I would have to a crying child; that is, I would have tried to ignore him, but something about the tune caught my ear. It was a tune that I had never heard before, and I had gone out of my way to hear as many tunes as I could over the years.

You might be thinking, "But it could be a song that you already know; the old man might just be butchering it", but you'd be wrong. This melody was so distinct, and so beautiful, that even were the old man getting it completely wrong, it was still new to me.

Section break

Even as unbelievable and outlandish as they were, there was something about the old man's stories that drew me in. They were like a weird combination of Raygun Gothic and high fantasy, and as I listened to more of them, he let me hear more of the songs that he had recorded on his crystals.

Section break

The old man must have been delirious or senile or something, because his tall tales were just so outlandish. I listened out of politeness, but privately I thought he was nuttier than his macadamia tree.

“Chuck and I were born the same day of the same year, in almost the same room, no less. That was way, way back, in 1902, back when women stayed home to give birth and the doc came to them; in this case, my Dad was the doc, and it happened at dinner with the neighbors, who were also expecting.”

“It never mattered between us, y’know, the whole black-white thing. We were birthday brothers, and no one and nothing could come between us.” He smiled toothlessly. “Didn’t take long for even the thickest kids to get that, after the two of us got to where we could whoop the high-schoolers.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 31, 2016, 12:32:13 AM

Yet again, no response to my snippets. Oh, well.

Here's something else to consider, though:

Spoiler: Alamsta Dreaming • show

Spoiler: Notes • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 31, 2016, 01:32:49 AM

Interesting! Your vignettes sometimes have a very Dunsany feel. I suspect it will be worth waiting until we have enough of them together to make a story.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Asterales on March 31, 2016, 03:06:16 AM

LooNEY_DAC, the rhythm of your sentences is very appealing... And one more reason to stay away from these far to interesting threads on the forum and from A3O. I'll never get anything done as soon as I start delving into them. It'll have to wait until August.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 31, 2016, 06:11:20 AM

Luth, that reads sort of like Tolkien cross-pollinated by Michael Moorcock. Interesting style, but it would be better if it were longer. The story cries out for background. It's a too-brief summary of what you might develop into at least a novella, at which length it would be a much better story.

Readers need more information than you are giving them to develop sympathy with your characters. I realise that for a school asignment it had to be kept short, but it has the bones of a much bigger story. Remember the writer's questions I talked about awhile back in the writers' thread? What are the characters doing? Do they wind up doing what they intend, or something different? Where are they? Is it our world, an AU, another planet? When is the story set? In the past, the future? (This may or may not matter, depending on the type of story). How do they plan to accomplish whatever they are doing? Do they even know what they need to do? Why are the events in the story taking place? Again, is any of this information available to the characters, or is the story about them finding this out, with gradual exposition both to the characters and the readers? Do the characters know or care why these events are happening to them? Who are these people?

Of such questions and their answers is a good story made.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on March 31, 2016, 10:53:31 AM

Thank you! Yes, It is a bit short, and I would like to expand the story later for sure. I will keep those questions in mind when I do! (Or when I write anything in general, those seem important to think about.) :D Most of that information I had made up, (I even had little character notes on sticky notes beside my computer) but I was unsure how to fit it into the story itself. Thanks again for the pointers!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 02, 2016, 08:03:11 PM

Luth, I agree with Róisín overall, but one thing sticks out:

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on April 02, 2016, 09:15:53 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on April 02, 2016, 08:03:11 PM

Luth, I agree with Róisín overall, but one thing sticks out:
Spoiler: show
Why is the Most Powerful Man in Town opening his own door? Even in a small village (which you spend many words saying that that isn't the case here), the mayor/head honcho/big man is going to have servants, because he'll be too busy running the place (or at least pretending he is). And why would the airship guys just run off, abandoning the Big Important Guy? Things like this can knock your reader out of the story if you don't explain them.

Yes... I did originally have a servant who opened the door, but a critique I got was that the character was too much like Watto (the star wars character), I described him as a imp that hovered using little wings like a humming bird. I really loved the character, and didn't want to replace him, so I just said that the mayor opened the door, thinking I could fit in that character later.

As for the airship, I had an explanation planned for that, but the deadline was too close and I didn't have time to write in... I really should rewrite this story, it was originally really rushed. :-\

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 02, 2016, 10:20:13 PM

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on April 02, 2016, 09:15:53 PM

Yes... I did originally have a servant who opened the door, but a critique I got was that the character was too much like Watto (the star wars character)

He had a bad Italian accent? The horror!

But seriously, the "your character's too much like…" criticism is one I've always ignored. It's your character, and as long as you are satisfied with the character, that should be all that matters.

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on April 02, 2016, 09:15:53 PM

I described him as a imp that hovered using little wings like a humming bird. I really loved the character, and didn't want to replace him, so I just said that the mayor opened the door, thinking I could fit in that character later.

On the other hand, since this story seems to be in "D&D-Land" (not a criticism), I'd be worried about the imp-lications of the Mayor having such a servant. You might want to address that also. (Or not, if you want some mystery and tension of that sort.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 03, 2016, 01:34:25 PM

Double-posting because…

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on November 29, 2015, 03:33:09 PM

Uh, oh… now I have to post the next chapter.

…And I have (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/The-Literate-Chapter-1-600801331).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 03, 2016, 06:17:15 PM

Now I see where you are going with it. I like the story so far. I wonder if somebody left the data card for him to find, or if it was pure chance?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on April 05, 2016, 02:06:36 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on April 02, 2016, 10:20:13 PM

He had a bad Italian accent? The horror!

But seriously, the "your character's too much like…" criticism is one I've always ignored. It's your character, and as long as you are satisfied with the character, that should be all that matters.

Sadly, My teacher does not have the same view... :-/ Could write that character back in now though. (and will when I get around to a re-write)

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on April 02, 2016, 10:20:13 PM

On the other hand, since this story seems to be in "D&D-Land" (not a criticism), I'd be worried about the imp-lications of the Mayor having such a servant. You might want to address that also. (Or not, if you want some mystery and tension of that sort.)

It is absolutely in "D&D Land", because it's based in the same world where I run a campaign for some friends. ;)
I was thinking that since the mayor is a mage/scholarly type he would have some summoning abilities, and in this world summoners are pretty common.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 05, 2016, 09:24:49 PM

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on April 05, 2016, 02:06:36 PM

I was thinking that since the mayor is a mage/scholarly type he would have some summoning abilities, and in this world summoners are pretty common.

Yes, but aren't imps ACE?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on April 05, 2016, 09:33:52 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on April 05, 2016, 09:24:49 PM

Yes, but aren't imps ACE?

Chaotic Evil?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 05, 2016, 09:48:58 PM

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on April 05, 2016, 09:33:52 PM

Chaotic Evil?

Yes. My point was, why would a (presumably) Lawful Neutral-to-Good Mayor be summoning Chaotic Evils to do his work? Is he really Lawful? Is he secretly Evil? Etc.

This is, of course, irrelevant if you've ditched the alignment system.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on April 05, 2016, 09:57:44 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on April 05, 2016, 09:48:58 PM

Yes. My point was, why would a (presumably) Lawful Neutral-to-Good Mayor be summoning Chaotic Evils to do his work? Is he really Lawful? Is he secretly Evil? Etc.

This is, of course, irrelevant if you've ditched the alignment system.

Ah. I assume that Imps aren't really evil, more mischievous, so probably closer to chaotic neutral. And in this case it would be bound to a summoner's contract, and therefore would be forced to follow orders. (as long as the orders don't go too far from the alignment, of course.) Although, an evil background for the mayor would be an interesting plot twist... >:D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jethan on May 03, 2016, 01:24:17 AM

I'm going to, like, actually be social and share this thing: The Great Castle Deathmatch Part 1 (http://jethanslair.blogspot.com/2016/05/deathmatch-part-1.html)

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keeper on May 25, 2016, 04:23:23 PM

Now that I have some free time, I've been getting back to writing my stories. This scene is probably the biggest one in the entire story, and I'm still trying to organize it all and grind it out. Especially considering that it will likely span a few chapters. But this is what I have of it so far, and I'd like to get a second opinion/critique of it.

Some context: The premise of the story is that the characters have been lured into a scientific experiment to create a serum that has made them immortal. In choosing to help perfect the serum, they have become prisoners and lab rats. This scene is near the very end, when they revolt and escape, but one of the leaders, Madeline, is captured. Her capture is part of the plan, though, so they can get a sample of the antidote. Holly, her friend and one of the guards, is watching everything through the security cameras. Hopefully it's all clear enough.

Also, it gets kinda violent at the end, just a warning.
Here goes nothing I guess!

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 01, 2016, 07:15:42 PM

As I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo, I'm going to bug y'all by posting a link to each part here as I do them.

Today's part (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-1-618963121).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 01, 2016, 08:13:50 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 01, 2016, 07:15:42 PM

As I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo, I'm going to bug y'all by posting a link to each part here as I do them.

Today's part (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-1-618963121).

I'm going to sit here and stare intently* at you until you finish the next part, because that was awesome!
"Ah, the false joviality of frustrated authority." This is the best.
_{*in a friendly, insistent but not threatening way. No pressure.}

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 01, 2016, 11:41:52 PM

Quote from: Tr on July 01, 2016, 08:13:50 PM

I'm going to sit here and stare intently* at you until you finish the next part, because that was awesome!
"Ah, the false joviality of frustrated authority." This is the best.
_{*in a friendly, insistent but not threatening way. No pressure.}

So, wait no more (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-1a-619008797).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 02, 2016, 12:27:50 AM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 01, 2016, 11:41:52 PM

So, wait no more (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-1a-619008797).

Yay! That was fast!
Oooh, this is getting even more interesting.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on July 02, 2016, 02:19:59 PM

I kind of want to share some of my writing, but I really dont know. Would anyone like to read a poem or two of mine?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 02, 2016, 02:38:30 PM

Quote from: SugaAndSpice on July 02, 2016, 02:19:59 PM

I kind of want to share some of my writing, but I really dont know. Would anyone like to read a poem or two of mine?

I charge thee, commence thy versification!
…
Or not, if you don't want to.
…
But we'll be happy to glance over anything you wish to share.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 02, 2016, 09:01:18 PM

Quote from: SugaAndSpice on July 02, 2016, 02:19:59 PM

I kind of want to share some of my writing, but I really dont know. Would anyone like to read a poem or two of mine?

I would absolutely love to see some of your writing!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 02, 2016, 09:03:23 PM

LooNEY, good snippets! I gather they are part of a longer story?

SugaAndspice: poems, yes please!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 02, 2016, 09:59:58 PM

Quote from: Róisín on July 02, 2016, 09:03:23 PM

LooNEY, good snippets! I gather they are part of a longer story?

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 04, 2016, 12:35:47 AM

Here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-3-619439893)'s the next bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on July 04, 2016, 09:02:56 PM

I'm really excited that you guys want to read my writing. I'm also working on a fantasy story, and I want some tips. I'm thinking I'll put it here, chapter by chapter? Under spoilers, of course.
And here's a poem. Its pretty long. Hope you like it!

Spoiler: show

That one is pretty old... I dont have a lot of recent ones though :P

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 04, 2016, 09:59:48 PM

Quote from: SugaAndSpice on July 04, 2016, 09:02:56 PM

I'm really excited that you guys want to read my writing. I'm also working on a fantasy story, and I want some tips. I'm thinking I'll put it here, chapter by chapter? Under spoilers, of course.
And here's a poem. Its pretty long. Hope you like it!
Spoiler: show
Word Weavers
Painting silver songs
I wish I had the gift
But as your voice moves mercilessly
I can only wait for words to come

You pluck words out of the air to use them
The words pluck me out and then I
Fall silent as the message arrives

My words are jumbled and tangled
Like the mess I am inside
But you bravely do not show it
Oh, I wish I had your pride

Your words are crystalline
And flow like the autumn winds
Details spring forth from your mouth
And keep safe without fail

Your words are brave, outgoing
But always come back around
They paint the stars in the sky
With a silver-tongued brush

The words that flow are never ceasing
In bringing me down to my knees
Wishing I had a reason to believe
That these words were meant for me

Now I wait
Its growing dark
I see the stars so high
I see them shining but none of them
Light up like the fire in your eyes

I try to catch up but you’re moving too fast
I run as far as words can go
But my words aren’t nearly enough
I’ll have to let you go

There are many words I cant express
They fit in my mind
But with ink they dry
And fade away

So I’m asking once
Can you understand
And read between the lines
What lines are there I do not know
But once I catch up I think we’ll know

So I’m running once again
The moment you’re gone
I wont even pretend
To have no words

I could scream with many words I guess
But screams mean nothing
Because the most powerful voice is the one that not screams
But whispers
And everybody
Listens

And that is your voice, my friend
If I could be everybody who ever hears you speak
I would hold back my words however long you wished
Because your voice is worth listening to

That one is pretty old... I dont have a lot of recent ones though :P

OKAY THIS IS SUPER COOL AND TOTALLY DESERVES ALL CAPS. I love the words you use (crystalline has always been a personal favorite of mine). I'd love to read your fantasy story!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Kelpie on July 04, 2016, 11:16:12 PM

Quote from: SugaAndSpice

I'm really excited that you guys want to read my writing. I'm also working on a fantasy story, and I want some tips. I'm thinking I'll put it here, chapter by chapter? Under spoilers, of course.
And here's a poem. Its pretty long. Hope you like it!

Spoiler: show

That one is pretty old... I dont have a lot of recent ones though :P

Wow yes this is great, and I very much like it! I'd also like to see your story. ^-^

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 05, 2016, 02:51:53 AM

Here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-4-just-barely-619668080)'s the next bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 05, 2016, 10:56:26 AM

This is a poem I made for the purpose of explaining metaphor and simile to another aspiring poet. I chose the subject because at the time I was writing, the gaura in my front garden was blooming. The butterfly-shaped flowers are at the tops of long fine stems and the slightest breath of air makes them dance as if they were flying. Since they are also very attractive to all manner of insects, this can be quite spectacular on a sunny day. And where there are insects there will be predators.

Metaphor and Simile: Gaura in Bloom

The bees dance through a cloud of butterflies.
Pink and white flowers flutter in the air
Spinning and shifting, dazzling the eyes
With petals trailing like a comet's hair.

The mantis dances through a cloud of bees.
A fencer frozen at her point of power,
Sabres extended, balanced at her ease
Lurking within the shadow of a flower.

A galaxy and everything therein:
Matter and spirit, all the things that are
Motes in a sunbeam, small lives whirl and spin
Their pattern, from the atom to the star.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on July 05, 2016, 05:27:04 PM

Aaaaa, thank you so much for the kind words! Welp, I have an acceptable amount to share on the introduction chapter. Please tell me what you think, and if you have any suggestions! I'm no where near finishing this chapter, but I have enough that I would like some feedback.

I suppose I should provide a bit of info on the basis of the story: Humans have learned to adapt to their constantly changing world. New creatures are making themselves seen, and the old ones are larger than (old) life. Our protagonist, Fen, lives in a sort of colony on a very, very tall seaside cliff.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on July 05, 2016, 05:29:45 PM

Quote from: Róisín on July 05, 2016, 10:56:26 AM

This is a poem I made for the purpose of explaining metaphor and simile to another aspiring poet. I chose the subject because at the time I was writing, the gaura in my front garden was blooming. The butterfly-shaped flowers are at the tops of long fine stems and the slightest breath of air makes them dance as if they were flying. Since they are also very attractive to all manner of insects, this can be quite spectacular on a sunny day. And where there are insects there will be predators.

Metaphor and Simile: Gaura in Bloom

The bees dance through a cloud of butterflies.
Pink and white flowers flutter in the air
Spinning and shifting, dazzling the eyes
With petals trailing like a comet's hair.

The mantis dances through a cloud of bees.
A fencer frozen at her point of power,
Sabres extended, balanced at her ease
Lurking within the shadow of a flower.

A galaxy and everything therein:
Matter and spirit, all the things that are
Motes in a sunbeam, small lives whirl and spin
Their pattern, from the atom to the star.

@o@ I'm almost afraid to mar this one with my comments, it's so lovely.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 05, 2016, 08:09:32 PM

Róisín: Wow, that's beautiful! May I please write it down and illustrate it (giving you credit of course)? Simply scribbing it on a sheet of paper and taping it to my wall would never do it justice. Watercolor pencils would be nice, with perhaps a touch of black and brown ink. ^-^
SugaAndSpice: I like it quite a lot, such an awesome world you've created! This seems like the beginning of some pretty amazing adventures. The writing style feels rather abrupt~ at first this is a little jarring, but I think it actually helps Fen's personality come through a lot. It also feels like having a real conversaton with someone who lives in your world which is super cool. I can't wait for the next part!
LooNEY: I have to say, your use of sporks is simply beautiful. :'D

Well, I am getting totally spoiled by all the great stuff here! I should stop being lazy and remember to post some of my own things here. :P
/me checks her imaginary digital pockets
Here we go, have a Prologue thingy!

Spoiler: on the nature of interdimensional travel and limes • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 05, 2016, 08:42:48 PM

Tr, that would be lovely, thank you! I look forward to seeing what you do.

Wavewright, thank you! I shall wind up with a swelled head at this rate! And I shall read your story next time I have a break, I'm teaching this morning.

LooNEY, SugaAndSpice: great work! More please!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 06, 2016, 09:08:58 PM

Quote from: Tr on July 05, 2016, 08:09:32 PM

Well, I am getting totally spoiled by all the great stuff here! I should stop being lazy and remember to post some of my own things here. :P
/me checks her imaginary digital pockets
Here we go, have a Prologue thingy!
Spoiler: on the nature of interdimensional travel and limes • show
Once upon a time, in a faraway land…
You see, I am told that this is how all great stories begin. I find it rather lacking, to be uncomfortably honest. The events in this tale happened around two years ago, in a land that is quite nearby. The country I speak of lurks in the quiet places of our world, always just around the corner. Maybe you’ll find it in your closet or perhaps your local supermarket, perched behind a pile of limes. Portals are unpredictable, but they do seem strangely attracted to limes. Many interdimensional travelers carry a lime or two in their pocket at all times, just in case they find themselves stranded in an unknown universe. As most of you probably know already, a lime in the pocket is the first step of preparing for the apocalypse.
It was night in this strange nearby country, and the city’s lights were hard at work, pushing back the dark. The city had many lights, all hovering above the river, chatting pleasantly in their own secret language. Most were lanterns, colorful beings that carried flames in their hearts. Others were mere ethereal specks, floating like silver fireflies and dancing cheerfully over the water.
Lady Amaryllis Grey, of the Amerythian Court, stood at a gargantuan window and watched them as her breath misted the glass. “Beautiful creatures,” she remarked, as they bobbed up and down, conversing quietly. A soft rustling reached her ears. Their language sounded like the whispering wind.
Her associates shifted uncomfortably. “Remember the upcoming meeting, my lady,” one said, as if worried she had forgotten.
“Do you think our young queen would choose a senile old woman to be her ambassador?” she asked sharply. Her coils of white hair glinted in the gloom. “Nay… Dorian, was it? Nay, Dorian, my wits are as sharp as ever. Do not disrespect our illustrious ruler.”
Dorian subsided, nodding apologetically. A few minutes passed in silence, until he could not contain himself any longer. “Who shall the other ambassadors be?”
“Only one other ambassador, from the Court of Kintel,” she shot at him, her voice alternating between a purr and a hiss. “I do not know who they have chosen to send.” She paused, he expression darkening dangerously. “You didn’t think there would be a third ambassador, did you?”
Dorian shook his head. Only his excellent training as a soldier kept him from backing up into the luxurious velvet curtains.
Lady Grey stepped forward, undaunted. “You don’t believe in a third court, do you?”
Dorian opened his mouth. Behind Lady Grey’s satin-covered back, his partner shook his head vigorously. Dorian shut his mouth with a soft click.
“Much better,” Lady Grey remarked.
Dorian’s partner, a short, unimpressive-looking young man, let out an inaudible sigh of relief. Dorian wasn’t so bad, really. He just had a tendency to say the wrong things at entirely the wrong moments.
Both Dorian Florith and his partner, who went by the name of Namaril, had heard the rumors that a third court ambassador was going to sneak into the meeting. They both knew how ridiculous the rumors were, too. Third court or no third court, absolutely no one snuck into negotiations riding on the back of a unicorn. The difference between them was that Dorian wished to tell his lady these rumors out of some sort of misguided loyalty, while Namaril was a sensible individual who quite liked his job a somewhat important guard, and had no intention of losing it.
While Namaril contemplated his status as a sensible individual, the door at the opposite end of the room flew open, hitting the wall with a bang. A young woman wearing a dress constructed from long swaths of gleaming green silk strode in, flanked by two tall guards. One carried a flag with a shining white snowflake insignia on a deep green background.
Lady Grey shot Namaril a stern glare. A purple flag edged surreptitiously out of the drapery and came to rest in his hand. It flared out suddenly, a blue-tinted star emerging from the purple folds.
The overt display of court symbols over, the Kintellish ambassador cleared her throat. “I am here to converse with the ambassador of the Court of Ameryth. I ask the ambassador to step forth.”
“I am she,” Lady Grey said crisply, stepping forward. “I am Lady Grey of the Court of Ameryth. I ask my Kintellish counterpart to state her name so that we may begin.”
Dorian yawned discreetly. Really, he thought, the excess of protocol couldn’t be necessary. He opened his mouth, noticed Namaril’s vitriolic glare, and shut it again.
“I am Ambassador Amery Annareth, of the Court of Kintel. Now that the formalities are over, we must get to business.” The guard on her left, a formidable woman with a large sword handing from her belt, handed her a small scroll. The ambassador took it, her eyes lingering on her extremely tall guards, and then flicking forward to glance at Namaril, who was easily half the size of either one of them.
Namaril seemed to consider being offended, then decided to go in the opposite direction entirely. He raised his hands, smirking, and winked as if to say, “What can I say? I’m short, but enormously talented.”
“May I ask why you have such a diminutive guard, Lady Grey?”
“What can I say?” Namaril began breezily. “I’m short, but en—“
Lady Grey swept in front of him, her skirt swishing and doubtless doing a marvelous job of sweeping the dust from the carpet. “This is Namaril, one of our court’s greatest soldier-magicians.”
Namaril very wisely shut up, vaporizing the doubtful look the other ambassador had directed at him by summoning his companion spirit, which manifested as a glittering golden dragon, about the size of a small dog. He snapped his fingers with as much drama as he could muster, cautiously drawing on the spirit’s power to create Its eyes glinted in the gloom.
“I hereby cast a protection on myself and my associates, against the magic of the soldier Namaril and any spirits associated with him.” Blue light flared around Amery Annareth as her own companion spirit answered her call.
Namaril raised his eyebrows. “Do you even know how rude that was? It implies that you think I’m going to attack! Dear gods, you must be a newbie.”
Lady Grey drifted closer to him, then stomped viciously on his feet without disturbing the gauzy ruffles of her dress. Namaril winced.
“I apologize for the behavior of this guard,” Lady Grey said crossly.
Namaril grimaced, wondering vaguely if Lady Grey wore shoes or switchblades. “I hereby cast a protection on myself, against the footwear of Lady Amaryllis Grey,” he whispered softly. The golden dragon nodded covertly, and added its strength to the spell.
“Can we get on with this meeting?” Lady Grey’s lips pressed tightly together, as though each moment in the room was deeply painful to her.
“Very well,” Annareth sighed. “I’m here to speak to you about the Nameless Madriconian.”
“What of it? Last I heard, it wasn’t extending its power past the borders of its forest.” Lady Grey folded her arms, looking distinctly stormy.
“It is the most powerful spirit in the multiverse, you cannot deny that it is threatening to us!”
“It is not acting terribly threatening at the moment,” Lady Grey noted.
“Have you seen what it did to its forest? It is a place of horror!”
Lady Grey seemed bored by places of horror.
“It is called the Forest of Drowning Souls these days. The Madriconian appears to be sensing the misery of nearby humans and… broadcasting it somehow. No Kintellish spirit knows how it can do such a thing.”
Namaril stepped forward. “Kintellish spirits must not be terribly intelligent,” he said pompously. “Misery attracts misery. The Madriconian is angry and miserable, and so it attracts and acts as a pathway for the negative emotions of nearby humans. The human emotions then join the cesspool of raw, awful emotion that is the remnants of the Madriconian’s home. Understand? Or is this too technical for you?”
“It’s too technical,” Dorian said. Annareth just stared primly at Namaril.
“The Madriconian is angry and miserable, so it is filling its home with the negative emotions of humans in a wild fit of… well, anger and misery.”
“Why couldn’t he have said that earlier?” Annareth grumbled.
“He had to show off first,” Lady Grey said reasonably, sending Namaril and Dorian private looks of intense exasperation. Dorian looked deeply wounded.
“Again,” Lady Grey said, beginning her attempt to return to polite protocol, “I ask you to note that the Madriconian has not extended its power beyond the borders of its land. It has not infected any Court territory yet. However, if it did, I doubt any court could stop it.”
“Except the… third…” Dorian’s voice trailed off into silence as Namaril and Lady Grey gave him withering stares. If Lady Grey had been a magician, Dorian would likely have crumbled into a pile of desiccated ashes and been spread across the intricately patterned carpet by then.
“There is no third court,” Namaril reminded him, “save for a name in an outdated children’s rhyme. And deep in the delusions of manic conspiracy theorists, I suppose.”
“That’s oddly specific,” Dorian said, sighing dramatically. “But I suppose you’re right.”
“I apologize, once again, on behalf of my unruly guards,” Lady Grey announced wearily.
“There’s no need, I have grown accustomed to their interruptions,” the Kintellish ambassador said.
Lady Grey allowed her parched lips to part in a slight smile. Namaril and Dorian wondered vaguely if this was the start of a beautiful friendship. Then the smile evaporated like a raindrop on hot sand. “Now, if we remember our original discussion… I believe my point was that no court can hope to fight the Madriconian.”
“Quite,” the other ambassador agreed. “That is all I desired to speak with you about.”
“We will, of course, keep it under surveillance.”
“Of course,” Annareth said. “I believe this meeting is over.” She bowed, folding neatly in half like a stiff sheet of paper.
Lady Grey watched the shiny mass of dark hair on the back of Amery Annareth’s head retreat into the night. Then she turned, casting one last glance at the crowd of lantern-shaped creatures hovering peacefully over the river outside, and left. Dorian and Namaril followed her, Namaril limping slightly as pain shot through his thoroughly bruised toes.
I am lucky to have such a full account of that meeting, since it occurred months before I had even heard of the courts, or the land they ruled. The Third Court ambassador was able to give me an extremely detailed and perceptive eyewitness account, even catching part of the lanterns’ conversation. They had been complaining about how long their work hours were, and how the Courts barely paid them the minimum wage these days.
I did ask if unicorns were involved in the infiltration. Sadly, I was informed that unicorns are highly dangerous, ferocious, and unpredictable, and therefore the Third Court tended to avoid them.

I really liked that story! The introduction reminded me a bit of Douglas Adams, and it's all very well written! I look forward to more! ;D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 06, 2016, 09:45:08 PM

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on July 06, 2016, 09:08:58 PM

I really liked that story! The introduction reminded me a bit of Douglas Adams, and it's all very well written! I look forward to more! ;D

DID I SERIOUSLY JUST GET COMPARED TO DOUGLAS ADAMS ah gosh what a compliment! Thanks!
I'm super glad you like it. I'm writing this because my mom challenged me to a Summer Novel Writing Contest, and whoever gets their novel published wins. ;D So I'm trying my best!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 06, 2016, 10:28:12 PM

Quote from: Tr on July 06, 2016, 09:45:08 PM

DID I SERIOUSLY JUST GET COMPARED TO DOUGLAS ADAMS ah gosh what a compliment! Thanks!
I'm super glad you like it. I'm writing this because my mom challenged me to a Summer Novel Writing Contest, and whoever gets their novel published wins. ;D So I'm trying my best!

When traveling through inter dimensional space, bring a lime and don't panic. Seriously it just totally reminded me of the whole "don't forget to bring a towel" thing in Hitchhiker's guide. You're welcome! :))

Sounds like fun! Good luck!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 08, 2016, 06:47:42 PM

Sorry this one (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-8-620445096) took so long.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 08, 2016, 09:57:33 PM

But this one (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-8a-620475591) didn't take much time at all.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 08, 2016, 10:33:15 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 08, 2016, 06:47:42 PM

Sorry this one (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-8-620445096) took so long.

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 08, 2016, 09:57:33 PM

But this one (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-8a-620475591) didn't take much time at all.

YAY! Double update!
....
I want to see what happens next now.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 08, 2016, 11:58:17 PM

Quote from: Tr on July 08, 2016, 10:33:15 PM

YAY! Double update!
....
I want to see what happens next now.

Hopefully this (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-8b-620495246) won't disappoint you, then.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Crumpite on July 09, 2016, 01:46:57 PM

I'm really happy to have run into this thread !

LooNEY_DAC: Wow, I really like your style of writing ! You should really keep writing, I could see you as a professional writer in a while.
The stories you've written would make a strong backbone to a novel, please keep it up, if just for our sake :)

Róisín: You are an amazing poet !!!!! Do you have a repository of your verse somewhere ?
I really need to read more of it, ASAP...

So much great writing here, I can't comment on it all, but please keep it up everyone :)
This forum is turning into an incubator for some great writing.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 09, 2016, 08:24:06 PM

Yeah, LooNEY is amazing, isn't he? I love his stuff!

I don't have a book of my verse, and don't know enough about the internet to make the sort of repository of work that some of our authors have, but I've had a lot of my stuff broadcast (various community radio stations and the ABC), or published in magazines, newspapers or anthologies over the years. It's all over the place.

I should put a few more pieces up here.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Crumpite on July 10, 2016, 01:34:53 AM

Róisín, why am not surprised that you've been published all over !
It'd be a shame if you got run over by a beer truck tommorow, all all your work got lost, seriously...
Shoot, start writing it down by hand f need be.

People seldom take themselves seriously enough to save their best efforts, myself included...
Everyone here should take that to heart

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: SugaAndSpice on July 10, 2016, 01:59:04 PM

Hi everyone! I'm back, this time with another poem. Hope you enjoy!

Spoiler: show

:))

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 10, 2016, 02:14:02 PM

SugaAndSpice: that's lovely, and most expressive.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 10, 2016, 02:19:24 PM

Quote from: SugaAndSpice on July 10, 2016, 01:59:04 PM

Hi everyone! I'm back, this time with another poem. Hope you enjoy!

Spoiler: show
I am drowning under what I think you think of me
I don’t know what you think
Because I have lied to spare feelings and
Why should you not as well?
My anxiety tells me that you made a mistake
In you and I becoming so close
I tell my anxiety to be quiet
So it is
Very quiet
Striking in small whispers
Just whispers
Words half spoken with unsure meanings
But then!
Just as I wonder if I was wrong
To let my heart out to you
Your words are a landslide
You take out my anxiety
You hold me close in your words
And then in your arms
And I remind myself
That you are here
And I am here
And I am living,
And breathing,
Just like you
Just like the people who I know deserve love
I tell people that their existence is worthy of love
And all they have to do it breathe
So
I remind myself
For I am living and breathing
And therefor I am worthy of love
I have a lot of love
Some, given to me
Some, to be given out
And all of it helping people breathe

:))

Wow. *applause* That's quite beautiful!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 10, 2016, 06:49:26 PM

So, here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-10-620855685)'s the last bit of Story 9. Next: Story 10!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: BlueSkyVail on July 10, 2016, 08:33:30 PM

Everyone here is so incredible I'm almost afraid to post some of my stuff as it seems to pale in comparison to all you lovely people.
But, well, here we go...

I sometimes write poetry and other assorted stuff when I'm feeling adequately inspired. I find that I like to write about writing, which is... interesting. I figured maybe I could try posting something here because, well, why not?

Spoiler: show

So... yeah. There's that.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Crumpite on July 10, 2016, 09:52:10 PM

LooNEY_DAC: And the mystery deepens (ominous music commences.)
Excellent episode, not too rushed, plenty to think about, I like it

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 10, 2016, 10:45:45 PM

Quote from: BlueSkyVail on July 10, 2016, 08:33:30 PM

Everyone here is so incredible I'm almost afraid to post some of my stuff as it seems to pale in comparison to all you lovely people.
But, well, here we go...

I sometimes write poetry and other assorted stuff when I'm feeling adequately inspired. I find that I like to write about writing, which is... interesting. I figured maybe I could try posting something here because, well, why not?

Spoiler: show
Inspiration

Waiting
Hands poised delicately
brushing the keys
gripping the pen

Focus wavers and
the blank walls surrounding
tug at your interest
While pondering thoughts
flicker in and out of reach

A fleeting murmur,
not yet an idea
it holds beauty, power
but there are no words
to describe it

It’s a feeling, an emotion
One you long for
but cannot seem to find
With thin lines you can't trace

It is internalized,
existential,
like a maze made
simply to become lost in

And so

The page stays blank
the cursor blinks
expectantly from the screen
As it taunts the swirling threads
Of possibility.

Your hands
slip from the keyboard
drop the pen
tensed in frustration

And suddenly

An idea takes hold-
burning so brightly
It casts shadows across the farthest corners of the mind
It focuses everything
Into pure, intense thought

Those hands
Become just an instrument
Playing out the symphony of the mind
As the words flow across the page

Colors intensify
clarity takes over
and for a moment
you can
see

And just as quickly
the moment passes
leaving you with the beginnings
of something great

A few printed lines or
A blot of smudged ink,
But it means something,
It’s more than what it is-

Born of the thing we call
Inspiration.

So... yeah. There's that.

This is super amazing and I love it. A lot. Please post more!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 11, 2016, 10:06:44 PM

Quote from: BlueSkyVail on July 10, 2016, 08:33:30 PM

Everyone here is so incredible I'm almost afraid to post some of my stuff as it seems to pale in comparison to all you lovely people.
But, well, here we go...

I sometimes write poetry and other assorted stuff when I'm feeling adequately inspired. I find that I like to write about writing, which is... interesting. I figured maybe I could try posting something here because, well, why not?

Spoiler: show
Inspiration

Waiting
Hands poised delicately
brushing the keys
gripping the pen

Focus wavers and
the blank walls surrounding
tug at your interest
While pondering thoughts
flicker in and out of reach

A fleeting murmur,
not yet an idea
it holds beauty, power
but there are no words
to describe it

It’s a feeling, an emotion
One you long for
but cannot seem to find
With thin lines you can't trace

It is internalized,
existential,
like a maze made
simply to become lost in

And so

The page stays blank
the cursor blinks
expectantly from the screen
As it taunts the swirling threads
Of possibility.

Your hands
slip from the keyboard
drop the pen
tensed in frustration

And suddenly

An idea takes hold-
burning so brightly
It casts shadows across the farthest corners of the mind
It focuses everything
Into pure, intense thought

Those hands
Become just an instrument
Playing out the symphony of the mind
As the words flow across the page

Colors intensify
clarity takes over
and for a moment
you can
see

And just as quickly
the moment passes
leaving you with the beginnings
of something great

A few printed lines or
A blot of smudged ink,
But it means something,
It’s more than what it is-

Born of the thing we call
Inspiration.

So... yeah. There's that.

This is a great poem! You really convey what it feels like to be inspired! :D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 14, 2016, 09:54:16 PM

Finally. (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-14-621711476)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 14, 2016, 10:39:12 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 14, 2016, 09:54:16 PM

Finally. (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-14-621711476)

(http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/3d/5f/44/3d5f449d91d676a257fb60d63eb9626e.jpg)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 15, 2016, 01:36:44 PM

World-building (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-15-621826464).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 15, 2016, 11:08:16 PM

And a conundrum (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-15a-621921835) (but not for our hero).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 16, 2016, 02:34:27 PM

Uh-oh (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-16-622032375).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on July 18, 2016, 04:13:35 AM

Quote from: BlueSkyVail on July 10, 2016, 08:33:30 PM

Everyone here is so incredible I'm almost afraid to post some of my stuff as it seems to pale in comparison to all you lovely people.
But, well, here we go...

I sometimes write poetry and other assorted stuff when I'm feeling adequately inspired. I find that I like to write about writing, which is... interesting. I figured maybe I could try posting something here because, well, why not?

Spoiler: show
Inspiration

Waiting
Hands poised delicately
brushing the keys
gripping the pen

Focus wavers and
the blank walls surrounding
tug at your interest
While pondering thoughts
flicker in and out of reach

A fleeting murmur,
not yet an idea
it holds beauty, power
but there are no words
to describe it

It’s a feeling, an emotion
One you long for
but cannot seem to find
With thin lines you can't trace

It is internalized,
existential,
like a maze made
simply to become lost in

And so

The page stays blank
the cursor blinks
expectantly from the screen
As it taunts the swirling threads
Of possibility.

Your hands
slip from the keyboard
drop the pen
tensed in frustration

And suddenly

An idea takes hold-
burning so brightly
It casts shadows across the farthest corners of the mind
It focuses everything
Into pure, intense thought

Those hands
Become just an instrument
Playing out the symphony of the mind
As the words flow across the page

Colors intensify
clarity takes over
and for a moment
you can
see

And just as quickly
the moment passes
leaving you with the beginnings
of something great

A few printed lines or
A blot of smudged ink,
But it means something,
It’s more than what it is-

Born of the thing we call
Inspiration.

So... yeah. There's that.

*applause* Total agreement and appreciation!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 20, 2016, 01:04:40 AM

Ugh (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-19-622764393).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 20, 2016, 10:48:46 PM

Here is one of my riddle poems to exercise your minds.

"Each in its' turn as the round earth rolls." John Muir

What spills through the hands like sand or water
Spills through the mind from grief to laughter
Dances a beat and the next beat after?

What is deeper than death's dark river
Still as a shallow where bright leaves shiver
Gone in each instant but here forever?

What can snuff out a star in the dark alone
Crush a mountain to dust and that dust to a stone
And the stone in its turn into dust again?

What is all false and yet most true?
Old forever yet always new?

What is the water the soul swims through?

I was thinking about the patterns of the Anglosaxon riddle poems, and reading John Muir. The two coalesced in my head, and this happened.

The answer shouldn't be too hard to guess - see if you can.
Hint: it's one of the traditional subjects for such things.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 20, 2016, 11:08:44 PM

Quote from: Róisín on July 20, 2016, 10:48:46 PM

Here is one of my riddle poems to exercise your minds.

"Each in its' turn as the round earth rolls." John Muir

What spills through the hands like sand or water
Spills through the mind from grief to laughter
Dances a beat and the next beat after?

What is deeper than death's dark river
Still as a shallow where bright leaves shiver
Gone in each instant but here forever?

What can snuff out a star in the dark alone
Crush a mountain to dust and that dust to a stone
And the stone in its turn into dust again?

What is all false and yet most true?
Old forever yet always new?

What is the water the soul swims through?

I was thinking about the patterns of the Anglosaxon riddle poems, and reading John Muir. The two coalesced in my head, and this happened.

The answer shouldn't be too hard to guess - see if you can.
Hint: it's one of the traditional subjects for such things.

Oh, how wonderful!

Spoiler: the answer • show

Seriously, this is great. A very fine riddle poem indeed! ^-^

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 20, 2016, 11:10:23 PM

Tr: yes! Well spotted!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 21, 2016, 11:41:49 PM

Quote from: Róisín on July 20, 2016, 10:48:46 PM

Here is one of my riddle poems to exercise your minds.

"Each in its' turn as the round earth rolls." John Muir

What spills through the hands like sand or water
Spills through the mind from grief to laughter
Dances a beat and the next beat after?

What is deeper than death's dark river
Still as a shallow where bright leaves shiver
Gone in each instant but here forever?

What can snuff out a star in the dark alone
Crush a mountain to dust and that dust to a stone
And the stone in its turn into dust again?

What is all false and yet most true?
Old forever yet always new?

What is the water the soul swims through?

I was thinking about the patterns of the Anglosaxon riddle poems, and reading John Muir. The two coalesced in my head, and this happened.

The answer shouldn't be too hard to guess - see if you can.
Hint: it's one of the traditional subjects for such things.

Ooh, I really like this riddle/poem! Would love to see more of your writing, if possible.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 22, 2016, 02:02:12 AM

Thanks! Glad you like it. I should put up a bit more poetry, I suppose. Did you guess the answer?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 22, 2016, 02:40:14 AM

Quote from: Róisín on July 22, 2016, 02:02:12 AM

Thanks! Glad you like it. I should put up a bit more poetry, I suppose. Did you guess the answer?

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 22, 2016, 09:13:34 AM

Yes, got it!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: BlueSkyVail on July 22, 2016, 01:17:39 PM

So I was listening to some really awesome music that I love a lot, and I found myself writing a ~~somewhat rant-y~~ bit of prose about music.

Spoiler: show

The way the melodies rise and fall, carrying your upon its shimmering waves, and you float through the beautiful images your mind dreams about. As you soar through the rippling scenes, but it’s all something only you can see. And everyone will see something different. The notes tell but one story, but also all the stories imaginable at the same time. The notes rise and the harmony fills in underneath it and the music grows and you inhale to take it all in- while all the wonder of the lyrical music washes over you. A song feels like the ocean. I can imagine reaching out with my fingertips, like you would skim the surface of a pool, and running my hands through the shimmering waters of a song, watching the ripples fan out from my touch and echo back eventually. The waves of sound rise up, filling more and more as it grows and the white water breaks over your head, and it pulls you under and washes you ashore before calmly motioning you back to its endless depths. A song feels like the sky, lifting you up effortlessly on melodic wings. And you can see millions of glowing sunsets and endless blue skies or twist and turn through storms as lightning crashes down beside you. And as the wind whips by, it takes your breath with it because you can’t think to take in another one. Or, you can stop and take in the endless calm or marvel at landscapes spread out around you. A song feels like stepping along the line of a shadow fading into the light. A song feels like balancing on the edge, that feeling of freedom and temptation to just let go. A song is like a reflection off a deep lake, showing you the deepest, most true parts of yourself. A song is a plane ride, watching everything become small and insignificant and fast-forwarding through the distances. A song is a road, worn and aged, that has seen many rainstorms and sunny days, that can take you anywhere as long as you’re willing to travel its path. A song is an adventure, filled with joy and discovery and wonder and breathless fascination. Of new sights and sounds and things you never imagined. A song is you taking a piece of something so much larger than yourself, having a few moments where you are here and there and everywhere else. Suddenly, the song encompasses everything. From your tiny perspective, the world is in tune with the song and you feel like more than just one small human. A song makes you feel, and it stirs up all the emotions that sit quietly, unnoticed, buried deep within you.

Or when you play music. When you yourself are breathing out the melodies that can carry the minds of others with it. When all that emotion built up by music can be released, expressed. When you lose yourself, you become part of the music, when it seems to carry itself along and pull you along eagerly behind it. When it’s not only music, but a dynamic being. When splashes of color come out and make their way to the foreground or waves of deeper sounds lift up a sparkling melody. It builds a tension in the air, telling a story that doesn’t need words or visuals. It feels like it glows with some sort of quiet energy, it’s something to be marveled at. Playing music feels like being swept up and tumbling through currents that are carrying it. Dancing through the complexity, seeing the inner workings of a song. A feeling of creating something so much larger than yourself. Music transforms. Music inspires.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 22, 2016, 01:26:47 PM

Quote from: BlueSkyVail on July 22, 2016, 01:17:39 PM

So I was listening to some really awesome music that I love a lot, and I found myself writing a ~~somewhat rant-y~~ bit of prose about music.

Spoiler: show

The way the melodies rise and fall, carrying your upon its shimmering waves, and you float through the beautiful images your mind dreams about. As you soar through the rippling scenes, but it’s all something only you can see. And everyone will see something different. The notes tell but one story, but also all the stories imaginable at the same time. The notes rise and the harmony fills in underneath it and the music grows and you inhale to take it all in- while all the wonder of the lyrical music washes over you. A song feels like the ocean. I can imagine reaching out with my fingertips, like you would skim the surface of a pool, and running my hands through the shimmering waters of a song, watching the ripples fan out from my touch and echo back eventually. The waves of sound rise up, filling more and more as it grows and the white water breaks over your head, and it pulls you under and washes you ashore before calmly motioning you back to its endless depths. A song feels like the sky, lifting you up effortlessly on melodic wings. And you can see millions of glowing sunsets and endless blue skies or twist and turn through storms as lightning crashes down beside you. And as the wind whips by, it takes your breath with it because you can’t think to take in another one. Or, you can stop and take in the endless calm or marvel at landscapes spread out around you. A song feels like stepping along the line of a shadow fading into the light. A song feels like balancing on the edge, that feeling of freedom and temptation to just let go. A song is like a reflection off a deep lake, showing you the deepest, most true parts of yourself. A song is a plane ride, watching everything become small and insignificant and fast-forwarding through the distances. A song is a road, worn and aged, that has seen many rainstorms and sunny days, that can take you anywhere as long as you’re willing to travel its path. A song is an adventure, filled with joy and discovery and wonder and breathless fascination. Of new sights and sounds and things you never imagined. A song is you taking a piece of something so much larger than yourself, having a few moments where you are here and there and everywhere else. Suddenly, the song encompasses everything. From your tiny perspective, the world is in tune with the song and you feel like more than just one small human. A song makes you feel, and it stirs up all the emotions that sit quietly, unnoticed, buried deep within you.

Or when you play music. When you yourself are breathing out the melodies that can carry the minds of others with it. When all that emotion built up by music can be released, expressed. When you lose yourself, you become part of the music, when it seems to carry itself along and pull you along eagerly behind it. When it’s not only music, but a dynamic being. When splashes of color come out and make their way to the foreground or waves of deeper sounds lift up a sparkling melody. It builds a tension in the air, telling a story that doesn’t need words or visuals. It feels like it glows with some sort of quiet energy, it’s something to be marveled at. Playing music feels like being swept up and tumbling through currents that are carrying it. Dancing through the complexity, seeing the inner workings of a song. A feeling of creating something so much larger than yourself. Music transforms. Music inspires.

Wow, that's beautiful! Very good metaphors! :D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Tr on July 22, 2016, 01:36:51 PM

Quote from: BlueSkyVail on July 22, 2016, 01:17:39 PM

So I was listening to some really awesome music that I love a lot, and I found myself writing a ~~somewhat rant-y~~ bit of prose about music.

Spoiler: show

The way the melodies rise and fall, carrying your upon its shimmering waves, and you float through the beautiful images your mind dreams about. As you soar through the rippling scenes, but it’s all something only you can see. And everyone will see something different. The notes tell but one story, but also all the stories imaginable at the same time. The notes rise and the harmony fills in underneath it and the music grows and you inhale to take it all in- while all the wonder of the lyrical music washes over you. A song feels like the ocean. I can imagine reaching out with my fingertips, like you would skim the surface of a pool, and running my hands through the shimmering waters of a song, watching the ripples fan out from my touch and echo back eventually. The waves of sound rise up, filling more and more as it grows and the white water breaks over your head, and it pulls you under and washes you ashore before calmly motioning you back to its endless depths. A song feels like the sky, lifting you up effortlessly on melodic wings. And you can see millions of glowing sunsets and endless blue skies or twist and turn through storms as lightning crashes down beside you. And as the wind whips by, it takes your breath with it because you can’t think to take in another one. Or, you can stop and take in the endless calm or marvel at landscapes spread out around you. A song feels like stepping along the line of a shadow fading into the light. A song feels like balancing on the edge, that feeling of freedom and temptation to just let go. A song is like a reflection off a deep lake, showing you the deepest, most true parts of yourself. A song is a plane ride, watching everything become small and insignificant and fast-forwarding through the distances. A song is a road, worn and aged, that has seen many rainstorms and sunny days, that can take you anywhere as long as you’re willing to travel its path. A song is an adventure, filled with joy and discovery and wonder and breathless fascination. Of new sights and sounds and things you never imagined. A song is you taking a piece of something so much larger than yourself, having a few moments where you are here and there and everywhere else. Suddenly, the song encompasses everything. From your tiny perspective, the world is in tune with the song and you feel like more than just one small human. A song makes you feel, and it stirs up all the emotions that sit quietly, unnoticed, buried deep within you.

Or when you play music. When you yourself are breathing out the melodies that can carry the minds of others with it. When all that emotion built up by music can be released, expressed. When you lose yourself, you become part of the music, when it seems to carry itself along and pull you along eagerly behind it. When it’s not only music, but a dynamic being. When splashes of color come out and make their way to the foreground or waves of deeper sounds lift up a sparkling melody. It builds a tension in the air, telling a story that doesn’t need words or visuals. It feels like it glows with some sort of quiet energy, it’s something to be marveled at. Playing music feels like being swept up and tumbling through currents that are carrying it. Dancing through the complexity, seeing the inner workings of a song. A feeling of creating something so much larger than yourself. Music transforms. Music inspires.

This is gorgeous!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 24, 2016, 12:26:39 PM

And here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-24-623669226)'s my latest dreck.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 24, 2016, 02:43:59 PM

So this (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-24a-623690872) isn't quite as dreck-y.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on July 24, 2016, 04:01:05 PM

LooNEY, you couldn't write dreck if you tried - you have too much innate skill at storytelling!

Please don't take that as a challenge - too much waste of time and talent!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 24, 2016, 06:06:09 PM

The last bit (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-24b-623728632) (for Story 10, anyway). On to Story 11!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 26, 2016, 02:40:03 AM

Story 11 begins (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-25-only-just-624025298).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 28, 2016, 01:51:13 AM

Here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-27-finally-624442511)'s the next bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 28, 2016, 09:46:09 PM

More here (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-28-624610959).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on July 29, 2016, 03:16:03 AM

LooNEY, I like the fact that not everything in this tale has to be the next step on a pell-mell rush from the beginning of the story to the end. There can be events that may have a bearing in the eventual outcome, or maybe not; in any case, they are significant to the characters, and that's what matters.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 29, 2016, 06:34:02 PM

And now, some action (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-29-624785492).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 30, 2016, 02:44:19 AM

Add a bit of peril (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-29a-just-624861473)...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on July 30, 2016, 04:12:36 PM

...and stir!
Double, double...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 30, 2016, 06:33:30 PM

Now comes the fever (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-30-624993494).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 31, 2016, 02:25:27 AM

The end begins (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-30a-625069531).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 31, 2016, 04:59:16 PM

Story 11 ends (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Day-31-625187994); next, Story 12!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 31, 2016, 06:21:07 PM

So, Story 12 begins (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-1-625203950).

There's an Author's Note at the bottom. You might want to look at it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 31, 2016, 08:57:51 PM

'To be continued'? Good so far!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 31, 2016, 09:09:33 PM

Quote from: Róisín on July 31, 2016, 08:57:51 PM

'To be continued'? Good so far!

It's below the title repetition below the white area, and has a link. Essentially, this story mirrors an earlier story, chapter by chapter, so I put a link to the chapter this one mirrors.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 31, 2016, 10:36:09 PM

Found it, thanks! I see what you mean.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 07, 2016, 04:03:48 PM

The next bit (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-2-626688226) is finally up.

As I said, I will finish this story up before moving on.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 09, 2016, 11:55:29 PM

The story (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-3-627219436) lurches on.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on August 10, 2016, 12:48:40 AM

LooNEY, with this one you're touching on one of my favorite themes - The Light Side and The Dark Side - and I'm enjoying your version!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 10, 2016, 08:05:02 AM

Trial one (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-4-627277056).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 10, 2016, 10:23:16 PM

The Second Trial (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-5-627428936).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 11, 2016, 02:18:49 AM

And the third (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-6-627466739).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 11, 2016, 11:59:48 PM

The Darkness (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-7-627675351).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 12, 2016, 08:08:48 PM

The End (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/Camp-NaNoWriMo-July-2016-Bonus-8-627843413), for now.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on August 17, 2016, 09:38:53 AM

LooNEY: I have been greatly entertained by your symbolic stories, and look forward to the next thing you write!

Meanwhile, our writer's group has been playing with some interesting challenges. We take turns to suggest themes, topics or styles. Our last one, suggested by our young writer of horror stories, was to write something, in any form, addressing the question: 'Who is dancing, and why is someone else tapping their feet?' This was my take on it:

The child is dancing to music in her head.
She dips and slides, balancing in the warm air,
Buoyed by the breeze that flicks the heads of grass
And makes the cloudpuffs scatter across the sky.

The child is dancing alone with a soft smile
Bowing to her airy partners, clasping hands
And releasing them, clasping and releasing
As she weaves her way down the waiting line of air.

Her mother smiles the same soft smile and watches
Remembering her own dances in Spring
On the new soft grass, or under the leaves in Summer,
Or under the Winter moon in a crackling frost.

Her body tingles with memory of the dancers.
Her foot taps time with the whispering pipes of the air.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Oscar Leigh on August 18, 2016, 08:53:38 AM

Nice poem Roi!
Um, what are the rules around posting content here? Would it be rude to put the content straight into a post here even if it's decently sized? Everyone's always linking, but I'm not sure I want a profile somewhere else just to write some fanfictions here.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on August 18, 2016, 09:14:31 AM

Glad you like it!

I know long stuff is meant to be posted under a spoiler, but I've never been able to make it work. Possibly LooNEY or one of the other writers could explain how to do it? Also, fanfiction specifically for Minna's comics goes in the Scriptorium on the main board for SSSS, or for A Redtail's Dream goes in the Scriptorium on that board. The Forum Scriptorium is meant for posting writing not connected to either comic. There is also the Poetry thread on the main board, for SSSS related poetry (such as turns up in the comments).

Looking forward to seeing what you write!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 18, 2016, 09:24:14 AM

Quote from: Oscar Leigh on August 18, 2016, 08:53:38 AM

Nice poem Roi!
Um, what are the rules around posting content here? Would it be rude to put the content straight into a post here even if it's decently sized? Everyone's always linking, but I'm not sure I want a profile somewhere else just to write some fanfictions here.

Quote from: Róisín on August 18, 2016, 09:14:31 AM

Glad you like it!

I know long stuff is meant to be posted under a spoiler, but I've never been able to make it work. Possibly LooNEY or one of the other writers could explain how to do it? Also, fanfiction specifically for Minna's comics goes in the Scriptorium on the main board for SSSS, or for A Redtail's Dream goes in the Scriptorium on that board. The Forum Scriptorium is meant for posting writing not connected to either comic. There is also the Poetry thread on the main board, for SSSS related poetry (such as turns up in the comments).

Looking forward to seeing what you write!

Aside from stuff mentioned in this thread's OP, go to town. The spoiler button is right next to the YouTube button, near the huge mass of emojis; they're not mandatory, but they are polite for long posts.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yuuago on August 18, 2016, 09:47:58 AM

Quote from: Oscar Leigh on August 18, 2016, 08:53:38 AM

Nice poem Roi!
Um, what are the rules around posting content here? Would it be rude to put the content straight into a post here even if it's decently sized? Everyone's always linking, but I'm not sure I want a profile somewhere else just to write some fanfictions here.

I don't think anybody would mind much, provided you spoiler the post if it gets long. People link for a variety of reasons, but it's an individual decision.
Aaand as long as you put SSSS/aRTD fanfic in the appropriate threads, it's fine.

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on August 18, 2016, 09:24:14 AM

Aside from stuff mentioned in this thread's OP, go to town. The spoiler button is right next to the YouTube button, near the huge mass of emojis; they're not mandatory, but they are polite for long posts.

In addition to the button, one could always type the spoiler code in manually, like so -

Code: [Select]

[spoiler]
(text of story goes here)
[/spoiler]

I generally prefer to do that rather than fiddle with all this fussy rich text business. ;V

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Rhynerd on August 22, 2016, 10:55:18 PM

Would this be the best place for me to share some of the other things I worked on so far for the sake of writing classes?
Or would it be better for me to share the short stories and writings of others?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on August 23, 2016, 12:01:59 AM

Quote from: Rhynerd on August 22, 2016, 10:55:18 PM

Would this be the best place for me to share some of the other things I worked on so far for the sake of writing classes?

That's what this thread's for.

Quote from: Rhynerd on August 22, 2016, 10:55:18 PM

Or would it be better for me to share the short stories and writings of others?

For those, we have threads entitled 'Share your favourite poems' (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=898.0) and 'Books!' (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=172.0). Go to town there.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Rhynerd on August 23, 2016, 12:29:20 AM

Duly Noted!
In that case allow me to provide a poem I made in the middle of a paper for a writing class.The subject of the paper was about defamiliarization and I had to provide an example of it in the paper. Since the day before I had to work on making sonnets for another class, I decided to just make a sonnet for one of the pages.

The preceding paragraph can be read here:

Spoiler: show

While the poem can be read here:

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on September 18, 2016, 12:17:17 AM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on October 26, 2015, 02:44:15 AM

I'm posting here as an assessment of interest (or, more probably, lack thereof): Would anyone like me to start posting (links to) two "ghostly" love stories I've been contemplating for some time?
or
If I posted said links, would readers mind critiquing/commenting on the stories?

So, after all this time, I'm finally posting the first link (http://looney-dac.deviantart.com/art/By-Io-s-Soft-Glow-Pt-1-635101308)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on September 19, 2016, 01:13:47 AM

The Colin and Katie one looks interesting. I wonder which is the ghost? Or are they both?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Rhynerd on September 19, 2016, 09:39:04 PM

Pardon me, but what would be the best way to get some of my writings online? I recently did a short story (or well, two drafts of a short story), and I'd have to say that I'm considering sharing them.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yuuago on September 19, 2016, 09:48:43 PM

Quote from: Rhynerd on September 19, 2016, 09:39:04 PM

Pardon me, but what would be the best way to get some of my writings online? I recently did a short story (or well, two drafts of a short story), and I'd have to say that I'm considering sharing them.

If you have access to GoogleDocs, you could always dump it into a writing file there, set the view to public, and post the link here. It's not elegant, but it's good for sharing drafts.

Or you could upload it to a site. FictionPress (https://www.fictionpress.com/) is the original fiction equivalent of Fanfiction.net; I haven't used it in years, so I'm not sure how easy it is to upload/edit things there. DeviantArt (https://www.deviantart.com/) also allows uploads of original fiction.

Or you could make a blog and post it there, like on Tumblr or Livejournal or Dreamwidth (I use DW, personally).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on September 19, 2016, 09:55:11 PM

Quote from: Yuuago on September 19, 2016, 09:48:43 PM

If you have access to GoogleDocs, you could always dump it into a writing file there, set the view to public, and post the link here. It's not elegant, but it's good for sharing drafts.

Or you could upload it to a site. FictionPress (https://www.fictionpress.com/) is the original fiction equivalent of Fanfiction.net; I haven't used it in years, so I'm not sure how easy it is to upload/edit things there. DeviantArt (https://www.deviantart.com/) also allows uploads of original fiction.

Or you could make a blog and post it there, like on Tumblr or Livejournal or Dreamwidth (I use DW, personally).

I would also recommend Archive of Our Own, as well. I use that for uploading stuff and it's pretty good.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yuuago on September 19, 2016, 10:00:42 PM

Quote from: Luth Nightbreeze on September 19, 2016, 09:55:11 PM

I would also recommend Archive of Our Own, as well. I use that for uploading stuff and it's pretty good.

Mm, true. I left it off because that site wasn't originally built for original work - there is a section for it, but it's kind of... pasted on. :Va

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on September 20, 2016, 12:10:04 AM

Quote from: Yuuago on September 19, 2016, 10:00:42 PM

Mm, true. I left it off because that site wasn't originally built for original work - there is a section for it, but it's kind of... pasted on. :Va

Yeah, it is designed for fanfic mainly. Still a good site though. :P

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Rhynerd on September 26, 2016, 10:25:15 PM

Well, I already have Google Drive so submitting these through Google docs will be rather simple.

So without further delay, I present two versions of my first short story I made for a writing class:
The Bell Watchers (https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9H1SYWOGcvoWGp5RERmYUhwVzg)
The impromptu second draft of The Bell Watchers (https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9H1SYWOGcvoaXNvczk3eUhnaU0)
Not included is all the feedback.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Ragnarok on October 04, 2016, 08:22:35 AM

So, WrittenEmber and I ended up running several RPs that started with our OCs meeting at the Crossroads Inn (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=731.0). Now, I think I'll start posting chapters of what resulted on AO3, with her permission. Updates will be weekly on Tuesdays.

First Chapter (http://archiveofourown.org/works/8208452/chapters/18807770)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Rhynerd on October 29, 2016, 10:44:26 AM

I'd like to include the other two short stories I've made for the same class I wrote The Bell Watchers for.

The first I made a few weeks back, and it follows a much grander idea I hope to write much much more on. That being said, reviews indicate that this thing is very, very messy currently. At the very least it has ambition and a good action scene. I called it Excerpts of a Supporting Character. (https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9H1SYWOGcvoNUhJNzg4OEpuWEU)

The second I thought of, worked and reworked the beginning of a few times (https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9H1SYWOGcvoV1RSVW1DNjJBZkk), tried and failed to make a whole piece of, and ended up just grinding (if that's an appropriate term...) out over the course of last Tuesday night, most of Wednesday, and only finished at 8:00AM on Thursday. Do note that classes started for me at 10:20AM that day, and I was supposed to have done something else for the same class as well, but failed to. Official feedback for this work is to be present to me this coming Tuesday. For now, feel free to read Rune by Rune (https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9H1SYWOGcvoNWI1bHp0dVF5YzA) yourself, and maybe also share your thoughts.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: DancingRanger on April 20, 2017, 08:34:00 AM

I've been working on a Fanfiction for Overwatch for a few months. Read it here (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10230140/chapters/22697876) I've been uploading on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 20, 2017, 09:38:30 AM

Sounds interesting! I had wondered what had become of you. Glad to see you back.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: DancingRanger on April 21, 2017, 08:05:41 AM

Quote from: Róisín on April 20, 2017, 09:38:30 AM

Sounds interesting! I had wondered what had become of you. Glad to see you back.

I got sucked into a new community and job. I have a horrible time keeping up with everything, but I figured I'd share the fic with ya'll since I've found SectoBoss' OW fics.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Solokov on July 18, 2017, 01:48:56 AM

Four months later, and blog with the blastwave has finally updated again.

The latest post. (http://blogwiththeblastwave.blogspot.com/2017/07/signal-found.html)

And if you're new to the story, http://you can start at the beginning (http://blogwiththeblastwave.blogspot.com/2012/10/blog-with-blastwave-is-scifi-writing.html).

Basic premise: Alternate timeline where, among other different things having occurred like the Soviet Union having not collapsed in the 90s, the nuclear apocalypse occurred in 2012 (Jesus... I've actually been writing this for 5 years), and the story follows the protagonist in "real time" as he scrimps scrapes and survives in the post-war environment having basically slept through the end of the world.

Spoiler: verboose synopsis, yes it does contain spoilers • show

after having slept through the Apocalypse the protagonist awakens to find the world has drastically changed, and after sheltering in place for what is later discovered to be far longer than he needed to he ends up linking up with other survivors, making his way across the state of california to his hometown only to be exiled. Eventually he links up with military remnants and mobilized national guard troops who are now having to fight a chinese invasion force. He drives a tractor, helps confirm and relocated supply caches, ends up harassing chinese military on the coast before heading inland on a "secret" mission which turns out to be a spies like us twist where the team he's with is the distraction team meant to draw heat from the Chinese invasion forces while the actual team does their job.

Then the US version of the deadhand mutually assured destruction system (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_Hand_(nuclear_war)) activates ending the first "blastwave" on July fourth 2013. Also known as N-day by the survivors.

The second arc starts One year three months and twenty seven days later (though admittedly I did post filler, teasers and time displaced posts in the interim) and recounts just how the protagonist survived the second bath of atomic fire and just what has happened following all that and how much the world has changed the and fallout of the second string of strikes, eruption of Yellowstone and the emergence of magical abilities in the populace as well as the discovery of varying anomalies both in and out of the ashlands where no one but the roughest survivors dare to walk. Largely is it believed nothing is alive in the the ashlands, or further to the east but no one has made it that far and lived to tell the tale, however in the second arc the protagonist makes his way not only out of the ashlands, but ends up returning twice to the very heart of the ashlands to the now very active yellowstone caldera and discovers strange new organisms and forms of magic. The second arc closes after a timeskip after the protagonist and accompanying ecological survey team sets up camp in a temporal anomoly and one of the members ends up angering one of the denizens of the ashlands, only to be killed an remade for his trouble.

The third blastwave arc strangely enough has only just now started after a four month lull of malaise where the protagonist, more or less had nothing worthwhile to post about, however (teaser from here on out, and subject to change:) the drums of war have started to beat once more as the fledgling California Republic and Salt Lake Confederations ideologies begin to spark against each other and the military remnants known as The Order desperately try to keep the careful peace between them.... meanwhile.. ancient and timeless beings begin to make their presence known in the ashlands.

And yes, I do actually have things planned out through 2018... ish.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 24, 2017, 01:22:09 AM

I started something here (http://archiveofourown.org/works/11592351/chapters/26054628).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Solokov on August 02, 2017, 02:07:31 AM

The latest Blastwave (http://blogwiththeblastwave.blogspot.com/2017/08/sometimes-truth-is-stranger-than-fiction.html) post is live... you could say my real life experiences in Elko nevada was a little... "inspiring" on this one.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Purple Wyrm on September 06, 2017, 09:14:06 AM

I've finally got myself organised enough to start on something I've been meaning to do for ages, which is post some of my old Stargate SG1 fanfic on AO3. There's just one so far - the first piece of fanfic I ever wrote as it happens - but there's (some) more to come!

The Coffee Table of the Gods (https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015780)

Edit: And I've put another one up!

One Swingin' Night at the Dull Bar (https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040071)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 19, 2018, 02:16:23 PM

I wrote a Girl Genius fanfic as a treat in the AO3 Chocolate Box 2018, featuriing one of my all-time favourite characters, Mamma Gkika. Some of you may enjoy it as well: Special Delivery (http://archiveofourown.org/works/13511532)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 19, 2018, 04:02:21 PM

Heh, I was fairly sure that was you! Thank you, it was great fun.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Solokov on March 11, 2018, 03:20:29 AM

Kallasar of the Iron Tiger Chapter 29 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7707919/chapters/32075805) and Chapter 30 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7707919/chapters/32075850) are now up. Chapter 31 is being worked on, it's either going to be a Reynir chapter or a Viserys chapter....considering I have more of the reynir chapter done, probably the first.

I'm kinda flying solo now, not so much due to an argument between writers but more due to malaise I suppose...I at least want to get the first "book" completed anyway.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 05, 2018, 02:30:05 AM

So, as part of April's Camp NaNoWriMo, I'm going back to the Saga of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion, dumping it on AO3 as I complete each bit, and linking it here for you ignore.

First link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/32778183)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on April 05, 2018, 01:14:58 PM

Sorry, LooNEY, but I'm going to ignore your suggestion that I ignore your work. ;)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 05, 2018, 08:26:36 PM

Likewise. It's a good story.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 07, 2018, 01:58:53 PM

Second link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/32845170)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 08, 2018, 01:51:36 PM

Third link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/32875893)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on April 13, 2018, 05:56:10 AM

Intriguing - I'm new to the story, so I'll have to go back and see the earlier parts of the series.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 13, 2018, 11:14:26 PM

Quote from: wavewright62 on April 13, 2018, 05:56:10 AM

Intriguing - I'm new to the story, so I'll have to go back and see the earlier parts of the series.

/me drops set of links under spoiler and runs

Spoiler: AO3 Links • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 15, 2018, 12:11:08 AM

Next link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/33048924)
and
Bonus link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317494/chapters/33047226) to the next bit of something I thought I'd never start back up.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 17, 2018, 12:05:56 AM

Next link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/33109068)
and
Bonus link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317578/chapters/33083784) to something else I've been blocked on.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on April 17, 2018, 02:07:32 AM

It's good that, having been blocked, you could parry and riposte.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 21, 2018, 09:31:32 PM

Next link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/33234942)
and
(nothing graphic, but seriously bad stuff is mentioned)
Two (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317494/chapters/33213528) bonus links (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317578/chapters/33224145)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Ragnarok on April 21, 2018, 09:44:55 PM

Thinking of this, would anyone be willing to beta something WrittenEmber and I have cooked up? We've written quite a lot (three books worth, and have plots laid out for more!) but getting fresh eyes on a story is always good.

For anyone interested, it's a fantasy/sci-fi mix, heavier on the fantasy with the sci-fi bit's intrusion catalyzing a good chunk of the plot. Features plenty of fluff mixed with heavy quantities of suffering to balance it out. Some fairly heavy violence warnings, especially if you stick around for the second book, but nothing you wouldn't see in an R- or even PG-13 movie nowadays.

Anyone who's interested, PM me and I'll get you a link to the Google Doc.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on May 21, 2018, 04:57:33 PM

I finished Portents (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317494/chapters/22813973) and Wandering (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317578/chapters/22814153).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 21, 2018, 06:36:27 PM

Ooh, good! I shall re-read.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on May 23, 2018, 03:43:52 PM

The next bit (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/34072085) of "The Reluctant King" is up.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on June 19, 2018, 07:35:43 AM

And the long-delayed finale (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218212/chapters/34705001) of "The Reluctant King" has been posted.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 03, 2018, 04:25:55 PM

Well, here goes: I'm doing the main NaNoWriMo this year, and what I'm starting out with is THE BOOK OF THE MEDALLION!

And to show that M1: "The Return of the Medallion" is well under way, these links:
Chapter 1: Adrift No More (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38669126)
Chapter 2: Surprised by Joy (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38669261)
Chapter 3: Well, Here We Go Again… (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38669387)
Chapter 4: …And--Loving It! (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38669480)

Now watch me crash and burn before the month is out.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 03, 2018, 06:16:25 PM

Another bit done...
Chapter 5: Forged, But Not Counterfeit (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38672798)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 03, 2018, 08:23:20 PM

And another:
Chapter 6: Victory from Defeat, and Vice Versa (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38675825)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on November 04, 2018, 10:05:09 AM

Well, looks like I've finally found a place to share my short (literally - only 9 pages) story!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LGGCuohMy8h6TtcyLeJMSYlnqzel6w0TeyQ6R82eSTA/edit?usp=sharing (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LGGCuohMy8h6TtcyLeJMSYlnqzel6w0TeyQ6R82eSTA/edit?usp=sharing)

Enjoy if you can, Minnions, and try not to laugh too hard.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 04, 2018, 10:24:01 AM

Quote from: RanVor on November 04, 2018, 10:05:09 AM

Well, looks like I've finally found a place to share my short (literally - only 9 pages) story!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LGGCuohMy8h6TtcyLeJMSYlnqzel6w0TeyQ6R82eSTA/edit?usp=sharing (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LGGCuohMy8h6TtcyLeJMSYlnqzel6w0TeyQ6R82eSTA/edit?usp=sharing)

Enjoy if you can, Minnions, and try not to laugh too hard.

I read it, and I'll send you a PM about it, but in brief: not laughing.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 04, 2018, 11:40:09 AM

And the penultimate chapter of this first story has been posted:

Chapter 7: Blundering On (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38693777)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 04, 2018, 01:37:30 PM

The first story ends here:
Chapter 8: That Which Is to Come (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509599/chapters/38696117)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 04, 2018, 02:50:36 PM

And the second story begins here:
M2: King Under the Mountain: Being the Eighteenth Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion

Chapter 1: Picking Up and Packing Up (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38697737)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 04, 2018, 05:57:50 PM

And here's the next bit:
Chapter 2: A Special Task (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38703953)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 05, 2018, 05:48:33 PM

Story Two rolls on:
Chapter 3: The Ancient City in the Depths (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38732720)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 05, 2018, 06:33:28 PM

And here's another bit:
Chapter 4: The Ancient Depths in the City (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38733752)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 05, 2018, 07:36:45 PM

More Story 2:
Chapter 5: A Protector's Duty (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38735168)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 06, 2018, 06:01:46 PM

This was not quite what I thought it would be, but still:
Chapter 6: Rounds Chambered or Chambers Rounded? (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38758139)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 06, 2018, 07:58:07 PM

Our Hero is in more hot water than he'd expected:
Chapter 7: By Election, by Acclaim, by Proclamation, and by Strength of Arms, King (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38760560)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 06, 2018, 11:04:57 PM

Story Two ends and my day with it:
Chapter 8: Well, That Happened… (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520699/chapters/38764946)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 07, 2018, 06:59:43 PM

Get ready...
M3: Raiders of the Tossed Mark
Chapter 1: Scowrers Scouring (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38784467)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 07, 2018, 08:01:16 PM

More uneven and even odd stuff...
Chapter 2: Alter Idem (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38785814)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on November 07, 2018, 08:03:45 PM

LooNEY, I enjoy your stories - both the waiting to see what comes next, and the way you have such fun with language. I grew up in a family that played with words in much the same way.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 07, 2018, 08:25:32 PM

What Buteo said, all of it. LooNEY, I like how you play with language.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 07, 2018, 09:19:04 PM

It is the curse of being LooNEY.
But here's the next bit:
Chapter 3: Doppel's Gang (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38787509)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 08, 2018, 02:30:40 AM

Sliding under the wire here...
Chapter 4: The Kingdom of Krystallnacht (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38793131)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 08, 2018, 08:56:43 PM

And the rip-offs continue, as demonstrated by the title:
Chapter 5: A Study in Scarlet Pimpernels (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38811218)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 09, 2018, 07:51:16 PM

Here's a pair of chapters after yesterday's delay:
Chapter 6: The Voice of Terror by Night (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38834660)
Chapter 7: High as Haman (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38834801)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 10, 2018, 09:43:57 AM

And Story Three (or the Book of Esther Redux) comes to an end:
Chapter 8: The Festival of Funny Hats (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553876/chapters/38848289)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 10, 2018, 09:55:42 PM

Time and past time for Story Four to commence!
M4: …Nor the Battle to the Strong
Chapter 1: More Rounds Held in a Square Ring (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38865719)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 11, 2018, 08:45:50 AM

More Story Four:
Chapter 2: Sheep versus the Herd (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38876552)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 11, 2018, 10:54:23 AM

Here I go again...
Chapter 3: A Spork in Their Wheels Within Wheels (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38879420)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 11, 2018, 12:38:21 PM

And it rolls along...
Chapter 4: Shift, Space and Carriage Return (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38881853)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 12, 2018, 10:54:36 AM

In which the cliffhanger from the last chapter is left unresolved...
Chapter 5: Before the Music Stops (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38910287)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 12, 2018, 05:33:56 PM

More stringing you along, but with a battle chapter...
Chapter 6: Press Telegraph Morning Edition (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38919848)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 13, 2018, 01:48:02 AM

And the cliffhanger is finally resolved...
Chapter 7: Beasts Bested (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38931251)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 13, 2018, 05:43:14 PM

And Story Four comes to a most disquieting end...
Chapter 8: Big Clam Bakes for Small Fry (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584602/chapters/38946431)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 13, 2018, 07:32:13 PM

And a new story (which is really a pretty old story) begins:
M5: Old Wounds
Chapter 1: A Sacrifice Offered (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/38948633)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 13, 2018, 09:38:18 PM

One more chapter tonight...
Chapter 2: Penance (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/38951363)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 14, 2018, 07:56:49 PM

Here's another chapter in the slog:
Chapter 3: Scars Laid Bare (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/38974967)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 17, 2018, 09:44:50 AM

Slogging on...
Chapter 4: All My Sins Remembered (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/39037039)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 17, 2018, 10:46:10 AM

More slog...
Chapter 5: Contrition (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/39038215)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 17, 2018, 07:00:01 PM

Slooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooog...
Chapter 6: Confession (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/39048646)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 17, 2018, 10:20:21 PM

In which trust is defined and displayed...
Chapter 7: Atonement (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/39053263)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 17, 2018, 11:34:58 PM

And the slog finally ends...
Chapter 8: Absolution (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616150/chapters/39055237)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 18, 2018, 09:43:30 PM

Starting off with a twofer. Note: I put the "Behold My Insanity" tag on this one for a reason...
M6: Riddles & Fiddles & a Few Bagpipes, Too
Chapter 1: Fey’d Away (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39080719)
Chapter 2: The Games Begin (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39081001)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on November 20, 2018, 02:57:04 AM

I have finished the prologue to my (as of yet untitled) fantasy novel. It can be read here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oytAlsHkG6kknqiQ8Y2jwd900NHCaDCrI5meeL5nmz0/edit?usp=sharing (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oytAlsHkG6kknqiQ8Y2jwd900NHCaDCrI5meeL5nmz0/edit?usp=sharing).

This is a prologue, so there's more to come. The caveat is, I write VERY slowly. I will post the first chapter as soon as it's finished, but it might not be anytime soon.

Anyway, enjoy (or not) and let me know what you think!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 24, 2018, 03:02:30 PM

Speaking of writing slowly... guess what's DONE!

Chapter 3: Do You Like Good Music? (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239025)
Chapter 4: The Art of Cooperative Competition (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239184)
Chapter 5: Ex Machinations (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239274)
Chapter 6: The Twist in the Tale (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239421)
Chapter 7: Sword Losers (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239649)
Chapter 8: Run Away, Fey! (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666549/chapters/39239724)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Solokov on January 13, 2019, 07:39:09 AM

The Khallasar of the Iron Tiger has updated.
Chapter 31: Eddard III (https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707919/chapters/40850495)
Chapter 32: Tyrion IV (https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707919/chapters/40966868)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on January 14, 2019, 10:09:50 PM

Woo-hoo! to getting decent writing done, no matter what your pace.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 05, 2019, 07:35:04 AM

For the few who like these, here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668883/)'s the next part of the Coin.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 19, 2019, 04:16:37 PM

And here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42133958)'s the start of the next part of the Sword.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 19, 2019, 04:22:53 PM

And here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42134129) (much too soon, I know) is the next bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 20, 2019, 10:35:44 PM

Well, here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42172073)'s the next bit.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 21, 2019, 09:57:04 PM

Somebody asked for fan fic of one of my all-time favourite books, James Thurber's "The 13 Clocks" for the recent Chocolate Box gift exchange. I had to oblige.
Spies Three, Two Soon to Be (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17752691)

Somebody else tickled my fancy with a prompt for a crossover of Hermione Granger & Ms Frizzle of the Magic School Bus! I know, right? They gave many options of how to play it, but you'll see which one I chose.
Hermione Prepares for Her New Assignment (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822561)

All G-Rated fluff.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 28, 2019, 02:44:13 PM

Look look look! I made a drawing of Tolkien's Goldberry for the Trick or Treat exchange, wherein she is singing a prayer, but I did not attempt to write this prayer. Well. The ever-delightful Róisín has obliged, and I think it well outstrips the illustration.

GOLDBERRY’S AUTUMN PRAYER

Gold and red the Autumn leaves
Drift on the flowing water.
Green and gold, the Willow weaves
Songs for the River-Daughter.

Gods of Water, Earth, and Sky,
Of life and death unending
Hear now this song I sing for you
Under the Willow bending.

The land prepares for Winter’s sleep.
Under a coat of snow
The roots will slumber, buried deep
The sleeping seeds below.

Dead leaves will rot and feed the soil.
In the warm dark beneath
The fungi and the earthworms toil
Shaping new life from death.

Over and over, so it goes:
Life, death, and life again.
Dead leaves and dung feed summer’s rose.
The death of grass feeds men.

Soon will my love come home and bring
A waterlily bloom
To keep all Winter while I sing
In my green and quiet room.

Reminding me of Summer’s glow
And Autumn’s rich decay,
Until Spring’s flowers burst through the snow.

Now my Autumn prayer I will pray.

(https://i.imgur.com/nNE5K5A.jpg)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nellie McEnt on February 28, 2019, 06:38:49 PM

Those are amazing, the both of you! I love them so much; you're both seriously talented.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 03, 2019, 04:42:53 PM

/me sighs

Quote from: Nellie McEnt on February 28, 2019, 06:38:49 PM

Those are amazing, the both of you! I love them so much; you're both seriously talented.

Which is both true and my cue to lower the talent level in the thread with more of my stuff:
Chapter 4 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42493268)
Chapter 5 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42493364)
Chapter 6 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42493769)
/me sighs again

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 11, 2019, 07:33:02 AM

And here's an end, sort of:
Chapter 7 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42720728)
Chapter 8 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814/chapters/42720776)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Windfighter on March 24, 2019, 09:04:34 PM

I attempted to write for a new fandom today, so have my first venture into the world of Marvel:

Spoiler: Hot Chocolate, a hurt/comfort-story • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Nellie McEnt on March 24, 2019, 09:54:59 PM

Windy, I love it! (Also, I totally guessed it would be Tony. I should have called it before reading it.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Ragnarok on March 25, 2019, 09:17:17 AM

*scoots in*
*hurls fanfic in (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368542/chapters/38306252)*

Short version: If anyone here has watched/read One Piece, prepare for something set in that world, but not following the journey of canon. Kinda dark (in traditional One Piece style of horrifying backstories) and a great deal of gore, so fair warning.

*scoots out*

Title: Eunice's Matches
Post by: Snoots Dwagon on March 31, 2019, 11:38:35 PM

Róisín talked me into posting one of my poems here. She hasn't read it, just talked me into posting one. So I gives it a shot. :D

Eunice’s Matches
Copyright April 2017

How does one choose to forgive
To shun the past, let others live?
To embrace life and heal the burn:
The things that make one's stomach turn.

Eunice had with time and fact
Tried to keep her mind intact.
Waken, dress, ignore the pain.
And then tomorrow, start again.

But Eunice was all torn inside.
A mental cloth where she could hide
Ripped and tattered, holes and chafe
That she would wear to keep her safe.

Those around her could not see
The things she hid, the terrors three.
For if she kept her face a mask
None would question; none would ask.

Three things did her torment make
And which at night kept her awake.
Abuse, harsh words, the cigarette burns
Were all how Eunice grew and learned.

Now on her desk she kept a box
Made with latches, closed with locks.
Containing little books of matches
She'd acquired in bits and snatches.

Taken here, pilfered there
Matches came from everywhere.
A tiny theft, never detected.
No one knew, no one suspected.

The box was there, like chair and door,
Decoration, nothing more.
As lamp or desk that she'd acquire
And which she'd bind with bits of wire.
Such could stay within her care
If no one knew that they were there.

The plans she kept inside her head
For none to find or fill with dread.
Each step engraved within her mind
To pay back evil deeds, in kind.
For every scar, for every burn
For every wicked, hateful turn.
A match for that. A match for this.
A sudden spark, a warning hiss.

Eunice sought to quell her thoughts
To rid herself of what was wrought.
The flame would cleanse,
the flame would heal.
And make her past not really real.

She packed her plastic bag with matches.
Bottled fuel and box with latches.
The map well etched inside her mind,
She left her timid world behind.

The house now old, she knew so well
Where monsters live. Where evils dwell.
She crept to door and windowsill.
Subduing sudden dread and chill.

The bottle corked now opened wide.
Eunice spread the fuel outside.
She spread it here, and there, and there
Where fluid fell, she did not care.

So when she lit the sudden flame
She did not need to strike again.
A spark, a rush, a gust of wind
The flame roared out and seared her skin.
The fire climbed with all its might
And filled the air with garish light.

Fire and flame could evils cease;
As tinder caught, they found release.
There was no chance for those inside
So trapped within, the monsters died.

Eunice watched the flames with glee.
For now she'd have no memory.
She'd show no scars and feel no pain.
They’d never bother her again.

Then as a grim smile crossed her face,
Her thoughts released-- her mind erased.

The people ran to find her there
With empty look and vacant stare.
For where there once was hidden pain
Was now all gone, no thought remained.

The memories' harsh, discordant choir
Had been removed by flame and fire.
There was no pain, nor truly peace.
All within had come to cease.
The mental cloth with rips and patches
All burned up with Eunice's matches.

-o-

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 31, 2019, 11:50:33 PM

Wow! Dark and scary, but a well crafted horror story! Worth reading.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Snoots Dwagon on March 31, 2019, 11:55:33 PM

My pomes not all so eerie. That one just popped to mind. Figured I'd try the shocker first. Mwahahahaa...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 01, 2019, 01:54:49 AM

Was Ogden Nash perhaps a formative influence on your verse?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Snoots Dwagon on April 01, 2019, 01:11:26 PM

Dunno who Ogden Nash is. I just write stuff. :D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 01, 2019, 11:12:02 PM

American humorous and satirical poet. Blackly funny, and given to cautionary tales. Another poet you might find interesting was Hilaire Belloc, also given to blackly humorous moral tales.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Windfighter on April 16, 2019, 01:57:56 AM

Wrote another Avengers fanfic I'm stupidly proud over, mostly because it was pretty much the opposit of my comfort-zone and it still ended up pretty well!
(what even is the opposit of whump? Hopefully this)

Shut up and dance with me (https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475876)
It's time for the Avengers to retire and of course Tony sets up a huge party in order to see them off.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: JoB on April 17, 2019, 09:09:10 PM

I've never done much creative work in the first place, but this week, I had to do a long-distance car drive with nothing to do but strangling the steering wheel for a total of ~12h ... and somehow got hooked on the idea of "if someone where to spec these two protagonists and the basic plot between them, but forbade the story to ever say any of that out loud, would it be possible to still get the message across in just one of those short short stories you wimp max out at?" So - have fun, and a guess! 8)

King Wincent the Nightmared and His Bestiary

Verdine looked down at the figure helplessly suspended in front of her chest. "The proper place for the entire lot of them," my brethren would say, she thought. She did not share that opinion, but this one of the rare half-eyed among the blind had tried nothing less than to make her into his tool. That should certainly earn him an exception.
She had been so surprised at this audacity that she didn't even think of fighting back at first, and once she had regained her senses and noticed how inadequate his means were, she had continued to play along. As she had suspected, it took only a couple more days until he grew bold enough to seek out and intercept the local king's caravan, thinking the crown up to him for grabs.
While the fool yelled out his challenge, having brought along nothing but Verdine to back his threats, she had had a long look at the chariots slowly, one after the other, grinding to a halt. Once she had decided that they were standing in front of a satisfyingly large audience for a reminder of a couple things they are not meant to meddle with, the "enthralled beast" had simply dropped the charade and interrupted its "captor" in mid-sentence.
"Now, you robe-wrapped wannabe," she spoke again, mixing smoke and embers into her breath so that his kinfolk wouldn't mistake her unchangeable face and voice for an absence of anger. "Do you have a wish as to how many triplets of legs you'ld like to have, once I'm done making you into an example of what can be done by wielding the powers properly?"

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on October 08, 2019, 09:10:29 AM

Roisin recommended I put my poem about hydrocarbon fuels here as well, so I may as well do it.

And yes. It’s a poem about hydrocarbon fuels. Semi-inspired by all the poetry in the comments, and also my brain thinking ‘my science class won’t see this coming.’ And they won’t.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VL_khLgR88rWEaPy_aYYWlGYhXH1uMXQr5vOYsEW9zI

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on October 24, 2019, 08:51:26 AM

I was walking down by the beach this afternoon and for some reason I started composing a poem. Interpret its vaguely ominous words however you wish.

Don’t tarry in the woods alone
For sharp is leaf and sharp is stone
And sharper still the shadows’ bite
Before the seeds of dawn are sown

Don’t tarry in the fields at night
For though the stars may cast their light
Their shine does naught to banish those
Who only flee from sunlight bright

Don’t tarry by the shore at dawn
When wind and waves will softly mourn
The ghosts of mem’ries passed away
In songs alluring, long forlorn

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Snoots Dwagon on October 24, 2019, 02:07:33 PM

Ohhh likes that one Emily. I especially like the unusual rhyming scheme which gives it an even more odd feeling. Well done! : )

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 24, 2019, 10:48:50 PM

Emily-Rose, your last two poems are lovely, with this new one being beautiful, meditative and creepy.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on January 16, 2020, 07:10:59 AM

I wrote some poetry while I was away.

This one’s inspired by a late-night beach trip:

The wave-tops crashing whisper low
On pale and powdered sand
The water dark, it twists and flows
As by the shore I stand
On this still and slowly greying night
In this dim and ever-darkening light

The half-moon casts a golden glow
On sand and sea to lie
Like the port-lights down below
The hunter in the sky
On this still and softly flowing night
In this dim and ever-distant light

And soon, too soon, the dawn will break
Though here it seems so far
But as for now, I’ll stay and wait
And watch the waves and stars
On this still and swiftly passing night
In this dim and ever-dreaming light

...

This poem was written at sunset. We were staying in Esperance, and quite a lot of the smoke from the fires in the Goldfields and the Nullarbor had blown over, so the sky was very hazy. Thankfully those fires were not in very populated areas, but the Eyre highway, the only sealed road that connects South Australia with Western Australia, was blocked, so a lot of people and trucks got stuck. This also gave me some interesting driving experience involving winding country roads and large convoys of road trains going the other way.

Fallen from a browned and hazy sky
Across the waves a glist’ning ribbon lies
That shimmers in its golden, twisting dance
And sends its sparks like embers set a fly

And like a trail, it leads into the west
To touch the sun ‘til ‘neath the hills it sets

...

This poem was written while I was staying at a friend’s vineyard near the town where I grew up and lived in for eleven years. It’s a place that I still love, but it’s also a place where I experienced a lot of pain and loneliness, so my feelings about it are... mixed. I don’t think this poem is as well-written as the others, but it was something I needed to write.

I miss the streets I saw each day
each house and turn I know
I miss the forest paths well-trod
where young and bright we’d go
I miss the flowers rare and small
the trees with reaching arms
I miss the quiet of the night
the bright and glitt’ring stars

And coming back, I miss them even more
For this is not the home it was before

I left the places that I loved
the people that I knew
I left the ones who saw me as
the brightest in the room
I left the twisting social dance
that always felt quite wrong
I left the lonely girl behind
who never quite belonged

And coming back, the things I left behind
Will haunt me still, though futures I will find

I am the girl whose heart belongs
to friends and city lights
Yet also still to forests tall
and quiet, starlit nights
I am the one who’s changed so much
while much here seems the same
Not many here will know me soon
though most still know my name

And coming back, I know my heart still yearns
For what I miss, but I cannot return

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 16, 2020, 10:25:38 AM

You poetry is very fine. You catch well the feel of the land.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on January 16, 2020, 02:43:29 PM

These are all excellent poems. I think you should take the spoiler off, though. I've taken to heart a complaint someone made in the Art Museum thread, about their frustration in going back at another time and finding a work they loved. They felt frustrated by having to stop, find the spoilers, and take time opening and closing them.
For this work, a quick scan past would look like a reply post, and perhaps miss some mighty fine poetry.
YMMV.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Snoots Dwagon on January 16, 2020, 05:04:43 PM

I agree. Providing spoilers is a kind thought (especially on a board like IMDB) but I doubt is much needed here. If people find these forums... they likely have already read SSSS. ;D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on January 16, 2020, 07:29:34 PM

Thank you, Wavewright and Roisin! Wavewright and Snoots, I’ve taken your advice and removed the spoiler. I guess I like them because I ... ha ... like the feeling of clicking it and having it reveal stuff, but what you said makes sense, and looking at it now, the post wasn’t that long.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 04, 2020, 06:51:50 AM

If anyone would be so kind as to follow this link (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oeMWK_jvxZjZrbuMbkHyoi8IONjAmtFQMZla8iA6rZ4/edit?usp=sharing) (et seq), read the content, and fill out the questionnaires (yes, plural--one for each doc you look over), I would be much obliged to you.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on February 04, 2020, 08:15:15 AM

Looney, I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed both introductions (and done the questionnaire), but there’s one thing that made me laugh a little that I thought I’d mention here - you obviously have a different accent from me, and thus pronounce ‘dog’ ‘dahg’. I found this amusing. What can I say.

But yeah, it’s really great! I love the historical and linguistic(al?) commentary.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 04, 2020, 06:23:02 PM

/me notes use of singular in "questionnaire"
/me goes back to edit prior post for clarification
Thank you!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 09, 2020, 05:01:49 PM

Thinking about it, I think I should mention that the first few documents are substantially expanded from what I put on AO3 (not that that improves them that much, but still).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 03, 2020, 07:15:19 AM

I, uh, I wrote a poem. It's only the first part of a series - I think there will be four or five. Maybe. But here it is, anyway.

1

sand grains are rough between your fingers.
sitting above the high-tide mark, salt-stiff towel around your shoulders

you pull your knees
to your chest
and wait.

they return with tales of wonder
green fish darting through the seaweed, velvet-black ghosts beneath the rocks
spied through the glass of a snorkel-mask
they drip salt-bitter water onto your towel

you wish you were brave enough to follow
as they run back into the ice-cold water
faces lit by the summer sun
you wish your face could light up like theirs
wish that the churn of the waves
didn't turn your throat
to stone

fear swirls in the purple-dark patches of seaweed
tossing you over and under, salt-water filling your lungs
spluttering and gasping for breath

in your dreams, you fall off the jetty
and sink down
down
through the green-glass water
until you lie on the sand-smooth floor.
there is no point swimming upwards
you were never a good swimmer, anyway

you wake up
you wake up and they bring you back down to the ocean
you sit on the sand, and it is rough between your fingers
you wrap a towel around your shoulders
pull your knees to your chest
and wait

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Alkia on March 03, 2020, 08:04:38 AM

wow, this is beautiful. Your descriptions totally plunge me into the world and emotion of this poem ("fear swirls in the purple-dark patches of seaweed", "wish that the churn of waves didn't turn your throat to stone"). Whether this is based on personal experience or made up, it's very evocative. I can't wait to see more!!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 03, 2020, 10:06:39 AM

Wow. Just wow! Is the drowning a thing you have lived? I have experienced near drowning three times, and that is a good description of how it can feel.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on March 03, 2020, 02:36:37 PM

I agree with Alkia and Róisín! It’s feels very very real, I also immediately assumed it’s based on personal experience or one that has been told you, repeatedly, by someone close. It’s also beautiful although sad. Well done!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 04, 2020, 06:03:50 AM

Thank you! Yes, the poem is based off experience - I had a couple of near-drowning experiences as a young child, and it gave me a fear of the ocean (coupled with nightmares about falling into deep water), which was difficult as my family would often go to the beach. I'd be too scared to swim out deep and I'd sit on the sand feeling a mixture of guilt and regret - why can't I just get the guts to go out there? how am I such a coward? it seemed so fun when they talk about it but any fun I might have had out there was swamped by the fear and the intense desire to swim very fast back to shore.

Anyway. I think the poem's going to be part of a series - my personal growth relating to the ocean as a metaphor for my personal growth as a whole? Something like that. It's taken me a lot of time and effort to face my fears regarding the ocean, and I still feel guilt sometimes that I'm not confident enough to go deeper or further. But like... that's okay, and y'know? I've come a long way from being the child sitting on the sand.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 04, 2020, 11:25:55 PM

Sounds like a good series. Hope to read it.

And I understand about the near-drowning bit: nothing else feels quite the same. I’ve had three such experiences. First was in my teens, when my dad asked me to help him to teach my new stepsister to swim. My own mother had died when I was a very small child and my brother only two years older, and long afterward dad had married a cousin of my mother who was a war widow with one child, who was younger than we were. She and dad then went on to have three more of their own. I already knew the stepsister as a cousin, but had never realised that she couldn’t swim.

She was a hefty eight year old. I was small for my age of about fifteen. My job was to stand in the river between her and the deep water, catch her as she swam between us and turn her back to dad, and stop her from going into the deep part of the river. That should have been doable. But she was flailing, reached me, flung her arms around my neck, pushing me back into the deep water, and sank like a rock. If I kept her head above water, given the amount of thrashing going on, I couldn’t hold mine up. Dad rescued us both.

The next time was in your part of the world, off the coast of WA. I was helping a mate who was trying to document and photograph an old wreck there, before it tipped completely over the edge of an underwater cliff and went down too deep to be reached. I’m useless at photography, but fairly good at carrying extra cameras and gear and doing shark watch, so that was what I was doing when a freak wave rolled in, picked us and our gear up as if we weighed nothing, and flung us randomly between rolling along the seafloor and popping up to the surface. Somewhere in the process I blew an eardrum, the one that still gives me trouble nowadays, which added nausea and disorientation to an already unpleasant situation, and again very nearly drowned.

Final time was at a swimming pool in a mining town in outback Queensland. I was standing at the edge of the pool with my toddler son on my shoulders, watching his three big sisters play in the pool with their dad, when one of the local louts thought it would be amusing to grab my ankles and pull me in. My son went flying, and landed in the water where his sisters rescued him, but I hit my head on the lip of the pool as I went down hard, and concussed and bleeding, nearly drowned before I was got out. Oddly enough, that son was the one who grew up to be a mad keen swimmer and surfer.

So yeah, all too familiar with the sensations of drowning.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 05, 2020, 03:51:31 AM

I can definitely see how the freak wave event would happen. A lot of our coastline is pretty rough and rocky, and you always see the signs warning about freak waves, and how they can happen any time. At this point it's ingrained in my brain. For a couple years there was also an ad on tv about rock fishing safety. The danger of our coast was probably another thing that contributed to my fear/apprehension towards the ocean as a child - the ocean was always unpredictable and dangerous. Now I've moved up to the city where the coastline is smoother, the waves are smaller and the water is warmer, it's weird not to have all that potential danger surrounding the ocean.

Also, did you know that in swimming lessons nowadays, they teach people that when they're trying to rescue someone that's thrashing, they should do this weird feet-first kick thing so the person doesn't grab onto them and drag them down? Of course, that knowledge probably wouldn't've helped much in your particular situation, but I can see why they'd want to teach it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 05, 2020, 06:02:41 AM

Teaching that kick is a very good idea!

I was familiar with unexpected waves, having lived part of my childhood on the west coast of Ireland, and done rock fishing there as well as in Victoria and Tasmania, but wasn’t expecting one a mile or so out to sea, especially when I was underwater at the time. I did wonder if it came from a tsunami or an underwater rockslide.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 20, 2020, 09:16:47 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on February 04, 2020, 06:51:50 AM

If anyone would be so kind as to follow this link (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oeMWK_jvxZjZrbuMbkHyoi8IONjAmtFQMZla8iA6rZ4/edit?usp=sharing) (et seq), read the content, and fill out the questionnaires (yes, plural--one for each doc you look over), I would be much obliged to you.

Reposting for those with unexpected free time on their hands.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on March 21, 2020, 01:18:02 PM

Looney_DAC, the questionnaire didn’t open for me, I’m sorry!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 21, 2020, 08:04:50 PM

Quote from: Jitter on March 21, 2020, 01:18:02 PM

Looney_DAC, the questionnaire didn’t open for me, I’m sorry!

OK: I rushed off to my other computer where I'm not logged in, and it looks like GoogleDocs made the process of following links unnecessarily complicated (unless I just messed it up somehow). To follow the links, single click them and click on the blue alt-texty thing that (hopefully) pops up (or copy and paste if you want to be really convoluted).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on March 24, 2020, 06:26:56 AM

Here's the first of two short stories that share a common inspiration - I'll explain when I post the second one.

LIFEKILLER

It had no name and no identity, but it had a purpose.

The great blue planet drifted into the solar system, drawn by the light of the blazing yellow mass at its centre. It knew that such stars were likely to have attendant planets, which meant a much higher probability of finding its objective, so it probed the subtle shifts in gravity as it drew nearer the star.

There were several larger masses, too far out and too large to be viable. Closer in there were more likely targets, and one that lay at the right distance, and was of the right size.

With a subtle mass ejection, the blue planet shifted its course to pass the third planet, and opened its more precise sensory nodes. In seconds it had the data it required. Lifebearer, one-quarter own diameter, density high.

The blue planet executed another mass ejection, and then another larger one, to bring itself arcing back towards the life-bearing planet. The adjustments were precise, and the target was lined up; dead centre of the blue planet’s mass. It moved inexorably closer, growing larger and larger in the sky of the smaller planet.

The blue planet had no thought of what might be observing it as it drew nearer. It had no identity, and it had no concept of an identity in anything. It simply knew what it had to do.

When it impacted the lifebearer, the blue planet was prepared, softening part of its surface enough to draw the lifebearer in before it shattered. The fragments were swiftly absorbed, and the new mass distributed carefully to maintain the blue planet’s stability.

Had it thought about what it had done, the blue planet would have called it a textbook operation, but it had no idea of judgement. It did what it had to do. Its creators had seen no purpose in giving it higher thought.

With its work done, the blue planet prepared to leave the system. It had another long journey ahead through the interstellar void, but it had no sense of time. It was supremely patient.

There would be other lifebearers to destroy.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 24, 2020, 08:30:39 AM

Ooh, wow... I love where this goes. It's ominous and raises unanswered questions, and there's a sense of mystery and doom. The perspective from which it's written is also really interesting.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on March 24, 2020, 09:10:37 AM

Thanx for that, Keep Looking!

Here's the other story that I promised.

PRESERVER

It had a purpose, and an identity, and it gave itself a name - Preserver.

It had found a yellow star with eight planets, and one of them was a life-bearer, with life well established. Preserver was satisfied. Taking up a home in the debris field distant from the star, it set about making all the necessary preparations.

Drawing in material from around it, Preserver constructed companions and spread them around the system. They came in many forms; messengers, observers, and combatants, and all of them shared its purpose and identity.

Time passed. Preserver watched the lifebearer closely, taking pleasure in the variety of lifeforms in its biosphere. It allowed all of the drones, not merely the observers, to look closely at the world, for they shared its joy. There were moments of regret, such as the impact of a large meteorite that caused mass extinctions, but that was part of the natural order; Preserver could not interfere. When Preserver sensed the rise of sentient life, it felt a special pleasure.

In all that time, Preserver made other preparations, directing combatant drones to attach themselves to sizeable fragments from within the system, and others to surround themselves with clouds of smaller fragments. It raised a multitude of possible scenarios, and calculated the necessary elements to succeed with each one.

Then the time came when it sensed the arrival of what it had been preparing for, as a great blue planet entered the system from interstellar space. Preserver signalled observer drones to view the intruder, and alerted the combatant drones.

The identification was absolute; Lifekiller.

Preserver issued orders, and the combatant drones obeyed.

Suddenly the Lifekiller found itself struck from all sides by clouds of stony fragments that tore into its surface. Its atmosphere was no protection. It could sense the incoming clouds, especially those coming from the inner part of the system, and it sprayed mass ejections to deflect them. But then larger fragments came, objects that no mass ejection could deflect, and the Lifekiller changed its tactics; it needed to replace the mass that it used in defending itself.

The Lifekiller tried to absorb the objects instead; but that forced it to adjust its structure to do so, softening its surface and sub-surface, and the incoming fragments tore deeper, threatening the blue planet’s vital core. It hardened its surface again and maintained its course.

Preserver calculated the Lifekiller’s trajectory. It would miss the lifebearer by a wide margin, and its sensor nodes were blinded, so it would not be able to set an accurate interception course, even though it could sense the lifebearer’s gravity field. But the Lifekiller’s own gravity could affect the lifebearer, possibly throwing it from a stable orbit.

There was only one course of action left. Preserver activated its drives, hurling itself from the debris field across the system towards the Lifekiller. It felt no regret; its purpose had always included the possibility of self-destruction.

In the skies above the lifebearer, it was as if a new star had blazed into life for a brief moment as Preserver and Lifekiller both ceased to exist. Sentient eyes looked up, and marvelled.

***

Lifekiller and Preserver are fix-fics, after a fashion.

Lifekiller was a response to perceived flaws in Lars von Trier's film Melancholia, if which Earth is destroyed when the eponymous planet collides with it; in particular, to this line spoken by the main protagonist Justine (Kirsten Dunst): "...there’s no life anywhere else in the Universe. We’re all alone. And when I say we’re alone, we’re alone. Life is only on Earth, and not for long." The events of the film leading up to Melancholia's collision with Earth only make sense if the planet in intelligently guided, which of course means that Justine is wrong.

Preserver is a little bit more upbeat, in that the Lifekiller has a counter; a force that defends intelligent life. I had written a coda in which Preserver rebuilds itself to continue is task, and there is a moment of introspection from Preserver that reveals how its builders wiped out the race that built the Lifekillers, providing a nasty sting in the tail; but I decided to omit that.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on March 27, 2020, 07:57:16 AM

THE WAY BACK

The guards at the scan-grid reacted pretty much as I had expected.
“Please step over here, sir.”
I’d seen the surprised looks from the console operators and the tensing up of the supervisor. I did as she instructed, noticing as I did that the restraint nodes were armed and tracking me, and placed my right hand palm down on the ID reader.
I knew what the display would tell her.

BRECKENRIDGE, JASON CHARLES
DOB 12/08/112
POB CHEIRON BELLATRIX
*** SPECIAL MEDICAL HISTORY***

She took her time reading the medical history, though the restraint nodes had gone offline.
“I understand,” she said finally, and smiled a professional smile. “Welcome home, Mr Breckenridge.”
I didn’t return the smile, but just nodded. My smile can be misunderstood.
And I wasn’t home yet.

Outside the starport, I paused and look up at the night sky, with Aphrodite shining bright just like the Moon over Earth, and to take in the fresh air.
For all that had been done over the past two centuries the air on Earth was still polluted in a way that had stung my nostrils. We hadn’t stunk up Bellatrix.
It would take a little while to get used to the gravity. 1.12Gs may not seem a big difference, but think about it – for the average 70-kilo (at 1G) human, that’s more than eight kilos on you even before you put on your clothes and pick up your shopping.

“Jason?”
It was Carlos Browne, one of the EMTs who’d dragged me out that day.
“Hi, Chuck. You’re looking OK.”
He seemed to be about to reply, paused for a second, and then said, “Debbie asked me to pick you up. Let’s get your luggage and get you home.”
I just nodded.

Home had once been Debbie and me in a house we had put up together, and then where Cammy and Barbie had started to grow up. They were still there, but four years had gone by and… well, I was changed.

“We got reports every six months,” Carlos said as we left the starport. “They said you’d taken the implants well.”
Well, they would say that. All the expense of sending me to Earth for treatment – no-one would admit that there had been any problems.
He hit auto-drive and turned to look at me. His face was anxious.
“Is that true?”
I didn’t look at him.
“That depends… they worked. They repaired me.”
My voice was flat, showing no emotion.
“They said that I’d broken new ground. Forty-four percent implants is a record. Seventy million elmonits, that’s a record too. But there’s always IRS, in one form or another.”
Implant Rejection Syndrome; even when implants – cyber or biosynth or any other replacements – take hold, there’s always a psychological effect; the sense that you’re no longer the same person. Flattened effect was a common symptom. It got worse after that.
“Some repairs – need a different touch.”
I could tell that Carlos was choosing his words carefully.
“We’ll see.”
He hit manual and didn’t say anything else.

The day it all changed, I’d acted as I’d been trained. When the alarm sounded, I suited up and activated emergency protocols.
The problem was, of course, that it was not a standard emergency. The blend of chemicals that resulted from the containment breach was violent in a way that overwhelmed the automatic systems. I had to go to manual control to fight the outbreak and allow evacuation.
When they got me clear, the suit had been breached from my pelvis down, and everything in that area largely burned away. The helmet had been breached too and part of my face had been burned off too, including my left eye. And then my skeleton began to give way; a synergistic effect of the chemical cocktail.
In other times, other places, they’d have given me a peaceful and dignified death.
But with over a thousand people not dying that day – with no-one dying that day – there was a decision taken; I had to live. So…
Titanium and carbon fibre skeleton with biosynth inlay; biosynth replacements for my stomach, spleen, bladder and urethra, and one kidney; full tissue regrowth for my legs – but my eye, not so lucky. For some reason biosynth didn’t take with the eye. So they replaced with a cyber-optic. Problem is, they haven’t developed a suitably miniaturised version, even now, so the left side of my face is weirdly swollen from eye ridge to cheekbone, and the eye itself doesn’t look real at all.
All that, and I activate alarms in scan-grids everywhere.

Carlos didn’t stay once we arrived at the house. He just said, “Call me when you’ve settled back. A lot of the guys want to hear from you.”
Inside, all was quiet. I could smell fresh coffee. The lights were on in the living room.
Debbie was standing by the couch, where Cammy and Barbie were sitting. They’d been eight and six the day of the accident.
“Jason,” said Debbie, “I’m so glad…”
Her voice tailed off, with a slight sob.
“Daddy?” Cammy said.
Barbie was blinking back tears.
“Did they tell you everything about what they did for me on Earth?”
Debbie whispered, “Yes”. The girls just nodded.
I didn’t say anything.
Then Debbie said, “I love you, Jason.”
Cammy said, “I love you, Daddy.”
And Barbie said, “We all love you, Daddy.”
I stumbled across the room to seize them all in a hug as I began to cry tears of joy from my one good eye.
In what mattered, I was still fully human.
And I had come home.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on March 28, 2020, 12:30:57 PM

Quote from: Yastreb on March 24, 2020, 09:10:37 AM

Here's the other story that I promised...

I liked it, Yastreb. A lot. It's rare to see a story that takes in account the difference in perception between other life forms and ours. Both entities in your stories "live" for spans of time completely apart from our (so) short years. Well done! And it could be the start point for a more complex novel, if you wish to venture in that. (Your perspective reminded me of "The Sentinel" by Arthur C. Clarke, that later became the basis for "2001").

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 01, 2020, 04:46:33 AM

A writing group had set a short story challenge: The Monster. This was my attempt.

THE ENEMY

For what seemed like the hundredth time Paul Stepola read over his findings, and set his teeth with a frustrated sigh.
“Two hundred plus case files and almost nothing in common,” he said caustically. “Except two hundred expectant couples with everything to live for.”
From the next workstation, Candace Deveraux gave him a pitying look. “You think your headache is worse than mine? And FYI they had a lot in common, just nothing that would make them vanish. It hasn’t stopped the likes of Jim Garrow and Alex Jones from blaming aliens or al-Qaida, though. And don’t forget, ‘Who is John Galt?’”
“What?”
“Atlas Shrugged. Seriously, there’s been speculation about people sneaking away to a secret enclave somewhere to live free from governments.”

Paul gave a non-committal grunt and made a note. With all the pressure from Director Parker, who was in turn under increasing pressure from Washington, everything had to be considered.
“A lot of sites are blaming Satanists,” said Bill Chester in a weary tone. “Bryan Fisher is leading that charge. Something about abortion rituals to please the Devil.”
Candace groaned. “So how do they explain how come when the couples already had children the kids didn’t get taken as well? That’s over half.”
“Sixty-two percent,” Paul said. He had just finished adding up the figures.
The room fell silent for a time, until Candace asked, “Paul? How’s Jane getting on?”
“Pretty well,” Paul said. “The apartment manager’s been a real help. I just…”
He looked away from the screen, from the entry that noted in the depressingly short list of common features; All females in third trimester (212-260 days). Jane was now 216 days into her pregnancy.
“First kid worries getting you?” Bill chuckled. “Been there, done that.”
“Yeah,” Paul muttered.
Suddenly Candace did a double-take, and peered closely at her screen. “Wait a moment…”
“What is it?” Paul queried.
“Do me a favour, will you? And you, Bob. Look up l’Enemi on your lists. L-apostrophe-e-n-e-m-i.”
Paul flinched. “What is it?”
“Just something hiding in plain sight. Let me know what you find, I’m checking something…”
Paul typed l’enemi into the search window; three results. The chill down his back was stronger.
“I’ve got six hits, Candace,” Bill said. “What is it?”
“Wait one,” she replied. “That’s fourteen hits between us. Not much out of six hundred, but… Here it is. Some kind of, um, gentleman’s club in New Orleans…” She sat back, and her expression was suddenly grim. “I don’t want to have to admit that the conspiracy nuts were on to something! Okay, what do you guys have on your lists about l’Enemi?”

L’Enemi had been a strange place to meet a confidential informant, and it had turned out to be a bust; a paranoid ex-state trooper with wild stories about a Santeria cult terror network. The club was okay, and not cheap. The sex show might have been fine for those who liked woman-on-woman action, but nothing had prepared him for the final act; a woman wearing only high heels with a tarantula as big as a hand crawling over her, shaking it off to skewer it with a heel. Paul, like many people, found spiders scary, even frightening, and it had been an ordeal to stay until he could shake off the informant.

“Jane, honey, are you OK?”
“Nothing’s changed in the last couple of hours,” she replied, with a weak laugh. “What about you?”
“I should be home about six.” He looked over at Candace, who shrugged and mouthed, I checked, it’s OK to go. “Anything I can get for you?”
“Just yourself, hon. Love you.”
“Love you.”

Paul chambered a round in his Sig-Sauer, though keeping the safety on, before leaving the elevator. He could not shake off feeling slightly foolish, but the worry had kept at him ever since Candace had spoken up. You fit the victim profile. Why not be cautious?
He entered the apartment and called out, “I’m back.”
“Good, good.” She sounded a little wheezy. “I dozed off… Can you help me up?”
He walked quickly to the bedroom, and stopped in surprise at the sight of Jane standing by the bed, stark naked, looking blankly at him.
“What’s going…”
Terror struck him like knives in the heart and gut, ripping the breath from his throat, and the roaring in his ears was like a scream as eight jet black eyes stared coldly into his, as the thing that had been Jane and now all but filled the room moved towards him…

The spider loomed over Paul as he lay unconscious, lowering its forebody to sink its fangs into his exposed throat, holding them there as he convulsed weakly and went still.
It waited as his body began to sag within his clothing, as if losing all firmness.
Carefully, it began to feed.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 07, 2020, 08:39:26 AM

And now, a tale that came about because of a throwaway comment during a light-hearted discussion about the Anti-Christ as portrayed by End-Times authors.

THE UNDERGROUND ANTICHRIST

So, we meet at last.
I know what you’re thinking; terrible cliché. I’ll be serious from now on. You deserve it. My people didn’t hurt you? Oh, good.
In a way, I’m sorry we had to meet at all. You have something quite rare – a keen and questioning mind, combined with a desire for the truth, and a determination to find it. And now you’re here.
Wait, what? No, no, I’m not the servant. I’m the Antichrist.
I know, I’m not what you expected. I don’t look like Michael York, or Sam Neill, or… sorry, it always make me laugh – a young Robert Redford. Just think, if I left you here, for a day, and someone asked you to draw me, or describe me for a police artist – could you? Exactly. I truly applaud your honesty. My Lord knows, it’s become a rare things these days.
The fact is, I’m the… Underground Antichrist. I’m not the charismatic leader who takes over the world by force of will and forces everyone to worship him or die by the guillotine! Sheol, that is so pathetic. So many have combined to create that… that legend. Lindsey, Kirban, the Van Impes, the Hagees, and, bless their hearts, Lahaye and Jenkins – they all drank the Scofield Bible Kool-Aid and thought that I would be bound by their fantasies.
I ask you, who kind of fool would I be if I slavishly followed the plan my enemies mapped out for me? Do they really think that I’m that stupid?
Oh, before I go on, I’m not going to tell you my Master Plan in detail while twirling my moustache and doing the Evil Laugh. No moustache, for one thing, and… I have more respect for you than to play silly games.
I will tell a little bit though, about my past.
I’m not a demon. I’m human in every way. I was born quite normally. No in vitro miracles or being the son of two homosexuals. But My Lord saw fit to choose me as his… instrument. You could say I woke up – fully woke up – in the nineteen-thirties. I had the opportunity to witness two individuals who showed me what I could be, what I could do. I fought for both sides, carried out their evil, as you would call it. Vinnitsa, Babi Yar, the Warsaw Ghetto, Treblinka. The Holodomor and the Yezhovshchina, and the Shoah. That was my education.
After the war, I rested for a time. But not for long. I realised that I had much to do. Stalin died, Khrushchev told all, that was a setback. But it had taken just a tiny nudge for McCarthy to set Americans into paranoia. Tailgunner Joe would believe anything. Then came the Missile Race, the Space Race…
Oh, I can see the question almost bursting from you. Yes, I had President Kennedy shot. And there was no man on the Grassy Knoll; just a deluded ex-Marine on the sixth floor of the School Book Depository. He almost blew it by trying to shoot Walker. Oswald… not the best I could get, but he did the job. Isn’t that the whole point? It’s about what works! Lee Harvey, so well done!
Now that was the start of the paranoia and distrust that I didn’t have to encourage too much. Nixon? That was nothing to do with me! Tony Blair, on the other hand…
I’ll skip ahead a little and say that Gorbachev and Mandela and Obama and were moments when I’d taken my eye off the ball. But the current incumbents… oh yes, they are just what I wanted. Trump, Putin, Bolsonaro, Orban, Xi…
Yes, yes, I’d better stop. I did promise you. Sorry.
Oh, I wish I’d noticed you earlier, when you began your search. I could have diverted you, as I diverted so many others. You could have lived a productive life, and had the chance to really say “I told you so!” when the End Times arrive. But, I failed, and now, well…
Don’t worry. I won’t torture you, or have you tortured. You’ll die easily and painlessly. Natural causes will be the finding.
And I really hope that Yahweh will be merciful to you, and take you to him. You deserve it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 11, 2020, 11:15:12 PM

This story was written for a writing challenge; the topic was "Repetition."

WAR CRY

“Death to Fascism!”
Vassili Mikoyan added his voice to the chant. It had inspired him through two years of bloody and violent war; kept him going through hunger and cold and sickness.
Sergeant Resnov turned his weather-beaten face towards Vassili, and grinned almost happily.
“Ready, Vasya? Ready to crush those German dogs?”
Vassili returned the smile with almost savage glee. “Death to Fascism!”
Resnov slapped him on the shoulder. “My young wolf!”

Vassili checked his rifle again; the same trusty Mosin-Nagant that he had carried since the battle before Moscow. There were twenty-three notches in the stock and carefully carved letters above them; Death to Fascism!
Five rounds loaded, seventy more in five-round clips in his bandolier; a fully loaded Nagant revolver in his belt; three grenades in his harness; he was ready to fight.

The battalion was waiting in its trenches, ready to go forward against the German positions in the forests before them. There was perhaps a company there, with its backs to a river. If the attack succeeded, they would cut the enemy forces on this side in half.
It was almost sunrise. Vassili saw Lieutenant Klimov, the platoon commander, check his watch, and hold up three fingers.
One minute to go.
There would be a sudden and savage bombardment, and they would go in even as the shells and Katyusha rockets were falling. If all went well they would cross three hundred metres of open ground and fall upon on the enemy before they could raise their heads and man their machineguns. Captain Strugatsky had dubbed it ‘going for the throat.’
Of course they ran the risk of shells and rockets dropping short, but that was the lesser evil compared with charging into manned and ready Spandau machine guns.

Vassili looked around at the other nine members of his squad.
Apart from Corporal Yashin, he had known them for no more than a month. For two, it was their first battle, and none of them had seen as much action as he had. He had taught them what he had learned, and they called him Grandfather, even though he was barely twenty-one.
“Bayonets!” Yashin rasped.
Vassili and the five other riflemen extended their folding bayonets and locked them into place just as the first shells shrieked overhead and slammed into the forest. Even in the Russian trenches the ground shook as fountains of earth and shattered timber sprayed upwards.
“Eat dirt, German pigs!” Resnov’s roar somehow carried over the roars of exploding shells. “Death to fascism, comrades!”
Then there was a louder noise, a wailing sound that set the teeth on edge, and the fiery streaks of descending Katyushas blasted the forest in a fresh wave of destruction.
Klimov jumped to his feet, submachinegun raised above his head and a whistle between his lips. At the first blast every man was scrambling from the trench.
“URRAH!”
It was a single roar from nearly a thousand throats.
The shells were still falling as they rushed forward. Pulverised timber and torn-up soil began to rain down, and mixed with them was other debris; shattered bodies and shards of broken weapons.
“Death to Fascism!” Vassili shouted exultantly.
A final salvo slammed into the forest as the Russians were just fifty yards away, and shrapnel and stones and splinters tore into the Russian ranks. At Vassili’s side Corporal Yashin staggered forward and fell headlong, his helmet torn away and half his head missing.
Then they were in the edge of the forest, among the smoking craters and turn-up trees, and their task had just begun.
There was the tearing-cloth sound of a Spandau machine gun off to the right, and then the crash of bursting grenades, the rapid beat of machine pistols and the sharp cracks of rifles.
Vassili focussed on the way ahead, scrambling through the broken ground, and then dropped to a crouch, bringing his rifle up to aim at a half-wrecked position maybe fifty metres ahead, where four Germans were scrambling to bring up a machine-gun into operation. As he took aim at the gunner reaching for the grip, the other Germans grabbed for their weapons – two rifles and a submachinegun – but Vassili ignored them, squeezed the trigger, and saw the gunner slump back, dragging the gun with him.
Vassili worked the bolt calmly, not hurrying as a novice might and risk a fatal stoppage, as all around him the other squad members opened fire on the position. It was over in seconds, but in those seconds two of his squad fell before the last German died.
“Death to Fascism!” Vassili shouted, and waved to the squad to follow him. He could hear Sergeant Resnov’s bellows off to the left, and smiled faintly.
The old wolf would never quit until he reached Berlin and strangled Hitler and Goebbels with his own hands!

Vassili lost two more men before he reached the communications trench.
“There’ll be a command post near here.” He looked around and saw another squad closing in. “Go right! We’ll take the left! Death to Fascism!”
He plucked a grenade from his harness just as Dimitri Mikhailovich the machine-gunner yelled “Look out!” and unleashed a long burst into the trench. A German soldier spun and fell. Vassili tore out the pin and hurled the grenade just past where the German had fallen, where the trench zig-zagged sharply, and dropped flat. There was a sharp roar, a single scream, and Vassili sprang to his feet. With a cry of “Follow me!” he leaped into the trench.
At the corner, Vassili gestured to Dimitri and one of the riflemen. Without a word needed, the rifleman – the youngest of the squad – moved up, prepared a grenade, and hurled it around the corner; as the blast was still ringing in their ears, Dimitri emptied a drum down the trench.

Through the smoke and dust of the grenade explosion, Vassili saw the sandbagged bulk of the command post. “This is it!” he snapped, and set off at a run down the trench.
A German soldier stepped out from the rear entrance, machine pistol at the ready. Vassili slammed his bayonet into the man’s gut, driving him back into the doorway, and they both hit the ground hard. The German screamed, dropping his weapon to claw at the rifle, and Vassili pulled the trigger to free the rifle and silence the scream.
A grenade flew past him into the command post even as muzzle flash from a machine pistol briefly lit up the darkness, there was a cry of pain from behind him, and the roar of the grenade, and everything went dark…

“Come on, Vassili! There’s still work to do!”
Vassili opened his eyes to see Resnov smiling down at him.
“A few shrapnel gashes won’t stop my young wolves for long!” the sergeant went on. “We’re holding out well. Another step on the road to victory, eh?”
Vassili smiled painfully. He could feel pain in his scalp and left arm. He had had worse.
“Another step,” he replied. “Death to Fascism!”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 12, 2020, 02:51:46 AM

Hadn’t seen some of these and finally got a chance to reread them at leisure. Chilling good. That spider one must have been so hard to write, knowing how you feel about the creatures. Do keep writing!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 12, 2020, 06:48:50 AM

Quote from: Róisín on April 12, 2020, 02:51:46 AM

That spider one must have been so hard to write, knowing how you feel about the creatures.

I confess that writing the final scene of The Enemy was a little bit tricky, but the inspiration for it was a massive jump-scare at the end of the Denis Villeneuve movie Enemy. I found out about it on a WhatCulture program about films with twist endings, or films that had to be watched again to understand them - I can't recall which - and fortunately I wasn't looking directly at the screen when the scene was shown. Since writing the story, I've also run a role-playing game scenario based on it, and one of the players is as much an arachnophobe as I am. I certainly got some mileage out of the idea!

Edited to fix font size.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 12, 2020, 08:03:00 AM

Heh, I remember being at Fey’s old place with you lot, and Fey and I (and Anna when she was about) being the only members of the company who were not serious arachnophobes.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 14, 2020, 07:57:25 PM

For a change of pace... a Skype chat turned suddenly to an exchange of doggerel, which turned out to be rather diverting. I thought that I'd share a couple of my verses.

It would seem that your muse
Made you captive to booze
So it seems from your verse
Though I have seen worse
In metre and in rhyme
You didn't take the time
To make sure that each line
Matched all others just fine
That's indeed a great pity
For one who strives to be witty
But was too cool in school
As a philosophical fool
And I do know the cause
You put Descartes before the whores

A sharp response in defence of the muse I mentioned prompted this...

I notice that you incline a great deal to the clerihew
Trying to be among an honoured few
But sadly short of the mark you fall
Indeed more of the style of the "great" McGonagall
Or mayhap Marzials, whose rhyme were stuck in "flop"
And "drop" and "plop" - man, he wouldn't stop
But sadly you have caught his style
And just as sadly a tendency to revile
Your rivals in the realm of the muse Erato
But it's not like being crushed under IJN Nagato
(A Japanese dreadnought that survived the last conflict
But was among the vessels that the Americans chose to inflict
The power of the H-Bomb on, at Bikini Atoll
So that over on her side she did roll
And sink; but that is not really the story
Rather it's about your poor sad attempts at glory)
To hear your doggerel, so cruel upon the ear
Truly you deserve a boot up the rear
So unless you desire more such pain in your arse
Get you back now to your poetry class

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 14, 2020, 10:41:08 PM

Giggling at those. William Mc Gonagall was so awful as to be worth reading. The Tay Bridge, uuurrgh! And I am delighted to see that you have been reading Myles na gCopaleen/Flann O’Brien/Brian O’Nolan! Such humour. And the Keats and Shelley jokes. Have you yet read ‘The Poor Mouth’?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 17, 2020, 01:17:56 AM

There was a writing challenge - write a story in which the main character is a villain.

DEAD MAN OUT

How are you today, District Attorney Parker? Are you happy in your work? Are you feeling secure about re-election? How’s your family?
Do you remember me? Do you remember any of the people you worked so hard to get placed on Death Row? Does it matter to you that you put innocent men here to get the needle?
I bet I’m not the only one, not that anyone listens or cares. We’re all guilty here. guilty of being pawns in the game of re-election, of being tough on crime. Hey, sacrifices have to be made, right?

Alik-Jay finished what passed for morning prayers and looked at the calendar. It was Day 718. By Death Row standards, his wait had barely started.
From what he could hear, it was early; maybe six am. Breakfast would be another hour.
He began to exercise. They rated him low-risk for suicide, high-risk for violence against inmates and staff. If that was how they thought, Alik-Jay had no reason to prove them wrong. They had called him a hard man in the barrio; he’d be a hard man wherever he was.

An hour after breakfast there were sounds outside the cell.
“Inmate Hidell, stand clear of the door.”
Alik-Jay moved to the far side of the cell, facing the door as it slid back. Two guards were looking at him; a third was behind them.
“Turn around.”
Another search maybe, just another petty exercise of authority.
There was the rattle of chains, and cuffs were being placed around his wrists. So, no search.
“Turn around, start walking.”
No ankle chains. That was odd.
With one guard following and one gripping each elbow, he was led to the block exit. Alik-Jay glanced at the guards at his side, and saw only blank indifference, as was normal. But when they passed through the door out of Death Row, the guard watching them looked at Alik-Jay with open contempt.
“I don’t remember banging his wife,” Alik-Jay said.
There was a laugh from behind him, a short derisive bark.
He ruled out a commutation. Governor Buchanan would never do that for a convicted cop killer, a convicted double cop killer at that. Did they expect him to inform? They knew better. A visitor? He would have been told first.

There were three people behind the table, just as there had been the day he arrived at Polunsky Unit, but only one that Alik-Jay knew; Warden Talbot, whose face was a cold mask revealing nothing.
The other two were a well-dressed middle-aged man, balding and hard-featured, and a blonde woman maybe either side of forty who brought back memories of the cougars he used to meet in the singles bars; those had been good times…
“Good morning, Warden.”
Talbot simply nodded. “This is Deputy District Attorney Walter Briggs, and Ms Susan Lomax, for Governor Buchanan. Ms Lomax?”
She looked down at a piece of paper in front of her, and then at Alik-Jay, and spoke. “On the advice of the Department of Justice, the verdict of the court in the case of Hidell versus the State of Texas has been set aside. Governor Buchanan has therefore directed that Alik-Jay Hidell be released from lawful custody forthwith.” Her voice was quiet, measured, and almost sad.
Alik-Jay stared at her, the words seeming to echo forever, before he swung his eyes to Briggs as the man spoke. Briggs’ face was flushed and a vein was pulsing on his forehead.
“The decision has been taken… that there are no grounds for a retrial.”
Alik-Jay fought for the right words, but all he could say was, “What did DA Parker have to say?”
Briggs slammed a fist on the table. “What I’m going to say, Hidell. You should never get out unless it’s in a body bag! Goddamn Feds working to free you, with your record – felony assault, extortion, rape – thug and pimp and cop-killer!”
As Briggs drew breath, Alik-Jay said, “I’m an innocent man, sir, as far as the State of Texas is concerned. Now, Warden, are you going to do what Susan here told you to do?”
He allowed himself a smirk as Briggs fought down his temper.
Talbot said, “Get out of my prison, Hidell.”

Two hours later he stood by the outer gate, under a blue summer sky, looking cautiously at the road beyond, where two patrol cars were parked, and the four officers were standing, not even trying to look casual.
“Mr Hidell, it seems they didn’t get the memo.”
A man approached from the car park; tall, thin, in a smart dark suit despite the heat. Short dark hair was streaked with grey and his eyes were hidden by wrap-around shades.
“Anthony Barnard, FBI.” He held up his ID. “I thought you needed a way to avoid the good officers of the THP. They don’t care for what the State of Texas says about your innocence; in their eyes, you killed Officers Baker and Delmont and they’ll administer their justice.”
Alik-Jay looked Barnard up and down. Definitely looked like a Fed; and Briggs had spoken out about the Feds…
“Thanks for the warning, Agent Barnard… but why would you help me? What happened ain’t a Federal thing.”
Barnard smiled. “Talk on the move.”
Beckoning Alik-Jay to follow, Barnard set off for a standard issue dark Crown Vic parked not far from the gate. Alik-Jay followed, and noticed that the officers by their cars were watching with an hostility that carried clear across the car park.
“Just put your bag in the back, and don’t say a word until we’re clear.”
Outside the gate, one officer beckoned Barnard to stop.
“License and registration, sir,” the cop said, leaning in at the driver’s side. Another was standing near the passenger door, hand poised over his holster.
Alik-Jay sat still, hands steepled under his chin, and looked straight ahead. He wouldn’t give them an excuse…
The officer thrust Barnard’s wallet back without a word and stepped away.

“I heard Deputy DA Briggs didn’t take the decision well,” Barnard said as Polunsky Unit faded behind them.
Alik-Jay shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention to him. That Susan Lomax is a MILF. Anyhoo – you were going to tell me…”
“Fact is, Hidell, it was – should have been - a Federal case,” Barnard said brusquely. “All the talk was about two officers murdered in the line of duty, and the other two poor innocents were inconvenient witnesses. What no-one knew was that one of the victims was a Federal informant. Baker and Delmont were camouflage, just there to give a false motive. The last one was what they said, an inconvenient witness. And wouldn’t you know it, there just happens to be someone in the area who’s from out-of-state with a record for violence and a reputation for acts against penal code 920 that would disgust every decent citizen who watches Law and Order SVU. Gift from Heaven for DA Parker.”
Alik-Jay said nothing.
“And Parker made a slam-dunk, closed the case and got re-elected. Everyone wins… but not you, and not the Bureau. And no-one puts one over the Bureau. So we got you out.”
“No way,” Alik-Jay snapped. “You want something.”
Barnard grinned. “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you it was about justice, so I won’t try to convince you. That’s OK by me. The cops by the gate will have called their buddies in Dallas to watch the bus stations – you didn’t see that ticket on the dash? Officer Holcombe sure did when he was asking for my license. I saw him see it, and then try to make out he didn’t. And while they’re eye-balling the Greyhounds, too bad. There’s someone at the airport hotel with tickets for Los Angeles.”
Alik-Jay asked, “Who?”
“Darsi. She’s a sweet girl. Some would say too good for you. But she’s a determined little fighter. She’s there now, and she’s your way out. Be nice to her.”
Alik-Jay stared at the road ahead, grinning at the memories of Darsi; a mixture of joy and lust.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Barnard was no longer grinning. “Because you’re a bad man, Hidell. A lot of those stories are true. But they weren’t the reason you were at Polunsky. I just hope I haven’t let you go loose to hurt some unfortunate girl somewhere.”
Alik-Jay said softly, “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you that two years can change a man. One day I’ll show you.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on April 19, 2020, 10:08:04 PM

This is a complete mess of a poem, but I think I needed to write it. It's been nearly two years - it'll be two years on may the eleventh.

It's under the spoiler because it deals with... an event. A death. A murder. Grief? Yeah. That.
Man, I'm not doing a good job at phrasing this. It's not particularly graphic but, well - it's not exactly light reading.

It's also rather long.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 20, 2020, 12:01:45 AM

Yastreb, clever little story.

And Keep Looking, that is resonant and heartbreaking. I take it Taye was your friend?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on April 20, 2020, 12:07:15 AM

Yes, she was.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on April 20, 2020, 01:08:12 AM

Oh Emily Rose, that is... terrible and lovely. The final part especially is touching. Now we remember something of her too <3

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 20, 2020, 01:59:40 AM

Keep Looking, I can't improve on what Jitter and Roisin have said, save this; it's been said, "To live in the hearts of those we loved is truly not to die." With you, she is well remembered. Be blessed.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 21, 2020, 05:24:32 AM

I'm not as a rule much given to song-writing, but for my fiction project (the Dragonhost Saga) I felt the urge come on to compose a song, and when the right tune came along (discovered during a YouTube search for inspirational music), it came together.

***

The Dragon Will Rise (The Song of Dawn and Dusk)

Vizhand Kardz’rana (Lusvar’ey Nashand Yersha)

Signs in the earth, signs in the skies
We know in our hearts the Dragon will rise
Life in its breath, in its very eyes
We know in our hearts the Dragon will rise

No death, no decay, no weakness, no lies
We know in our hearts the Dragon will rise
Life is eternal, hope never dies
We know in our hearts the Dragon will rise

***

Here is the tune - Marcus Warner's Octavia.

[/size]

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 21, 2020, 05:29:43 AM

I liked that song when you first showed me. Even better with music!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 23, 2020, 01:30:44 AM

There was a challenge to write about animals, choosing from a list that I can't recall much of, save that it included wombats and ducks. I chose to write about a duck, but not your usual waterbird...

LIKE A DUCK TO WATER

I inherited the Duck from my dad. It was basic green back then, but I couldn’t get Daffy out of my head. You know, Daffy Duck? From Loony Tunes? “No-one fools this little black duck”? Yeah, that duck! And that’s why it’s black.

Dad owned a lot like it, but I prefer the Duck. It can go over any terrain, you see. No, not mountains or tropical jungles. Yeah, yeah, I know you’re trying to be clever, but hey, you know what I mean. Not extreme terrain, OK? I mean open ground, rough ground, hilly country, marshland, that sort of thing, and of course it takes like a duck to water. Ha, ha, it is to laugh. I knock myself out!

Yeah, it costs a lot to maintain. You can find spare parts via heritage groups and maybe eBay (as a last resort). I do know some people who could put together some components in a pinch.

Sorry, what? No, that’s not real, just a mock-up! Seriously, you think I could own a thirty-calibre machine gun? All the other accessories are genuine, though.

Oh, why do I call it a Duck? Everyone did back then. The official US Army designation for an amphibious jeep is DUKW (don’t ask me why), and of course everyone ended up calling it a Duck!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on April 23, 2020, 07:47:01 AM

Okay, I'm moving it here from the video game thread because I believe here is where it should be, and if you haven't seen it yet now you have an opportunity (assuming it's even worth seeing, some say it is and I'm not gonna argue because they probably know better). So, here's my poem, enjoy if you wish.

A Darkest Dungeon poem, because whatever, might as well go full-on obsessive over it

A Hamlet by the seashore cold
A squalid, godforsaken hold
Sits in the shade of Manor old
And welcomes heroes brave and bold

They came to this decaying shell
To scour places dark and fell
Slay beasts that in deep shadows dwell
And save the world from eldritch hell

The evils the late lord awoke
Await beneath the house baroque
The bravest hearts with terror choke
And many a sane mind they broke

The heroes brave, the heroes bold
Shall feel the reaper’s fingers cold
And with the dying breath behold
The gleam of so coveted gold

Yet still they come with wrathful might
On places darkest set their sight
To seek the riches and good fight
In fickle torch’s fading light

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on April 23, 2020, 09:46:26 AM

Ran, yes, it's definitely worth posting here! Like I said in the comments, well done!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 23, 2020, 10:03:07 AM

And here's a poem with visual rhyme only.

The King became consumed by wrath
He roared his anger in the bath
"That churl committed such a slander!
"Why should he be free to wander?"

"Your royal wish is my command,"
Said the feared Lord Firebrand
"The King's good name is shining pure
This the realm must know for sure!"

He fell beneath that cruel sword
Slumping down without a word
Blood pooled on the new-sown sward
No more songs from this dead bard

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 25, 2020, 09:03:45 PM

This one's from a writing challenge, and the subject was "Food."

THE VALUE OF PIE

The roadhouse was nearly empty.
Three business types – two men and a woman, classic suits – were crowded around one laptop, while on the far side of the restaurant area a heavily-built trucker, almost a parody of the type, was on his second hamburger, and Melissa didn’t like the way he looked at her, or the way he had tried to pat her on the ass when she brought him his food.
A black Humvee drew up and slotted neatly into a parking spot. Melissa hurried to turn up the coffee urn as the occupants got out; a woman and a girl, and for an instant, she found herself wondering what the odds were on a fashion model walking into the roadhouse.
The woman was maybe thirty at most, slender and athletic, with blonde hair in a neat ponytail and fine-cut features half shrouded by big-frame sunglasses; but she was dressed down, in faded denim jacket and cargo pants and what looked like hiking boots. The girl was perhaps ten or eleven, but otherwise almost a carbon copy, with the same clothing – except for runners instead of boots. The trucker gave a loud wolf whistle as the pair came to the counter, but they did not react.
“Hi there. What’ll it be?” Melissa asked.
The woman scanned the menu board and said, “Steak sandwich for me – plain – and coffee, please. Black, no sugar. And a bowl of chocolate ice cream. Tanya?”
“Toasted ham and cheese sandwich and coffee, like mama’s, and apple pie and cream, please,” the girl replied promptly.
“Coming right up,” said Melissa, pouring two cups of coffee as the pair sat at the counter. They both had strong accents, like Russians in the movies. Melissa headed for the kitchen to give Billy the order, wondering as she did if she could get a discreet snap, maybe post it on Instagram. Those two were heading west, for Las Vegas or Los Angeles, there could be a story behind that…
But she couldn’t find her cell phone.

The business trio paid up and left. The trucker had slowed right down with his hamburger, and kept leering at the woman. The pair ate almost primly, with small precise bites of their sandwiches, and saying nothing.
Melissa had not found her cell, and curiosity finally won out. “You folks going far?”
“Los Angeles,” the woman replied. “Opportunities… you understand.” She finished her sandwich and wiped her hands delicately with the serviette. “You can’t let them pass you by.”
“Right…”
Tanya said, “I’m done, mama. Can I have my pie?”
“Surely,” the woman replied. “I have to use the restroom. I’ll be back soon.”
But when Melissa returned with the pie, Tanya had gone to the magazine rack. She had ignored the teen mags and was looking at, of all things, Guns and Ammo.

The phone rang.
“Hi mom. Sure… yeah, six should be fine if Bella’s on time, and she’s usually good for that…” She glanced around and saw the trucker sitting down at the counter. With a smirk he began to eat Tanya’s pie.
“Uh, sorry, I’ll have to call you back.” She hung up and called out, “Sir, what are you doing?”
Tanya turned round from the rack. She carefully replaced the magazine and walked back to the counter. “That’s my pie, mister.”
The trucker took another spoonful and said, “Didn’t see you eatin’ it, kiddo. It’s mine now. What you gonna do?”
Melissa stayed by the phone. It wouldn’t be the first time she had dialled 911.
“I’ll tell my mama.” Tanya’s voice was oddly calm. “And then you’ll be sorry.”
He laughed out loud. “What can she do? Catwalk me to death?”

He was still laughing when the woman returned.
“Chto proiskhodit?” she said almost immediately.
“Etot chelovek ukral moy pir,” Tanya replied without looking round.
“Eto tak?” The woman walked up to the trucker. “Stoyat' yasno.”
Tanya backed away.
“You are taking food from a child.” The woman’s voice was flat, as if stating a fact, not making an accusation.
“She weren’t eatin’ it.” The trucker looked her up and down. “Kid thinks a lot of you, honey. Says I’ll be sorry.”
“You have a choice,” she said, as if he had not responded. “Apologise to my daughter, and walk away, or crawl from here on your belly. Choose wisely.”
The trucker bellowed with laughter. “Well, I ain’t doin’ either, missy! Huh? What you gonna do?”
There was a pause, no more than a second.
“This.”
She hooked one foot around one leg of the stool and wrenched it away.
There was a crack as his forehead hit the counter, and he sprawled on the floor as the stool rattled away into a corner.
Melissa froze. The woman’s expression had not shifted, and Tanya was smiling.
“Uh, uh, uh,” the trucker gasped. Blood was seeping from his nose. “Uh, you…” He swore a string of pungent obscenities.
“Don’t try to stand!” the woman snapped, and kicked him in the knee. He cried out and dropped down flat. “Get out.”
Melissa watched as the trucker forced his way towards the door. Thoughts of movies she had binge-watched with Brett last week filled her mind – ones with tough heroines, like Atomic Blonde and that one with J-Law, Red Sparrow. Deadly Russian blondes didn’t walk into truck stops and casually beat up people…
The woman walked back to the counter. “I’ll have my ice-cream now, and another pie for Tanya, please.”
Melissa saw the trucker clumsily stand up and then lurch across the forecourt to his rig.
“Yes ma’am.”

Sonja peeled off the notes, and then looked at the display on the register. “That’s not enough. There should be two pies.”
The girl looked startled. “You only had one.”
“I won’t leave you out of pocket.”
With seeming reluctance, the girl added a second pie, and reached for change.
“Don’t worry about it.”

As they walked back to the Humvee, Tanya said, “His truck is still there, mama.”
“I know.”
“He’s angry. He might come after us.”
Sonja opened the passenger door.
“Then he’ll find out he’s bitten off more than he can chew.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 25, 2020, 11:30:51 PM

Falling about laughing here.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 26, 2020, 05:05:08 AM

Glad to be making you laugh, Roisin, though it wasn't really intended as humour (more deadpan wit in this case). The characters of Sonja and Tanya are drawn from a concept for a vigilante couple who seek out to punish the worst of criminals. It's a dark concept and would likely not be suitable for this forum.

I wrote a followup leading directly on from The Value of Pie; here it is.

RIGHT OF WAY

A family sedan was pulling into the truck stop as Sonja turned the Humvee onto the highway. The sun was low and the sky was darkening.
Tanya looked back and said quietly, "He turned on his lights, mama. He's coming after us."
Sonja opened the compartment between the front seats and reached in. “Satnav, dushka. Get a terrain map of the road ahead.”
As Tanya powered up a laptop, her mother placed a Colt Python in a pocket of her cargo pants and checked the wing mirror.
“He’s following. Quickly, now.”
Tanya said nothing for some seconds as she fussed around with the laptop, and then said, “It’s all open plain like this for… five or six kays, and then there’s a patch of very rough ground… oh, let’s see… two or three kays, it’s like we’re above ground.”
Sonja nodded. “Three minutes, maybe four, he’ll make his move, where we can’t just drive off the road to avoid him. He could just try to run us off, but no, I think he will use a gun. A pistol or sawn-off most likely.” She smiled, and it did not reach her eyes. “Men like him will use a gun, nine times out of ten. Strap yourself in and get ready, dushka. Either way, I’ll need your help.”

Jack Turner gripped the steering wheel hard and edged closer and closer to the Humvee, and his thoughts would have surprised no-one who knew him.
LEOs and Corrections Officers had summed him up as an anti-social personality type, with poor behaviour control and a high score on the Psychopath Checklist.
Others who had met him had been more succinct – a thug with a foul mouth, a bad attitude, and a hair-trigger temper.
He had served time for violence against women, mainly after being scorned or put down; but this time he had been physically humiliated by a woman.
“Never goin’ to give you up, goin’ to hunt you down, goin’ to bust your ass, and kill you,” Turner crooned through teeth clenched with rage.
The sawn-off over and under lay on the seat next to him. It was loaded with heavy shot, equal to twelve .38 rounds in a single shell, and it would turn the woman who had hurt him into a bloody mist. Her karate would not save her from that.
He wound down the side window. He had thought it out. Pull alongside, draw up so that he had a forty-five degree angle on the driver’s side with the barrel braced in the corner of the window; one shot for the woman, and one for the brat if he could get the chance. Even if the woman had a gun, she couldn’t get a shot without leaning out to aim, and that made for an easier target.
“Meat on the table,” he said with a savage smile.

They entered the rough terrain. Sonja checked the rear view mirror.
“He’s moving up. Get ready.”
She drew the Colt Python and switched it to her left hand, taking the door handle in her right.
“Ready, mama!” said Tanya.
A last check of the mirror. He was drawing closer…
Not going for the rear tyre; he’s going for me. You made your choice. You chose badly. Again.

Turner was taking first pressure on the trigger when the Humvee’s door suddenly swung open and he saw the woman’s face, and the left arm extended, pointing at him…
He saw the muzzle flash.
The jacketed hollow point round caught him on the upper jaw. His head snapped back, his arms jerking spasmodically as the mushrooming bullet tore through his brain.
The shotgun dropped back inside the cabin, firing into the door as the steering wheel swung to the left, dragged by Turner’s dying grasp, and the truck and its load jack-knifed into a screeching skid.
“Konchaht!” Sonja snapped, swinging back inside to grab the wheel from Tanya and hit the gas at the same time as she let the revolver fall to the floor. The acceleration caused the door to swing back, clearing the rear view mirror back into line, and she saw the truck and trailer tilting crazily as they skidded, and then they hit the edge of the highway and rolled over and out of sight. There were three crashes, and then a final crunching sound like a roar.
“You got him good, mama,” Tanya said. There was no gloating in her voice.
Sonja nodded and pulled the door firmly closed. “Well done, my little warrior.” She leaned over to kiss Tanya on the forehead.
“What’s going to happen?” Tanya glanced down at the satnav map. “When they find the wreck…”
Sonja smiled comfortingly. “No-one will find it before tomorrow, and it will be some time before anyone reports it, and some time more before they realise he was shot.” She picked up the Colt Python. "Shame. It’s not likely they could ever link the bullet to this gun, but we can’t take the risk. No matter. Once we are finished in Vegas, we may need a whole new armoury. Let’s see what’s on offer then.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on April 26, 2020, 02:21:40 PM

Yastreb, you keep feeding us with excellent pieces! We're getting too used to it! :) I'd love to see the rest of Sonja and Tanya's story. If you think it's too dark (or too long) to be posted here, you could join Archive Of Our Own (https://archiveofourown.org/) like many of us and give just the links. :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 26, 2020, 09:46:29 PM

Second that, Grey. I have known Yastreb for many years, and have proofread a fair bit of his writing, and have good hopes for him as a novelist.

Yastreb, I think you do both action and dark humour well.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 29, 2020, 06:44:12 AM

A bit of explanation here... What follows is part one of a story that is part writing challenge and part fix-fic, with elements of an ongoing SFRPG.

The challenge was "No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition!" My story was based on the backstory of a Player Character in a Spacemaster game, who came from the Imperial House of Kapov; the predominant culture of the House was Romanian in origin, and I decided that he was a former Investigator for the Securitate - the Secret Police. The Romanian element had led me to call him Nicolae Carpathia, after the Designated Villain of the appalling Left Behind novels, who despite being the Antichrist seems, at times, to be a better human being than the Designated Heroes (if you wish to know more about that bit, I refer you to the blog The Slacktivist).

In the novels, the Designated Heroes are employed by the Antichrist, despite being Born-Again Christians, after some distinctly contrived recruitment. I thought I'd have some fun by having a different, more logical reason for two such unpleasant characters to be recruited, or rather conscripted, by Nicolae Carpathia, who isn't the Antichrist here, but is an agent of the Secret Police. The two Formerly Designated Heroes have kept their original names, but most other names have been amended to fit (sorta) the setting.

So without more ado - Part One of

LEVERAGE

15-06-502 IMPERIAL CALENDAR

Korendor, House Kapov core world

Civic Quarter, Bucheraine, capital city of Korendor

***

TO: AGENT 769-216-732 NICOLAE CARPATHIA
SUBJECT: COVERT RECRUITMENT
FILE REFERENCE: BN 2A33-Y618

YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED TO SECURE THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS

1. STEELE, Rayford (SSN 405331376-52)

2. WILLIAMS, Cameron (SSN 4301114578-42)

REPORT WHEN RECRUITMENT IS COMPLETE

AUTHORITY: K2

Nicolae Carpathia set aside the routine tasks he was working through and accepted the new orders.
Sitting back in his chair, he settled the brace to hold his head steady, and told his console, “Accept vox commands. Case file BN 2A33-Y618, direct optical interface, commence.”
It did not occur to him to wonder why a reporter and a pilot were being singled out thus.
What mattered was the assignment.

STEELE, RAYFORD
PILOT, PAN-STELLAR INC

LINK TO CZEPEL CIS CASE FILE H15/502 STEELE, IRINA; STEELE, RAYMOND

***

SIX MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

Rayford Steele's mind was on a woman he had never touched but who would soon be his wife. With his fully loaded K117 hyper-shuttle on autopilot he was heading back to Czepel, to where his wife and son were already dead.
Irina Steele, attractive and vivacious at 40, had grown stale, and she had given him a daughter whom he barely tolerated and a son whom he despised for his weakness.
Erzebet Dunaric was young, pliable, and drop dead gorgeous.
They had spent time together, chatting for hours over drinks or dinner, sometimes with coworkers, sometimes not. He had not returned so much as one brush of a finger, but his eyes had held her gaze, and he could only assume his smile had made its point. Rayford kept her in her place, waiting for signals from him, but always withholding them. It was how things should be.
There had been others. He'd had plenty of opportunities, such as the lengthy affair when Irina had stayed home, uncomfortably past her ninth month carrying their surprise son, Raymond.
It had been a routine flight, and he checked his message bank once he reached his car.
He ran through three mundane messages, and was startled to hear Clara's voice. "Mama? Papa? Are you there? I’m a day early. See you soon!”
You weren’t supposed to be there!
Rayford set off for home, forcing himself to drive sedately. Whatever had happened, he could not change it…

He pulled into his driveway to see the garage door open, although nothing looked out of place. He parked his car in the garage, picked up the groceries he had bought as planned, and walked to the front of the house to find his front door open.
Then he heard a scream.
He rushed in, calling for Irina, to find Clara cowering in the living room before the crumpled and bloodied body of Irina sprawled over the couch. She had not removed her veil, but then her street dress was unmistakeable; Irina had made it herself.
She cried out “They’re dead, they’re dead…”
Raymond was lying near the back door.

The police were called.
All any of the neighbours saw was "some kind of carpet-service minivan here for about half an hour this afternoon."
The burglary was a "slick job" though the murders were committed with one of Raymond’s baseball bats. Everything of immediate material value was gone except the HV set; the jewellery, silver, and even the china.

The next seven days were a blur as he stayed in a nearby hotel with Clara, waiting for the police to allow him back into the house.
There were calls from the office to console him, and calls to Clara from her classmates.
There was a journalist who came to interview him, a brash young hotshot who insisted on being called “Buck,” and there was a call from Erzebet.

His unwanted wife and son were gone; his adult daughter would be easily convinced to move on. He had fooled the police.
He was free to claim his prize.

He collected the clothes from Irina’s and Ray’s rooms, carefully folded them and stored them in a box. He ate the last of the cookies Irina had baked before she died.
He paused before the doors to the master suite. What a beautiful, frilly place she had made it, decorated with needlepoint and knickknacks… He made a note to junk the lot as soon as he could.
He noticed a picture of himself on the bed table. He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a K117 outside the window in the background. The picture was signed, "To Raymond with love, Dad."
Under that he had written, "Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Stellar Aerospace, Oreanu."
He shook his head and dropped the photograph into the trash bag.

Nicolae dismissed the report of the Czepel Homicide Section and then called up Rayford Steele’s service file.
He was building up his personal file on the man, and it wasn’t long for him to see that beneath the outward persona a very different picture was staring to emerge.
Another file gave him inspiration.
“Link me to the office of Pan-Stellar.”

It was Rayford Steele's turn for a break. He pulled the headphones down onto his neck, dug into his flight bag for his e-pad, and set to reading Elizabeth’s letters. It would not be long now….
The shuttle was on auto from Baltani to a 1600 Friday landing at Oreanu. Rayford noticed Ciprian switching from autopilot to manual.
"Initial descent," Ciprian said. "I’ll bring her in."
"Of course," Rayford said. He could have brought the shuttle in, but since the murders, they had been tip-toeing around him as if he was bone china.

Just ten minutes after his flight duty ended, Rayford received an urgent message from chief pilot Eirik Haldanea. "Come in at once. This is very important."
With his cap under his arm and still wearing his uniform coat, Rayford hurried to the office.
There was a nervous air in the office when Rayford entered. People looked self-conscious, and everyone seemed to be making a show of how busy they were. There were a lot of nervous glances exchanged when Rayford entered, and he was almost immediately intercepted by a frightened admin who told him to go to his boss' office immediately.
Scaring people wasn't Eirik's management style. Obviously, something must have changed.
He hurried to Eirek Haldanea’s office and was let in at once. Eirik was at his desk, looking nervous.
"What's up?"
"Thanks for getting back to me right away, Rayford."
"Eirik... what's happened?"
Eirik gestured towards the quiet, dark-suited figure in the corner.
“This is Agent Nicolae Carpathia of the Interior Ministry. He wants to speak to you.”
“Thank you, Mr Haldanea. Please leave us.”

Rayford stared in disbelief as Eirik walked out of his own office.
“Let us sit and talk, Mr Steele.”
Rayford sat down as Carpathia took Eirik’s seat and rested his left arm on the desk, revealing a protus on his wrist that looked top of the range... as if the Interior Ministry would settle for less.
Interior Ministry? What would they want with me?
"You are doubtless wondering why an agent of the Interior Ministry wishes to speak with you," Carpathia said before Rayford could speak.
"Well, yes, I am."
"It concerns the murders of Irina and Raymond Steele."
Rayford couldn’t hold back his surprise. But then, a visit from the Interior Ministry would cause anyone to be nervous.
"The Eye-Em is doing police work now?"
"You are former military, Mr Steele, Star Force in fact. As such the Ministry has an interest in such cases. We must consider the possibility of a personal grudge stemming from your background. That is why I am here today."
"The cops won’t like that."
"They will have to put up with it, since they have failed to catch the killer, or killers. But let us move on from that."
Rayford kept a straight face at the news. Carpathia activated his protus, opened a holo display that was opaqued to Rayford’s view.
"You came up through the ranks; cadet class, followed by basic training in Astrogation and Piloting. Promising start, though you flattened out a little towards the end and you never achieved your ambition of leading a combat squadron. Your service was entirely in Support Command… commendations for efficiency but also two citations for poor conduct… no combat decorations… finally left the service after the war but two years before due discharge date.
“Psychological profile… the subject possesses a marked sense of entitlement and poor behaviour control when dealing with subordinates; not recommended for a command position; recommend assignment to areas allowing close supervision.”
Carpathia closed the display and looked up as Rayford fought to control his temper.
“I am told that you insist on the title “Captain” when on duty, doubtless because you remained a Lieutenant and were never recommended for further promotion. For all your competence as a pilot, you never attained what you thought you could be and that you thought you were entitled to be.”
“What does this have to do with what happened to Irina and Raymond?” Rayford shouted.
“You did not make any enemies in the Star Force, Rayford. You made one or two friends – Janos Molenski stands out. I believe you saw him recently.”
“Once, in a bar, by chance,” Rayford said quickly.
He was losing control and struggling to win it back. Even though he had covered his tracks, he needed to stay in control.
“You sold him a very expensive car very cheaply. Your wife’s car, in fact; a Novarra 60PX. It is one of the standard ways to make a pay-off; it’s not surprising that he was found, and that he was ready to cooperate when questioned.”
“That’s a stinking lie!”
Rayford leapt to his feet, ready to slam his fist into Carpathia’s calm face…

He was lying across the desk. Pain surged through his head. He could hear voices, far off…
“Captain Steele slipped and fell. See to him, please, and tell Mr Constanza to take steps to release Captain Steele from service, effective immediately.”

***

Two hours later, Rayford Steele was politely but firmly ushered out of Pan-Stellar HQ and onto the street. He had been given a holdall for his personal belongings but no farewells. No-one had even looked at him as he left. All that he had been told was, "Your name is already been taken off all duty rosters. Clear out your desk and leave. Human Resources will remit your separation payment in due course."
He was beyond anger. All he felt was a deep fatigue.
A man in black, his eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses, was at his side.
"Follow me to the car, please."
The man led Rayford to a sleek black hover-limo and ushered him inside.
Within minutes the limo was descending into Bucheraine, heading for the Civic Quarter and the Interior Ministry tower.

"Good, we can continue," Nicolae Carpathia said, rising and coming around his desk to shake hands with Rayford Steele. "Thank you, Agent Scutari."
The agent left and shut the door.
Carpathia pointed to a chair and sat down across from Rayford.
"It seems that Pan-Stellar no longer requires your services."
Rayford did not respond to Carpathia.
"Justice would demand that you pay for arranging the murders of your wife and son. The interests of the House are better served by your continued liberty."
Rayford stayed silent as Carpathia went on. "Mr. Steele, you will be receiving an offer of employment from a small aerospace despatch company. You will accept that position.”
"And if I decline it?"
"The Czepel Police Bureau will act on information received and make arrests for capital murder."
Rayford clenched his fists on the armrests. He recalled how Carpathia had taken him down before; he would not let it happen again.
"And then what happens?" Rayford demanded.
"Until you hear otherwise – nothing will happen. You will resume your occupation as pilot. And before you ask – you will take a loss in salary, but the Service will make up the difference."

Casimir Rostov was tall and lean, in his late fifties, with a weathered face and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. He was chief pilot in a small haulage and freight firm with two small interstellar freighters and two in-system bulk carriers.
Rostov drove Rayford to a weather-beaten hut at Tuzla starport and chatted while running through pre-flight checks. As Rostov readied the Starstream-130 class freighter White Swan, Rayford entered the nav-plot for systems transit.
Rostov was a talker, a raconteur, opinionated but interesting.
Rayford hated him.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 29, 2020, 07:35:30 AM

I will be curious to see where this one goes!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 29, 2020, 09:57:21 AM

LEVERAGE

(Part 2)

WILLIAMS, CAMERON AKA: “BUCK” WRITER/PRESENTER WITH KAPOV INFORMATION NETWORK

LINK TO FLORYN STRANEK AND IMRE TUREANU (REFERENCE IM-2815/AA-419, CORRUPT INFLUENCES)
LINK TO VITELIJE CIS CASE FILE P12/501 BRANOV, DIRKO

Nicolae kept the Homicide Section file open as he studied Cameron Williams’ personal file. It took only moments to work the out both the bait and the modality.
“Message begins...”

Attention: Cameron Williams
Comrade
You are cordially invited to Bucheraine for the purpose of establishing your fitness to serve on the Special Commission for Communications and Information.
Sincere regards
Nicolae Carpathia
Interior Ministry

***

As Buck Williams emerged from the debarkation area, a uniformed driver strode directly to him.
"Mr Williams? Follow me to the car, please."
The driver led Buck to a sleek black hover-limo and put his luggage in the trunk before ushering him inside. Seconds later the limo was high over Bucheraine. Buck was an interstellar traveller and had been treated like both king and pauper over the years. Yet even he found this routine unsettling.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light and the tinted windows, Buck noticed a stocky man in a dark suit and mirrored glasses sitting with his back to the driver, staring at him.
"Are you with the Commission?" Buck asked, "Do you work directly for Mr. Carpathia?"
The man did not respond, nor did he move. Buck leaned forward.
"Excuse me!" he said. "Do you --"
The man shook his head and replied in a whisper, “No questions, please.”
The hover-limo settled down on the landing pad outside the Codreanu Club, an exclusive enclave for the powerful and well-connected. The bodyguard led Buck into the posh restaurant, past a long line of patrons waiting for tables, directly to the head waiter. Buck would have felt right at home in the club, were it not for the presence of his hulking guide.
The head waiter escorted them through the crowd of tables to a booth by the window that overlooked the Balaton Gardens.
Nicolae Carpathia rose to greet him. "Cameron, here, sit down! This is a lovely place, isn’t it?"
"Indeed it is!"
Buck accepted a menu and allowed the waiter to drape a linen napkin on his lap.
"Let us enjoy the finest cuisine in Novarra, and then we have matters to discuss," Nicolae said, smiling broadly. “Agent Suchek, you may take refreshment. We will be at least an hour. Make sure that the sonic fold is fully effective.” The guard nodded and walked away.
"I didn’t think you’d brought me this far just for a lunch date," Buck replied.
Carpathia's eyes twinkled. "Cameron, you are an appealing fellow, but even I have my limits.
“However, enough of that, please – enjoy, as I said. I am ordering the shrimp scampi, and then the salmon. You should do likewise."
Buck had always made it a habit to ignore recommendations in restaurants. He realized how rattled he was when he ordered what Carpathia suggested… although it was a good choice.

During the meal Nicolae did most of the listening, building a personal dossier on Buck in his head.
An inveterate name-dropper who boasts of the high circles he has moved in – a lot of “Met him," "Know him," "Interviewed her," "Know him," "Was with her in Cluj," "Stayed in his home."
A massive ego is evident – he sees himself as a super-journalist desired by women everywhere.
Little was said during the meal, but when coffee with brandy was served, Nicolae was more expansive, inviting replies from Buck. “I recall that report on the incident on PC815; you tried to charm a security guard into letting you off the shuttle before it was sealed up.”
Buck laughed. "It's OK in a situation like that to look after Number One. That's what I was doing. When people die suddenly some rules go out the window."

Later, Nicolae said, “Your record at the KIN Central Office has caused some adverse comment.
“I am told, reliably, that you picked a fight with the acting Deputy Controller – unwisely; that you were in the wrong and you tried to bluster and bully your way out of your difficulties.”
Buck snorted derisively. “Zora Kusic is a stuck-up bimbo who doesn’t deserve to be Station D/C, I should tell you. I’m the youngest ever senior writer for KIN and I’m the envy of the rest of the staff. Either I scoop them or I get the plum assignments. Zora’s just out to make me pay for my years of awards and stories. Hey, everyone at KIN would still think it’s a privilege to work with me. Everyone in the business knows I’m the best there is.”
Nicolae’s smile narrowed. “Humility is not one of your virtues, Cameron. I need team players for the Special Commission. You must understand that not everyone is second best compared to you. I am an expert in my field, and I do not lay claim to being an expert in yours. Please do us all, and yourself, a favour and learn to show respect.”
Buck chuckled. “It’s up to them to earn it, Nicolae. I’ve never been conventional. I don’t need to make any excuses for being unique. And please, Nicolae, you can call me Buck."”
“If it would make you feel at ease, I will call you Buck, but only between us.”
Emboldened, Buck began to speak at length, but the focus stayed on Zora Kusic. Whatever the anecdote, it ended with her comeuppance or humiliation as a punchline.

So he is a better reporter than every other reporter and a better holographer than every other holographer, even a better programmer than anyone in the IT department – not that he wants their jobs! He just wants them to admit that whatever they're doing is second best, and would have been so much better if it had been done as only Cameron Williams, alias Buck, could have done it. However, Zora Kusic doesn't adore Buck like everyone else in the KIN office, which makes her a personal enemy to be shown up and demeaned at every opportunity.

“Well, what could I tell the stupid b**** but, ‘I’m coming over there to kick that door shut. You had better not be in the way’, and she still stood there. Well, I just stomped over there, and she just went apeshit when I kicked the door shut, and she screamed – man, I wish she’d stayed in the doorway!”
Buck looked at Nicolae, his eyebrows raised. “Didn’t I give that b**** the right stuff? What would you have done?”
Nicolae gave a short sigh. “I personally would have acted with a little more maturity each time. But that will do for now.”
He thinks he is the Greatest Reporter of All Time but his own words reveal him as an incompetent, ridiculous and arrogant fool, and a pushy, big-headed jerk.
Covert Recruitment has odd criteria.

Two hours later, Buck was directed up to a private conference room off the main suite of offices on Level 122 of the Interior Ministry Tower. Carpathia was standing in the hallway to greet him. "Cameron, we are almost ready to begin. Come and join us." He pointed into the stark and functional room, to one of six chairs around a square block of tables.
When Buck walked in, past the two guards at the door, men in black fatigues, with Kruz pulse laser pistols on their hips, he saw that Carpathia was chatting with two men whose presence made him stop dead on the spot... Floryn Stranek, and Imre Tureanu.
Stranek and Tureanu were dressed like twins, in dark grey suits, white shirts, electric-blue neckties, and gold stickpins. They nodded to Buck, but gave no hint of recognition.
Buck fought down panic. No, everything was all right, there were no loose ends…

Nicolae waited till everyone was seated, then rose to address the gathering. "Comrades, we are here as founding members of the Special Commission for Communications and Information."
He crossed to where Imre Tureanu sat. "Mr. Imre Tureanu, please stand," he said.
Nicolae shook Tureanu’s hand. "Mr. Tureanu, you have served with distinction in the Ministry of Public Will. I welcome you to the Special Commission."
"Thank you, sir," Tureanu said, and sat down as Carpathia moved on.
Carpathia turned to Floryn Stranek, who smiled a knowing smile and stood regally.
Carpathia shook Stranek's hand. "Mr. Stranek, your distinguished and honoured service in the Finance Ministry is an inspiration. I welcome you to the Special Commission."
He crossed over to where Buck sat. "Mr. Cameron Williams," he said, "You have served with conspicuous success in the Kapovian Information network. I welcome you to your new role."
His grip was firm and strong as he looked directly into Buck's eyes and spoke with quiet authority.
Buck blinked. Somehow the words "Thank you, sir," would not come to him. After an awkward silence, Buck was able to say, “I’m honoured to be here.”
Carpathia clapped him on the shoulder and turned away.
Bile rose in Buck’s throat. Was this all some trap cynically set by Carpathia? He glanced quickly at Stranek and Tureanu… and noticed that neither had moved. They sat rigid, staring forward.
Carpathia triggered his protus. "Agent Scutari, Agent Suchek, come here, please."
The door slid open and the two guards entered. Buck now recognised the man who had escorted him to the club.
"Yes, Agent Carpathia?"
"Take these subjects to sub-level two with total discretion. Agent Suchek, keep them there until further orders. Agent Scutari, once they are secured, return here."
Buck watched in horror as Scutari and Suchek simply lugged the two men, who turned slack as they were lifted, on their shoulders and strode out.
"That was the sad but inevitable end to two corrupt and venal men who succumbed to an all-too common weakness. They were men that I had once respected and admired deeply.
"Now – we have further business."

Nicolae sat down opposite Buck. His strong, angular features were softened by a quick, seemingly genuine disarming smile. Buck wished fervently that it was indeed genuine.
"Cameron, you doubtless wish to know what will happen to you."
"Thank you," Buck replied, trying to keep some semblance of control. "You can call me Buck."
"I'll stick with calling you Cameron, if you don't mind."
"I do mind. Please call me Buck."
"I will call you Cameron. I mislike nicknames."
Buck felt his spirit shrink as Carpathia’s smile was replaced by a look of cold triumph. He held up his right hand and indicated the diamond ring. "That was quite shocking, was it not? They went to their deaths aware, but totally helpless. The record will show that they died in ignominy – two rich and powerful men who took recreational drugs and overdosed on a cocktail of Blue Myst and Yuphoria. Their deaths were agonising and prolonged, but no one was there to hear the screams."
Buck realised that the ring must have been used to deliver a paralysis dose to Stranek and Tureanu. He also realised that Carpathia was a ruthless and dangerous man of high connections.
"You’re Securitate," Buck said.
Carpathia nodded.
"What’s going to happen?" Buck asked, trying not to show fear.
Carpathia intertwined his fingers and stared at Buck, unsmiling. "Two people in positions of trust and influence were involved in serious crimes against the House, with the connivance of an egotistical and venal reporter. But now they are dead. I chose to spare your life, even though I know what you did, and why. There are laws and there are rules. Laws I obey. Rules I will ignore if the end is justified. You have forced my hand, and that is never wise." Nicolae shook his head. “You must understand that the good of House Kapov is often best served by justice being done out of the public eye, lest the public begin to doubt their rulers."
Buck finally found his voice. "What happens now?”
Nicolae looked back at him, his face empty of expression.
“From now on, you will be accounted a Securitate asset. This will not change your life in any meaningful way. You will continue in your role at KIN… but when so ordered, you will act for the Securitate and thus for the good of the House. You will receive an additional stipend over and above your regular wages and awards. You will never tell anyone – anyone – about your new role. You will report to me, or to one other agent, to be specified. If you do reveal your role, you will be killed. Do we have an understanding?”
Buck gulped and gave a weak nod. He felt ready to vomit.
“Answer me please. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes,” Buck croaked.
Nicolae pushed a plasticard form across the desk. “Sign your name and then add your thumbprint. The form retains your DNA.”
Numbly, Buck obeyed.
“Now return to the KIN office and report to your boss. Agent Scutari will see you on your way. Good day, Cameron.”

Stannor Bartok was seemingly in a good mood, which made the news even harder.
"I'm going to put you in the Czepel bureau. You're going to be a staff writer there, working for the woman who was Luka's assistant. I'm calling her today to give her the news. Your pay won’t be affected – I’m being generous. You take a couple of few days off, get your things in order here, get that apartment sublet, and find yourself a place in Czepel."
Did Carpathia set this up? The Securitate could do that… but why? What did I do to deserve that?

Buck reached the Czepel bureau of KIN a week later. He had put off going to the office earlier. He didn't relish facing Zora Kusic.
When it had been his assignment to find a replacement for veteran Luka Valentiu, he had told the militant Zora she had jumped the gun by moving into her former boss's office. Now Buck had been demoted and Zora elevated. Suddenly, she was his boss.
He remembered her saying, "Nothing was done about replacing Luka, so I assumed I’d move into her slot." Her attitude and presumption alone had made Buck say, "That's unlikely, but you'll be the first to know. I wouldn't be moving offices just yet."
Now she faced him, from behind the bureau chief’s desk. She had the nerve to face him all but unveiled, with only a scrap of silk holding back her hair and covering her forehead.
"Cameron," she said flatly, still seated. "I expected you on Monday."
"Some delays," he said. "You can call me Buck."
"I'll call you Cameron, if you don't mind, and --"
"I do mind. Please call --"
"Then I'll call you Cameron even if you do mind. Please sit down."
He sat, but seethed in silence as Zora crisply told him that he would no longer be the star presenter.
"We here in Czepel have an important but limited role in the Network. We collate planetary news and submit it to Bucheraine for posting. Offworld topics are not in our remit, sad to say."
Buck sat stiffly. "So I'm going to be assigned to the Czepel livestock market?"
"You don't amuse me, Cameron, but then you never did. You’re a diva with an inflated sense of entitlement. I promise you this; I won’t go for payback. I recall all of your insults, and especially that time you tried to smash a door into my face. But I’ll be professional, and I expect you to reciprocate. Is that clear?"
"Are you asking whether I understand, or whether I agree?"
"Neither," she replied dryly. "I'm asking whether you will comply."
"Why should I?" Buck snapped, feeling his pulse surge. "I've accepted my demotion and my relocation. You know as well as I do that relegating me to regional stuff is a waste of my contacts and my experience."
"You’ve accepted nothing. Everything you’ve said indicates that. For that outburst alone I could have you fired."
"If you'd had the power to fire me, I'd have quit."
"You want to quit?"
"I'll tell you what I want, Zora. I want --"
"I expect all my subordinates to call me Ms Kusic."
"You have no subordinates in this office," Buck snapped.
Zora laughed. "Cameron, I am bureau head here. Everyone in this office is my subordinate! Have you forgotten that already?"
Buck rose to his feet. "Now listen, Zora, stop trying to take out all your damned frustration on me. You know as well as I do that no one with an ounce of self-respect would put up with this. If I have to work out of the Czepel area, I'm going to work from home. And if you expect to see me in this office again for any reason, you'll get Mr Bartok on the line right now."
Zora stared back at him. Her expression had not changed. “As you wish – I will call him now. I will even let you have your say, but I am going to speak to him first, and I reserve the right to tell him how insubordinate and disrespectful you've been."
She triggered the comm console.
"Bartok speaking – what do you want, Ms Kusic?"
"Good morning, sir. I've got a situation here with Cameron Williams."
"Already? I thought he’d be no trouble! Who said what?"
"He made a demand for special treatment in a rude and insubordinate manner. He said that if I didn’t do as he said, he would quit."
"Did he now? Well, I don’t want to waste time talking to him. If he doesn’t do as you say, fire him. If he tries to bully you, fire him. If he doesn’t come in, fire him. Of course, if he’s fired, he never works for KIN ever again. Do you have any questions about that, Zora? Do you, Cameron?"
“I have no questions, Mr Bartok,” Zora said.
“No, no questions, Mr Bartok,” Buck replied.
You bastard, Carpathia!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 03, 2020, 08:19:02 AM

And here we have the third story involving Nicolae Carpathia, this time from later in his career. This has a lot of jargon from the SFRPG campaign, for which I must apologise in advance.

THE RECRUIT

The penalty phase was over.
“Philip Hendry,” the Judge said, pronouncing the name as if it was something obscene, “it is my duty to pass sentence in accordance with the law and the recommendations of the jury.
“Your guilt on every count was established beyond doubt, and there was nothing said or shown in mitigation. I have not encountered anyone as lacking in conscience as you, or as heedless of the consequences of the crimes you committed.
“I therefore direct that you be taken in custody, and at a date to be determined by the Zone Council you will be executed and your remains destroyed in accordance with the laws of Lennos.”
He was about to continue, but Hendry spoke first. “Hey, judge, no problem. I’ll be fine. The Baron needs men like me. Every leader needs men like me. See you round, your honour.”

The bailiff and two guards led Hendry in shackles from the courtroom down the long passage to the holding cells.
“It’s a shame the Imps don’t have a way to make it so you can be executed more than once,” the bailiff growled.
“Ain’t life cruel,” Hendry jeered, and grunted slightly as one of the guards struck him across the back with his shotgun.
“You won’t be so smart when they lock you in the death chamber!” the guard jeered.
The bailiff keyed in the access code to the cell block, and was about to step through when he froze in place with a muffled oath. Hendry looked past him to see, seemingly looming over the cringing warders, three figures in black carapace armour, casually cradling heavy assault carbines.
One of them raised a hand. “Yame!”
Hendry had never bothered much with languages – Anglaman had always served well enough – but he had picked up enough Tsauranian to recognise the command to halt.
And if a member of the Baron’s elite guard, the Takeoma Special Regiment, gave a command, you obeyed.
“What’s happening?” the bailiff asked cautiously.
The lead TSR trooper looked past him, at Hendry. His visor was opaque, so that even the eyes weren’t visible. “Coronel-sama!”
A man in blue coveralls stepped into view. He was of medium height and build, with regular and otherwise unremarkable features, but the patch over his left eye drew attention.
“I am Colonel Nicolae Carpathia,” the stranger said in heavily accented Anglaman. “That man will be released into my custody immediately.”

The bailiff seemed to shrink at Colonel Carpathia’s words. “Wh-what?”
“I believe I spoke clearly, Mr Thornton. But if I must – that man will be released into my custody. Here is my authorisation and official identity.”
Thornton fumbled for his scanner as Hendry smirked at his discomfort, and looked more carefully at Colonel Carpathia. The eyepatch was a giveaway – it marked those sworn to the service of the Asatru, the new State religion; specifically one of the aspects of Odin. There was some special reason why you had to lose an eye for that, but Hendry had never understood it properly.
Carpathia was fair-haired, and the eye remaining was pale blue. A large energy pistol was holstered on his right hip, and he wore what looked like a top-grade protus on his left wrist. His accent was distinctive, with a sonorous lilt that suggested Colos, or perhaps Hulugu; Imperial Houses notorious for heavy-handed brutality. Hendry’s grin widened; if the Baron had men from those Houses in his service, the future looked promising.
Thornton was checking the scanner, and gave what sounded almost like a sob. “Authorisation confirmed. Check that, Zeb.”
The guard’s response was short and pungent.
“Your opinion is noted, Zeb.” said Carpathia drily. “But your work here is done. Remove the restraints at once.”
Muttering angrily, Zeb released the manacles from Hendry’s wrists and stepped back. “He’s all yours now, Mister.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.” Carpathia beckoned to the troopers. “Kare o-jisan.”
With Carpathia and the senior trooper leading and two following, Hendry walked from the Justice building with a broad grin of relief.
They emerged into a vehicle bay at the rear of the building, where a high-grade grav flitter van and a wheeled light troop carrier stood side by side, well apart from the assortment of police vehicles.
A man was standing by the flitter. He also carried a heavy assault rifle, though he was not wearing the TSR armour; his coveralls were red and black. He had a projectile pistol on each hip; large-framed types.
Carpathia gestured towards the troop carrier and said to the troopers, “Honbu ni modoru.”
“Hai, Coronel-sama!” the leader said, and the trio bowed to Carpathia before turning away.
The man by the flitter looked at Hendry with seeming disdain. He looked young, barely in his twenties, with brown hair and olive skin, and dark brown eyes that shone with amusement.
“Alik, take us to HQ. I wish to speak with our recruit.” Carpathia tapped his protus and the flitter’s passenger door slid open.
“Right away, boss,” Alik said.
Carpathia climbed into the roomy passenger space, settling into one corner as Alik kept Hendry covered with the rifle, and beckoned him to sit in the opposite corner.
Moments after the door closed, the windows suddenly went dark, and the flitter lifted off.
“For now, you don’t have to know where we’re going,” Carpathia said urbanely. “For now, let me review your record. When I read the details, I knew you were what we needed.”
A holo-display flashed into life above Carpathia’s protus.
“Born Cal, Zone 56, IY 470… extensive juvenile record, no surprises there, you should compare notes with Alik sometime. Joined the SDF mercenaries in 491, left the SDF mercenaries in 497, not by choice; made your way to Lennos and joined the Red Dog mercenary company, served until six months ago… then arrested for violations of Penal Code 121 – three counts, Code 194 and Code 206, one count of each. Not surprisingly, sentenced to death. According to your service record you are highly skilled in CQB and squad-level combat, but prone to poor behaviour control…”
Hendry shrugged. He had heard enough jargon in his time, and it only confirmed what he had always known; the eggheads had no idea.
“The rest is just padding.” Carpathia shut off the holo-display. “We’ll be at our destination within minutes. A quick check-up, and your service can begin. Welcome to your new life.”

Hendry stepped from the flitter into a starkly functional landing bay. Two other flitters were parked there in the shadow of what looked like a baseline model Trident hyper-shuttle. There was no-one else to be seen, and everything was quiet, almost hushed.
“Alik, take Mr Hendry to medical. Bring him to me when that’s complete. Strajă, grant Mr Hendry Status Tesuto pending further clearance.” With that, Carpathia opened strode from the landing bay.
Hendry shot a questioning look at Alik, who had slung his rifle. “Straya? Tesuto? What’s he talking about now?”
Alik, predictably, smirked. “You need to learn Tsauranian, sport, to get ahead in House Takeoma And maybe some Kapovian, just to humour Nicolae. Anyway, get going.”
Hendry searched his memory. Kapovian… oh right, that House that keeps getting its butt kicked by Devon but somehow never learns. Why is he in charge?
The silence persisted as they made their way down corridors that were empty of people. On the walls were symbols of the Asatru faith and the deities themselves. Hendry looked them over, and asked, “Which of them is yours?”
“Skadhi, the Huntress,” Alik replied with more than a hint of satisfaction. “That’s enough for now. You may learn more. Depends.”
Hendry was puzzling over the images, and was about to ask more when Alik bade him halt and then ushered him into an obvious medical area.
All questions were forgotten when Hendry saw the young blonde woman in pale yellow coveralls standing by the autodoc. He had heard the stories about Chukami Takeoma’s Angels, but now he had proof…
“Well hello, gorgeous,” he said. “Hey, Alik, I may not be as healthy as I thought.”
“I’m Belinda Vandenberg.” She did not smile. The autodoc swung open. “Just lie down in there. I have to perform a full scan on all levels - infections, or contaminants, or signs of chronic injury.”
“Anything for you, babe.” Hendry lay down on the autodoc couch. “You’ll see that everything’s just perfect!”
I’ll make you smile somehow, he vowed as Belinda opened the console.
He lay in silence for a time as the autodoc cycled through the scanning process, regretting that Belinda stayed mostly out of his line of sight. Then he heard her say, “Physique acceptable. He’s all yours, Nicolae.” She added something under her breath.
Hendry felt a brief stinging in his upper arm, and he started to complain, but blackness engulfed him in mid-sentence.

The room was in shadow, and he was lying in the middle of it on a hard bed. He could not move. Restraints were gripping all his limbs and his torso.
It was an exercise, testing his willpower. Fine; he wouldn’t say a word. He was tough enough!
“Mr Hendry, it’s time you learned some things about the universe and your part in it.”
Carpathia was speaking almost casually over a PA system.
“The Project was set up to fight alien threats, and not like the Snee or the Yabob. These threats are not of this universe. They come from a realm that only folklore speaks of, but which can be all too real. The Werewolves of my ancestors, who founded House Kapov, are mere superstition, but now they are real.”
Hendry found his voice. “So you need me to help you fight… whatever it is. Okay, I understand that bit! You said I was just the kind you wanted!”
There was a slight chuckle. “I did not lie. You are a psychopathic criminal under sentence of death. You murdered a police officer in cold blood. You murdered two children. You committed a sexual assault with extreme violence. We don’t need you as a soldier.”
A panel slid open and a slender figure seemed to glide into the room; a man with pale skin, almost white. It moved slowly towards Hendry, its mouth seeming to gape open. Long teeth, like fangs, hung down from the upper jaw.
“We must know all the properties of those we fight, so as to be able to destroy them. That is what we need you for, my dear Hendry. Because Vampires, too, are real, and you are about to join them.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 05, 2020, 09:49:17 PM

The Elf and the Dragon

In battle I bestride a majestic steed
Wolves bred for war run at my side
A dozen staunch companions at my back
Into the thick of the fray we ride

Yet all is not war and bloodshed here
My soul can seek those softer ways
To lay down my sword and doff my mail
To savour the beauties of peaceful days

Sunlight flashes on broad and mighty wings
I look to the sky with awe-struck eyes
What creature is this that soars above
What beauty is held in those jewelled eyes?

Such power is this beyond mortal ken
Though an Elf lives long, we too pass away
Dragons live for aeons, ageless and wise
What can you see in this Elf's brief days?

Love twixt Elf and Dragon was a thing of myth
But now we together give this the lie
Let none besmirch this love sublime
To heaven and bliss let us both fly

And let our hearts be fairer jewels than would be seen in any king's crown or emperor's sceptre.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 11, 2020, 08:58:06 AM

On another forum, a poster chose to start a writing thread, and offered this challenge: "A hole in a moccasin." So I offered this piece.

A HOLE IN A MOCCASIN

When I asked Sandy Dunning why his Lockheed Hudson was called Moccasin, he just grinned and tapped his nose. It was Jeff Wilson who explained it in the end.
“He worked in Boots the chemist before the war, old boy.”
Laugh? I nearly started.

There were four of us in Hudson 40-29587 Moccasin – Pilot Officer Matthew “Sandy” Dunning (pilot), Flight Sergeants Jeff Wilson and Carl Peterson (co-pilot and navigator), and me, Leading Aircraftsman Roscoe White, inevitably dubbed “Blanco,” as air-gunner, the lone Aussie with the three Poms. But we were a good crew, mates all, which was good to be when you’re cooped up in a small aircraft for hours on end on anti-submarine patrol. Sandy, Jeff and Carl were grouped up front, leaving me in the turret stuck near the tail, in Botany Bay, as Sandy called it. They watched the sea, looking for U-boats; I was the one watching the sky, looking for German intruders such as their Fw-200 Condors.
It was 1630 on 12 August 1941, our fifteenth patrol mission, and the news hadn’t been good. The Germans were seemingly crushing Russian armies wherever they went and the Desert War was going badly for us. But we stuck at it; what else could we do?
We’d been airborne five hours, and starting our home leg after yet another flight with nothing to report, when I started another rotation of the turret and stopped dead when I saw the shape ahead of us, black against a cloud bank.
“Skipper, ten o’clock low, Condor!”
“Roger that!” Sandy sounded pleased, though the intercom wasn’t exactly clear. “He’s heading home too.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s seen us,” said Jeff.
I glanced back. “We’re in the sun.”
There was a moment’s silence before Sandy said, “We’re going to take that bastard down. Blanco, I’m giving you the chance, dive on him, break right, you just rake him, tail to nose.”
“I’m ready, Skipper.”
I swung the turret to face portside, and took a deep breath. This was action at last.
The Condors were a menace. They spotted convoys for U-boats, and bombed ships when they could. For us in Coastal Command, they were the enemy as much as the U-boats. But in taking one on, we were going up against an aircraft twice our size, four engines to our two, nearly as fast, and probably better armed. We'd have only had one pass to make good.
Sandy opened the throttles and the engines roared as we began our dive. I wasn’t watching the Condor as we closed; I was looking along the barrels of the twin Browning machine-guns that were the reason I was in that turret, waiting for the moment when the Condor would be in my sights.
To my surprise, Sandy didn’t use the forward guns. He was leaving the job to me.
Moccasin broke right, perfectly judged, and I saw the swastika on the Condor’s tall tail fin, a white outline against dark green, and I squeezed the triggers in short bursts, aiming just forward of the tail, swinging the turret slowly to do as Sandy had said; rake the Condor tail to nose.
I saw the bright flashes as bullets struck, and fragments were tearing off, dropping away like leaves. It lurched to port, and there was a sudden glare from its inner starboard engine, and flame blossomed from the wing, streaming like a comet’s tail as the port wing dropped and the Condor nosed down steeply.
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and a thump, and I realised that something had hit me in the inner thigh, just as Jeff cried out, “He’s done for! Good shooting!” and we banked left, circling down as the Condor plunged towards the ocean below.
“One chute out... two... three...” Jeff intoned. “That’s it.”
“Call it in, Skipper?” Carl queried.
“Certainly!” Sandy replied cheerfully. “Great work, Blanco!”
“Uh, Skipper? I think they hit me.”

One of the Condor’s gunners had got off a last burst, probably from one of their beam guns, and a single bullet had struck just below the turret mount and nicked my inner thigh; enough to draw quite a bit of blood, and close enough to have been, as Jeff put it, The Unkindest Cut Of All.
Laugh? We all did... well, I did join in, eventually.
But in the end, we’d done our bit, shot down an enemy aircraft, and leaving aside my slight wound, the only damage to our side was a hole in the Moccasin.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 20, 2020, 09:21:39 PM

And now, some more doggerel induced by casual comments on Skype. I make no apologies.

Once again chatting on Skype with my friend Mr B
And I told him of something that on YouTube I did see
(Or rather hear, but that's not the point
Lest in making that quibble I should put his nose out of joint)
In I’m Sorry I Don't Have A Clue the presenter did mention
"Getting on like a horse on fire" - whatever was his intention
Mr B, sadly, the joke did not get
He deadpanned me, which I was sure he would soon regret
So I reminded him, "Remember, in gambling, the horse always wins!"
But that prompted a charge of making platitudes and banalities and other flagrant sins
And then he said that the horse always wins, which was a foolish things to say
The question is which one to bet on that day
Then I challenged him with "What about greyhound races?" And I'm sure he had turned pallid
As I went on, unstoppable, "Horses can't win greyhound races! Your argument is invalid!"

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on May 22, 2020, 03:52:24 PM

/me crawls out from under his rock

So, I updated this (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oeMWK_jvxZjZrbuMbkHyoi8IONjAmtFQMZla8iA6rZ4/edit?usp=sharing) to reflect the feedback which I've received; hopefully, the addition serves its intended purpose.
Also, I put this (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325177/chapters/58647460) up for you to ignore.

/me hides back under the rock again

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on May 22, 2020, 06:13:53 PM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on May 22, 2020, 03:52:24 PM

/me crawls out from under his rock

So, I updated this (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oeMWK_jvxZjZrbuMbkHyoi8IONjAmtFQMZla8iA6rZ4/edit?usp=sharing) to reflect the feedback which I've received; hopefully, the addition serves its intended purpose.
Also, I put this (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325177/chapters/58647460) up for you to ignore.

/me hides back under the rock again

*Lifts rock where LooNEY_DAC hides*

So. you got me hooked on this. I still didn't have time to read it all carefully, but I promise that I'll do it. So far it looks amazing.
And I envy you (in a good, positive way). :)

*Lowers rock*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 23, 2020, 04:22:01 AM

Perhaps you could find a more comfortable rock? This is very fine. And has a nice mythic tone.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 25, 2020, 07:59:14 AM

I like Gellert’s work. But I also remember that you are still learning tonavigate the Forum. The Scriptorium is for your own writing. There is a thread called something like ‘Favourite Poems’ for other people’s work which you like. I will try to work out where it is and tell you.

Edit: it is presently near the bottom of page 4 of this this board, called ‘Share Your Favourite Poems’, started by Laufey.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 25, 2020, 08:54:56 AM

Róisín: thanx for the tip. I put the poems in a new thread - the one you mentioned hasn't been updated for more than two years, and didn't react well to my trying to post in it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 26, 2020, 09:50:39 AM

No problem mate. But I am not by any means expert at navigating the Forum - perhaps the Forum skalds could help?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on May 31, 2020, 03:48:39 AM

I wrote a poem based on 1. my first (very minor, thankfully) car accident, today, and 2. the somewhat surreal experience of watching huge chunks of the world fall apart and being very, very far away from it all.

...

on living in one of the world's most isolated cities, 2020.

there are benefits to our isolation. it is only when the world starts to crumble that the endless sky that surrounds us becomes not a cage but a shield; the water’s expanse a fortress, a wall behind which we can hide. the world comes to a standstill - but here, in this little corner of nowhere, the clock starts to creep forward. we piece our lives back together as the rest of the world falls apart.

across the oceans masks are donned, as death’s bells toll and the swallows take their flight. fear is a creeping infection that spreads through the city streets, bearing its cloak of silence and its sword of misplaced words. windows are sealed with rumours and supermarket shelves run dry. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, our tight-shut doors start to open.

on the other side of our tiny globe, an innocent man cannot breathe. the streets are a torrent of voices as black lives stain blue jackets red. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, i forget how to turn the car left. panicked, i back into another man’s car, crying over insurance and a dented numberplate. trivial, really, when elsewhere in the world, blood is still spilled into soil.

innocent blood runs in our soil too, though we like to think that we’re better. our past is a stain that we’d like to forget, a stain that still colours our future. but at least the stolen streets are quiet here, in this little corner of nowhere. And as the rest of the world falls apart at the seams, we watch and we wait, in this fortress of our own isolation.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on May 31, 2020, 08:25:25 AM

Quote from: Keep Looking on May 31, 2020, 03:48:39 AM

I wrote a poem based on 1. my first (very minor, thankfully) car accident, today, and 2. the somewhat surreal experience of watching huge chunks of the world fall apart and being very, very far away from it all.

...

on living in one of the world's most isolated cities, 2020.

there are benefits to our isolation. it is only when the world starts to crumble that the endless sky that surrounds us becomes not a cage but a shield; the water’s expanse a fortress, a wall behind which we can hide. the world comes to a standstill - but here, in this little corner of nowhere, the clock starts to creep forward. we piece our lives back together as the rest of the world falls apart.

across the oceans masks are donned, as death’s bells toll and the swallows take their flight. fear is a creeping infection that spreads through the city streets, bearing its cloak of silence and its sword of misplaced words. windows are sealed with rumours and supermarket shelves run dry. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, our tight-shut doors start to open.

on the other side of our tiny globe, an innocent man cannot breathe. the streets are a torrent of voices as black lives stain blue jackets red. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, i forget how to turn the car left. panicked, i back into another man’s car, crying over insurance and a dented numberplate. trivial, really, when elsewhere in the world, blood is still spilled into soil.

innocent blood runs in our soil too, though we like to think that we’re better. our past is a stain that we’d like to forget, a stain that still colours our future. but at least the stolen streets are quiet here, in this little corner of nowhere. And as the rest of the world falls apart at the seams, we watch and we wait, in this fortress of our own isolation.

I have only one question: why on Earth is this not in the comments where I can properly upvote it as is deserved!?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 31, 2020, 08:33:40 AM

Keep Looking, that is very fine. I have thought a lot about how our isolation, while in some ways a nuisance, works to protect us. I hope the consequences of the accident resolve okay!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on May 31, 2020, 10:24:31 AM

Thanks Ran and Róisín - i'm glad you think the poem is good.

As for the accident, it wasn't very serious - scraped up the other guy's car a little and broke their numberplate, but at the end of the day both cars are still driveable. We're paying, of course, but it's not more than we can afford. Still, felt pretty awful, especially considering that it was a really bloody stupid mistake and it was most definitely my fault. I was hoping to get some study done this weekend, but after various events yesterday and the car thing today, I wasn't really in a fit emotional state to do anything much more than focus on recovering and try not to make anything worse. And write poetry to deal with everything.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 31, 2020, 02:21:54 PM

Poetry is a useful tool for dealing with stuff - helps you to get a handle on stuff.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on June 01, 2020, 12:43:16 PM

Quote from: Keep Looking on May 31, 2020, 10:24:31 AM

Thanks Ran and Róisín - i'm glad you think the poem is good.

As for the accident, it wasn't very serious - scraped up the other guy's car a little and broke their numberplate, but at the end of the day both cars are still driveable. We're paying, of course, but it's not more than we can afford. Still, felt pretty awful, especially considering that it was a really bloody stupid mistake and it was most definitely my fault. I was hoping to get some study done this weekend, but after various events yesterday and the car thing today, I wasn't really in a fit emotional state to do anything much more than focus on recovering and try not to make anything worse. And write poetry to deal with everything.

Keep Looking, I really like the poem! It's not that unusual to watch something that is a nuisance turning in an advantage. I'm glad to know that you (and Róisín, and Waveright, among others) are relatively safe from some troubles (remembering that you already had a "nice" quote of problems in Australia this year...)

As for the accident, everybody makes mistakes, particularly in the beginning. Luckily nobody was hurt (except your emotional state...).
I had a similar situation just 6 months after getting my licence, and albeit an unpleasant experience, it made me a better driver in the end (30 years went by and I never had another accident*). I hope the same happens to you. :)

* yes, insurance companies love me...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 06, 2020, 09:33:50 AM

I've just completed a key passage in Dragonfall (Volume 3 of the Dragonhost Saga) in which the main character battles and defeats the evil tyrant and his mind-reading warrior guardian, winning victory by Beast Magic over Dark Magic. But on the way to that confrontation, I paused the action to include some poetry that sprang to mind.

How can my love remain?
Sweet heart so far away
Sweet soul is lost to me
Never to see again
Never to share a kiss
Never to share our joy
How can my love remain?

When I re-read that bit, I realised that I'd created a new verse form; seven lines of six syllables, with a repeated rhyme in the first, fourth and seventh lines... and I hadn't actually planned it. I was (and am) surprised!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on June 06, 2020, 11:01:11 AM

it's great when we surprise ourselves, isn't it?

Yastreb (sorry for asking again. I'm not sure, but I believe I already did), did you published somewhere your Dragonhost Saga? I'd like to read it. :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on June 07, 2020, 01:39:50 AM

Yastreb, good verse form. And good poem!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 03, 2020, 04:10:38 AM

thegreyarea; here's the first chapter of Earthfire, Volume I of the Dragonhost Saga.

A note on punctuation; there are four languages used throughout the saga, set off by different types of punctuation, and two are used here; "Kethran" and <Aelftongue.> There's also * mindspeech.

***

There are no first-hand records about the Hell Reign, or the Reaving, or whatever name it was called by the survivors.
If they wrote down anything, it did not survive; and those who spoke the stories could not convey the full reality of what they saw.
What can be said about the Hell Reign is that it began and it ended, and the world did not end.

Miris Terhaln
Keeper of Lore and History
AC 1276

***

STRANGE LAND

He awoke with his face in gently running water.
Something was tearing at his ear, lifting his face clear of the bitterly cold water, but the pain was lost in a red haze of agony that engulfed every part of him. He slowly rolled over onto his back, biting back the screams that the pain was demanding.
The wolf cub’s eyes were large with fear and sorrow.
* Zalushka, I live…
He struggled upright and stood shivering in the shallows of a creek at the base of the Tyurmai Mountains outside Tunguska, the only land that he had even known or ever expected to know. He had travelled at least ten miles on foot, and he could not remember anything of that journey from his village to the narrow track through the mountains.
It was then he realised that he had used his left arm in standing up.
Dumbfounded, he pushed back his cloak and stared at the arm where the Stone Spear had struck; bone shattered and splinters jutting through torn flesh, but now the arm was whole, save for a scar as large as his fist just below the shoulder; a crippling wound had been fully healed, and he could not remember how it had happened.
The pain was receding, leaving that dull ache in his chest, in his breastbone…
Where Koschei struck me before he… before he died…

He donned his cloak again, and without looking back he waded across the creek, the cub splashing after him.
Together they found a rough track leading into dense forest.
His head buzzed with unfamiliar sensations, and everything seemed oddly distant.
With every step his fatigue grew, and conscious thought faded away, save for one.
Koschei is dead. Koschei the Undying is dead.

Fatigue finally overcame him and he slumped to the ground. Gasping with the effort, he clawed his way to sprawl against a fallen tree.
The pains were returning, jabbing at his scalp, and face, spiking up and down his body like a cloud of thorns. There was blood on his face, where his left cheek was gashed, and he could not recall what had wounded him there.
By Morena’s mercy, what now? Where am I?
The wolf-cub nuzzled his hand, and her thoughts were clear.
* Stay with me.
* I promise you, Zalushka…
The words trailed off, and he sank into semi-consciousness.
Images swirled in his mind, jumbled and incoherent…
A great silver tower, and a golden dragon soaring, and a great fire sweeping a countryside like none he had ever seen… Am I dying?
Zalushka was howling, a piteous wail of despair.

Suddenly her fear jolted him back to awareness.
At the side of the track stood a huge wolf, deep black like the midnight sky, with eyes green as grass and as hard as emeralds. It took a pace forward, and gave a low, throbbing growl.
He met the wolf’s eyes and summoned the Runes for Beast-speech.
* We mean no harm. We wish only to pass.
The wolf ceased its growling. It was staring at them both, and he knew that there was a mind behind those eyes. It was a Vol’volkiy, a Great Wolf, the like of those that accepted the Pact back in Tunguska.
But it made no answer.
* Leave us be, lord of the woods. I am friend to wolves. Let us pass…
Zalushka was hunched down, ears flattened, but confronting the black wolf nonetheless, just as she had done once before…
Then someone stepped out from behind the wolf.

There had been pictures of Aelves in Koschei’s journals and tomes of lore.
The books told of how the fair folk were descended from the union of earth-priests and priestesses with the faerie folk in ages past, and they had magic and long spans in years, but Koschei had said that much of the folklore about their goodness and vast arcane power was mere fantasy. In the pictures, the Aelves were sharp-featured and angular, almost as if chiselled out of marble, and their supposed beauty seemed cold, harsh and remote, unlike the one that now stood beside the wolf.
This Aelf was tall and lean and finely boned, clad in a jerkin and leggings of hardened leather, reinforced with steel rings; a narrow leather belt held a long dagger in a plain scabbard on his left hip, and the hilt of a sword jutted above his right shoulder.
High cheekbones and a sharply pointed chin made a small upturned nose look out of place. Long golden hair was tied back in a prominent lock; lobeless ears swept up into high points; and large slanted eyes, blue as the midday sky, seemed to be taking in everything before him, missing nothing.
“Do not be afraid,” the Aelf said quickly in Kethran, his hands raised placatingly. “I am Dorian Wolfkin… my companion is Thunder… and I too am a Master of Beasts.”

Dorian took in the stranger cautiously.
He did not use the Sight again – the glare of magical energy had struck him as if he had looked directly at the sun.
A livid and raw wound slashed across the left cheek of the young man’s plain, broad-featured face, and his tangled chestnut-brown hair was matted with blood.
His clothing, a green hooded cloak with an ornate silver clasp, a tabard and breeches of matching brown, and sturdy boots, was covered with dust and dirt. A plain cloth satchel hung from one shoulder, and a long dagger sheathed on an unadorned stitched belt was his only weapon.
<My name… is Yastreb. You have nothing… nothing to fear… from me… or from my friend Zabeelushka,> the Human replied haltingly in clear Aelftongue.
He had a heavy accent much like that of Rashkans, but in a voice that fatigue had rendered all but devoid of emotion. His eyes were dark gold orbs with pinpoints of light like tiny stars.
<Likewise, don’t fear us. We heard your pledge. You are injured.>
<We’re lost. What… what land is this?>
Dorian glanced at the cub, which was still standing its ground, fearful but determined, before saying, <You came from beyond the mountains. No-one comes from there. No-one dares go there. They terrify each other with stories of the land beyond the mountains.>
The stranger spoke through fading gasps, struggling to keep his eyes open. <I don’t come… to terrify... I have to escape…>
Dorian kept his eyes on the Human, and pulsed a calming thought to the cub.
* Tell me of him, little sister. Tell me what happened.
The cub’s thoughts were frantic, afraid but determined.
* Good and kind, help him, brother, he is good and kind…
Dorian crouched down and placed one hand on the cub’s head.
* Trust me, little sister. Tell me about him. Tell me, little sister. Please tell me.
The cub was trembling, and then the thoughts came in a rush of emotions. The memories were raw, barely formed, filtered through layers of fear, but they were clear enough…
* He was in pain, He was afraid.
* The Old One said, run, so He ran, and he was in pain, and could not go on.
* Then the Pack was there, and they were angry, and I was afraid for Him, and I told Them He is good and kind, do not hurt Him.
* They looked, and They saw, and then They ended His pain, and He ran from the forest…
He placed his hand on the stranger’s forehead.
<Her heart beats in your soul. Let her love make you whole.>
The cub’s fear ebbing… and now there was... joy.
The stranger’s eyes closed, and his breathing steadied as he slept.
Dorian stared down at the unconscious man for a time, and then at the cub, who gazed back at him with exultant eyes.
* Thunder, what do you see?
* A pure spirit, the great wolf replied.

Yastreb awoke, but lay still.
He was fully clad, save for his boots and cloak, lying on what felt like thick grass, and a blanket or rug was covering him.
He felt a wet nose nuzzle his face.
* Are we safe, Zalushka?
* Safe.
<Yastreb, are you in pain?>
He turned his head slowly and opened his eyes. It was daylight, but he lay in deep shade, at one end of a narrow clearing. At the far end a spring gushed from a rock overhang.
Dorian dropped to a crouch beside him, and Thunder padded up to join them. The Aelf held out a roughly-carved wooden mug.
<No… just very weak… my thanks to you, Dorian Wolfkin.>
<Drink anyway, you need it.>
Yastreb slowly sat up and accepted the mug. It was filled with cool water, and he drank it down gratefully.
<You’ve slept for a full day and more. Your little sister was fretting, but she is happy now that you’ve awoken. She’s young, and I sensed that you only bonded a few days past.>
Dorian smiled, and it was a friendly smile that touched his eyes – eyes that shimmered with patterns of blue and grey; mage’s eyes, but not like Koschei’s or his own.
<I should have said, welcome to my home.>
<Thank you for your help.>
Dorian looked at him closely, no longer smiling, head tilted, eyebrows raised.
<You suffered injuries. I can see scars. But I sensed something else – something that left you stunned with grief, a terrible loss. What happened, Yastreb? What did you do?>
Yastreb could only look away as he answered, <I destroyed my home… to avenge Koschei. And then I fled…>
The memories were coming back in a flood of raw emotion, and Yastreb could not hold back his distress.
<I destroyed them! May the Gods forgive me! I saw all that Koschei witnessed in that last hour… how they slaughtered the little folk, whom he loved as his children… and they struck me down from the darkness… so I used the power he gave me, and the hate that he left behind… But I burned them alive! I scorched the earth around me, burned the life out of it! My home, my village, turned to ashes and dust!>
He tried to rise to his feet, but Dorian placed a hand on his shoulder and held him down with no apparent effort.
<I’ve seen you with my eyes, and through Thunder’s eyes and your little sister’s, and we shared souls, if only for an instant.
<I know that you are not a wicked man. They saw no evil in you, and believe me, the Great Wolves see more deeply than any other. What they also saw, and what I see, is magic in you, more than I can ever have imagined in a mortal frame.>
He traced his fingertips around the wound on Yastreb’s face.
<No weapon, no claw caused that scar. The magic you worked against those enemies did that. Some magic has a price. So tell me more. Who is Koschei?>[/size]

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on July 03, 2020, 04:20:33 AM

Naming yourself after an OC as well, I see. ;)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 03, 2020, 04:20:56 AM

So glad to see this up here, Yastreb! You may find an interested audience here.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on July 03, 2020, 05:24:36 AM

Quote from: Yastreb on July 03, 2020, 04:10:38 AM

thegreyarea; here's the first chapter of Earthfire, Volume I of the Dragonhost Saga.

A note on punctuation; there are four languages used throughout the saga, set off by different types of punctuation, and two are used here; "Kethran" and <Aelftongue.> There's also * mindspeech.

Yastreb, thank you so much! I'll be reading it carefully later today. BTW nice way to separate languages! :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 03, 2020, 12:11:03 PM

Quote from: RanVor on July 03, 2020, 04:20:33 AM

Naming yourself after an OC as well, I see. ;)

TBH, my avatar is how I imagine Dorian... Cutter (and Link) kept intruding into my mind as I was working out Dorian's appearance. You can't fight against that!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 14, 2020, 01:29:48 AM

A Writer's Group would often set challenges of creating a sentence or short passage using two nominated words, but I rarely could keep answers brief, as below. The nominated words are in bold.

A prolonged over-indulgence in Kef made renowned dilettante Byron Cadwallader believe that he had finally acquired Pansophy, but his supposed universal knowledge gleaned thereby had family, friends, and readers of his blog puzzled, as Armenian folk dancing was not renowned for mind-expanding experiences, and there were many gibes about his claims in gossip columns.
As it turned out, it was all caused by an embarrassingly (and a needlessly) quick glance at a Wikipedia disambiguation page, though the Armenian folk dance troupe had received Byron's patronage with sincere gratitude. They had taught him well, though there was some ill-feeling from his family over the paternity suit, which was of course settled privately; Byron refused to discuss the rumour that he had been further deceived into paying for a supposed secret revelation about Kim Kardashian's past.
At last report, Byron was attending a Folk Dancer's Anonymous group in Chicago.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 14, 2020, 03:53:32 AM

Yastreb, I know you write your original work and not fan fiction, but it would be a delight to have you participate in the next Chapter Break Filler. If you take a look on the works of the previous two, you will notify there are several works using very minor or original characters. I don’t know what the prompts will be about next time, but I’m sure there will be many opportunities to create original characters and settings that relate to Minnaverse in some form or other. Please consider it! The next one is hopefully far away now, so there is time to ponder.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 14, 2020, 04:53:05 AM

Yastreb, I second that suggestion. I don’t know whether you are up for fanfic, or have written such before - I never had written any nor even encountered the concept before starting to do so for this fandom, and was somewhat surprised to find myself not only reading but writing the stuff! As you may remember, before getting involved in this fandom all the fiction I had ever had published was hard SF, and all my other published or broadcast work was poetry, technical articles and the occasional song.

Which reminds me, I should make time tonight to put up the latest chapter of ‘Year 3, Very Far to the South’ which has only a few chapters to go.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: viola on July 19, 2020, 09:54:42 AM

If anyone is curious, I've thrown my hat into the circle that is writing fanfics. I'm feartheviolas (https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartheviolas) on AO3 as well, and I've written some Lucifer fics if anyone is curious. I have one longer series, which is a pirate AU, and you don't really have to have seen the show to read it.

So yeah. I thought I'd share. I started writing again earlier this year after a nearly 10 year break, and it's been fun. I'm currently working on two other longish fics (also Lucifer fandom) and I have some ideas for other nonLucifer things I want to write as well.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: ftmshepard on July 27, 2020, 07:44:59 AM

Question! Can I post bits of my story about a rodent-like alien moving through a space ship scrap yard, or does that go in the mature board? Content wise, it's definitely pg or pg-13, as there's no swearing or sexuality or nudity, the characters are briefly in what is implied to be a bar, and the violence is no worse than something out of a disney movie, at least so far. The only reason I ask is because the rules on the mature board say that "furry themes" are NC-17, and this story's characters are all aliens that resemble anthropomorphic versions of earth animal species.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 27, 2020, 12:48:17 PM

Again I don’t have any authority but I would say that an alien species with fur doing fully pg-13 things is not “furry themes”. If I had to guess the limitation is mostly to avoid having to argue whether a furry person is naked or not. Or otherwise using furries to make sexual/erotic content supposedly lower rated.

EDIT: in my opinion for example this guy is not “a furry” despite having fur: https://www.deviantart.com/koutanagamori/art/Lion-Warrior-201583062

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: ftmshepard on July 27, 2020, 05:31:44 PM

Here's a little bit of a thing I'm working on, then:

The Fall echoed as some large piece of scrap worked itself loose, tumbling with a clang down and down, a cacophony of metal sounding as it dragged part of its pile with it. As the noise continued, the Groundskeeper froze, whiskers twitching. I stopped as well, my paw tightening once more around the ray gun. Below the sound of the junkslide, so low I could barely hear, were the slow, easy footsteps of a thing so great it didn’t need to worry about scrap dogs or fall lions.
The Groundskeeper dropped to all fours. Sasha followed suit, while Alexi pulled out a bullet pistol. We waited, trapped between flight and fight, not knowing whether it would even notice us.
Its great head appeared first, pushed through some junk that fell to the scrap floor with screeching, scraping sound. Opening its wide mouth, it made the hole bigger, even as its front legs appeared, then its great blue body. It was nearly as big as the pile itself, and strong enough to bear the weight of all that metal bearing down on it. Going through like that would have shred my fur off my body, but despite great scars I could see as it lumbered forward, it seemed unhurt by the packed metal all around it.
“Whale,” Sasha said. His voice held the awe I felt, staring at it.
A herbivore that learned to eat the twisted flora that grew in the slag and death of retired space ships, that gave up only eating plants when it realized that it could suck in bigger, meatier prey into that big maw, when it felt like it. They had, according to the Colony’s oldest records, emerged from the polluted waters, and never went back.
I felt when it noticed us. Its eyes were at least the size of my head, and it gazed at us without blinking.
We were not a threat to it. It would take more bullets than Alexi had on him to take it down, and my ray gun would only piss it off. We could only hope that it would move on.
As it turned its feet and moved away, I found that I could not take a breath. I was still terrified that if I made even that sound, it would turn back around.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on August 10, 2020, 04:26:29 AM

I could never decide what to give this poem as a title. If anyone has any suggestions...?

In battle I bestride a majestic steed
Wolves bred for war run at my side
A dozen staunch companions at my back
Into the thick of the fray we ride

Yet all is not war and bloodshed here
My soul can seek those softer ways
To lay down my sword and doff my mail
To savour the beauties of peaceful days

Sunlight flashes on broad and mighty wings
I look to the sky with awe-struck eyes
What creature is this that soars above
What beauty is held in those jewelled eyes?

Such power is this beyond mortal ken
Though an Aelf lives long, we too pass away
Dragons live for aeons, ageless and wise
What can you see in this Aelf's brief days?

Love twixt Aelf and Dragon was a thing of myth
But now we together give this the lie
Let none besmirch this love sublime
To heaven and bliss let us both fly

And let our hearts be fairer jewels than would be seen in any king's crown or emperor's sceptre.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on August 10, 2020, 07:14:49 AM

ftm, that junkyard tale sounds interesting. I would be curious to see more of it.

Yastreb, I haven’t seen nearly enough of your poetry! I don’t have any ideas yet for a title, need to think about it. I should put up some of my poetry/stories and essays from the Library writers group. Who will start meeting again this coming week, and who asked after you and hoped you were okay?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on August 11, 2020, 11:15:02 AM

Róisín, please pass on my thanks and regards to the writers' group, and tell them I'm OK.

This is another love poem that I wrote and left untitled.

When all the forests deep are gone
When desert sand chokes mountain streams
When the fields are barren and forlorn
You will still be in my dreams

When the cities all in ruins lie
When every land is torn apart
When all the kingdoms are no more
You will still be in my heart

When the sunlight dims and fades
When darkness fills the heavens above
When the magic goes away
You will still be my true love

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on August 13, 2020, 11:08:21 PM

The new verse form that I accidentally created (and posted here on 6 June) has manifested again. It seems eminently suited for laments of one form or another.

How shall we speak his name?
When we sing of heroes
And praise them to the skies
Then shall we speak his name
Recall the price he paid
Recall the life he gave
Then shall we speak his name

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 16, 2020, 10:16:33 PM

What follows is part of the backstory for a character in a science-fiction RPG. The character is a SWAT/SAS operative who comes from a planet where the main population centre, Megopolis Alpha, is a city the size of Europe. In this scene, he's tracking members of a extremist religious faction that has bases in the wastelands outside Megopolis Alpha.

WHITE DEATH

Alik-Jay Hidell eased himself slowly into place and activated his field-glasses to spycam mode. His padded snow-suit blended perfectly with the snowbank. A pack loaded with survival gear, rations and supplies lay beside him, and a modified Type 85 assault carbine with integral scope and suppressor lay at his side. The sub-zero temperatures had him so rugged up that all that showed were his dark brown eyes. It was bitterly cold, even for a Megalpha boy used to the northern Wastelands from long years of field operations.

He had been looking for a secret Brotherhood base, and his search had paid off; an almost perfectly hidden concrete bunker at the base of a rocky hill part-shrouded by the pine forest. At least sixty or seventy worker in padded grey coveralls and white head scarves were taking boxes and metal drums from the bunker and loading them onto pack frames for man-portage, while thirty men in similar suits but black head scarves, toting frame-stocked machine-pistols and crude-looking carbines, stood guard. There was one who seemed to be the leader; a tall man in a heavy woollen robe and white cap, face set in a permanent scowl, who was snapping instructions to the workers and gesturing urgently.
Alik-Jay levelled the spycam at the drums, noting a variety of symbols and combinations of letters and numbers that brought back memories of caches he’d seen in raids on Brotherhood arms caches in MegAlpha. It was exactly what HQ would call "strike-worthy", and so he tapped the coordinates into his field communicator.
Just seconds later, Alik-Jay flinched at the distant whine of helicopters growing steadily louder. The camera was quickly stowed and as he was crawling away, dragging pack and carbine, he heard an urgent voice in his earpiece; "Bravo Two Zero, attack warning red! Clear the area! Clear the area!"
Thanks for the hot tip! At least you could have told me to get clear before sending the choppers in!

A furrow through the snow would be easily recognisable to anyone leaving the camp, but if the incoming gunships were about to blast the camp into oblivion, that was the least of his worries. Behind him the cultists were pulling the covers off two tripod-mounted heavy machine-guns as other guards rushed to take cover behind rocks and trees. The workers seemed ready to scatter, but the leader was shouting orders, and they started to grab up the packs and strap them on.

Alik-Jay looked back just as a flight of Z-9 gunships soared up above the ridge to the north and rippled-fired a salvo of rockets into the cultist’s camp. A stack of drums exploded in a ghastly red-orange fireball, unleashing shards of hot metal and blazing chemicals over workers and guards. Dozens of them dropped screaming and convulsing. The leader was calmly shouting orders, ignoring the destruction around him, and shooting back at the Z-9s with a machine-pistol.

Alik-Jay was fast-crawling away, heading for the nearest tree-line, when a sudden white-hot glare blossomed behind him as the gunships unleashed a fresh salvo of rockets at the Brotherhood dump; then he heard the staccato beat of their machine-cannon above the howling of their engines as they powered in for a strafing run, followed by the deeper roar of Slammer missiles leaving their racks and the concussion of their impact. Stealth forgotten, he grabbed his carbine and pack together and hurled himself among the pines as the bombardment rose to a deafening crescendo.

He lay still as the explosions faded, but as he expected, the helicopter crews were not done yet. They were circling like birds of prey looking for fresh kills; he had seen that often enough before, though usually while awaiting insertion. Sure enough, he heard them firing short bursts that would leave little for the scavengers. 23-millimetre rounds would all but blow a man apart.
Thirty minutes passed before the Z-9s had had enough. Alik-Jay waited another five minutes after their sounds faded before reaching for his communicator and tapping in the codes for Alive and well and Awaiting further orders. The reply came back in under a minute; Assess and report.
Alik-Jay took up his carbine and crept back to the edge of the tree-line. He paused to listen, but heard nothing above the sighing of the wind. The smell was another matter; a sickening blend of hot metal, burned flesh, and acrid chemicals that stung his nostrils. He settled his snow-mask into place, which helped a little, and started back towards the camp, taking an indirect approach.

The damage was just about complete. Bodies lay in heaps and rows, mostly blackened and twisted from being burned alive; many had been shredded by cannon fire, and torn chunks of flesh, only a few recognisable as body parts, were strewn around the charred wreckage of barrels and man-packs and scorched weapons. The bunker had taken direct hits from Slammer missiles; all that remained was a shattered stub like a broken tooth. Alik-Jay tried to do a body count from his vantage point, but it was impossible to come up with an accurate figure. In the end all he could do was send his report in as Damage Assessment: Complete – 100+ EKIA. He did a single slow pan over the remains of the camp with the spy cam and put it away. He would evac soon; the job was done.

There was a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye; a brief scuffing of feet on snow. He seized the carbine, rolled swiftly, came to a crouch – and saw a white shape vanish into the trees not fifty metres away before he could fire a shot. Springing upright, he dashed to take cover behind a rock outcrop half-way between him and the target, and paused to listen. At first he heard nothing, then there was a single scuffing noise, and a cry of alarm. "DEMON! Aryeh save... " The cry was broken off suddenly. There was a sudden burst of fire, a brief flurry of ricochets; a machine pistol. Alik-Jay dived around the side of the rock and dashed forward, switching to full auto.

Among the trees were three figures into padded coveralls, two with black head scarves. One was spinning towards him, machine-pistol at the hip. Alik-Jay brought his carbine to shoulder height and fired in the same move, stitching a burst across all three, raking them with a second burst as the trio lurched and staggered. The muffled crackle of the carbine was all but drowned out by the thumps of the bullets into the cultists’ torsos and arms; then all three were down and twitching.

Alik-Jay crashed into a sturdy tree and loose snow showered down on him. The cultists were down, but there were no groans, no cries; they had died instantly. There was silence… and another crunch of a footfall… behind him. He started to turn, knowing that he had been caught napping, saw the cultist leader’s triumphant smile as he levelled the machine-pistol… and then something crashed into the leader’s head, smacking him sideways, and he collapsed in a boneless, inelegant sprawl.

Something dropped into the snow by the limp form – a rock perhaps the size of a fist; a rock that would fit into the massive wound on the leader’s cheek where the bone had been crushed in; a rock that had been thrown with a strength that no human could... Alik-Jay turned very slowly as someone edged out from behind the tree… not someone; something. He raised his carbine, and then froze.

It was well over two metres tall, human-shaped, but not human; not with the white fur all over its body and the snouted, heavy-browed face. Long arms reached past the knees, the long-fingered hands were tipped with heavy black claws. It held out both hands before it with an almost placating gesture, and then pointed to the leader’s corpse and nodded. Alik-Jay could not read its expression, but somehow the meaning was plain. I saved your life… now you owe me.
It turned away, slowly, deliberately, and began to stride away into the woods, leaving Alik-Jay staring in disbelief. He watched it until it vanished from sight.

He found a fifth body nearby; a labourer; the head a bloodied mess from being smashed into a tree.

His earpiece crackled; "Evac 937-641".

Alik-Jay tapped back an acknowledgement and set off for the LZ.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on September 17, 2020, 01:58:57 AM

Sounds interesting. What next?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 08, 2020, 09:20:47 PM

Annabelle stood in the hatchway of her ship, watching the clouds race by overhead, the formations allowing her to daydream and see fantastical shapes that really were not there.
Because Annabelle often daydreamed, her ship rarely left the dock.
Could it be that one of her dreams was finally coming true?
Dimly visible through the swirling morning mists which had blanketed the harbour that morning, a ship was coming into view.
Edward, her beloved, was travelling on the ship that was sailing through the heads, sailing home to Annabelle, to be her destiny.
Forever it had seemed that Edward had been gone, when in fact it had only been three months
"Good heavens!" she said out loud, startling the two men industriously coiling rope behind her, "what a time to the wind to drop!"
Haiti was his point of origin; Edward had travelled there with "Doctors Without Borders."
It ended in failure, however, due to a mix-up in medication that had caused the natives to respond with violence.
Just escaping with the clothes on their backs had been lucky; Edward had written to her just after the evacuation, telling how Doctor Chesterfield had been stripped of his pin-stripe trousers in the confusion... at least, that was his story (Edward had somehow managed to convey a raised eyebrow in that passage).
"Kentucky Whisky all around!" ordered Edward, "we need some time to think this through."
"Less thinking, more drinking," slurred Major Carruthers, and tried to grab the tray from the steward.
Major Carruthers took the time to gaze upon the rapidly approaching crowd, but unsure of what he was feeling, he quickly departed the scene.
Nearby, ace investigative reporter, Harry 'Scoop' Henshaw continued to scribble into an old fashioned notebook of the events unfolding before him; while the story about the medical incompetence displayed in Haiti was certain to get him a banner headline, the drunken antics of certain fake military English autocrats was sure to net him a far greater financial gain, if he wrote the story just the right way.
Openly nonplussed at the Major's abrupt spurning of the drinks tray, the steward shrugged and proffered the whiskey to Miss Caldicott, who declined demurely.
Perplexed by this sudden rushed departure of the Major, the steward about faced, ready to return to his station at the bar when he ran into that rather large Irish Wolf hound that belonged to the bar’s owner, tripping and sending the whiskey and glassware flying across the room, watching as it shattered and splintered against the dark mahogany panelling, the splinters catching the light just so and showering down in a shower reminiscent of pixie dust.
Quashing her increasing concern, Annabelle looked around at the rope-handlers and, raising one elegant eyebrow, asked them, "Is it normal for newly-arrived ships to go round in circles in the middle of the harbour like that?"
“Right you are young miss," said the Bosun among them, "ships have been doing that fer years. They have a name for it, but it slips my mind yer know".
Such matters as nautical nomenclature were of no concern to the passengers on the Sneezing Gasket (so dubbed for a reason no-one could recall), as the wolfhound was busy tearing apart Harry 'Scoop' Henshaw's old-fashioned notebook.
That made his expose increasingly unlikely, and several of the passengers were cheering on the dog to finish the job.
Understandably it would have been a nautical but nice expectation for the passengers’ acceptance of the seaworthy nomenclature, but convincing them was another matter, whilst the Irish Hound did his bit of digesting the contents of Scoop's notebook.
"Varmint, stop ripping up my old fashioned notebook" shouted Harry 'Scoop" Henshaw, "You realise how expensive that is!"
While Harry "Scoop" Henshaw was shouting imprecations at the dog, Annabelle was being regaled with dockside tales of how the Sneezing Gasket's sister ships the Coughing Casket and the Wheezing Basket were the subject of ridicule in every port in the world.
"Xebecs are a little old fashioned aren't they?" asked Harry 'Scoop" Henshaw, secretly admiring the ships before him.
"You do realise we have forgotten Annabelle," stated Miss Caldicott.
“Zeus’ beard!” cried Edward, “we must find her before those bilge rats tell her about the thing I picked up in Haiti!”

Edited to add; I should have said at the beginning that this is the result of a "story built from sentences starting with consecutive letters of the alphabet" challenge in my old writing group.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 25, 2020, 09:55:05 PM

Marcus Warner's Carried Home inspired an extended version, set in the world of my Dragonhost Saga.

(Granya is the mentor of Yastreb, the main character).

GRANYA’S SONG

I stayed in Gevarna
Beneath my roof of stone
Though tides took you yonder
You’ll be carried, carried home
Great mountains, mighty rivers
More lands than I could know
And so you crossed the ocean
But I could never go, I could never go
But I could never go, I could never go

Riding through the outlands
So many lives to save
Crowded cities, filled with wonders
And terrors, but you were brave
That night, the Dragon flying
To a place, that none could know
Come back, a voice was crying
But I could never go, I could never go
But I could never go, I could never go

I stayed in Gevarna
Beneath my roof of stone
Though tides took you yonder
You’ll be carried, carried home
Great mountains, mighty rivers
More lands than I could know
And so you crossed the ocean
But I could never go, I could never go
But I could never go, I could never go

Many brave companions
Stood with you to the end
When the Dragon rose up
And hope was born again
Life breathed into forests
And fields, for wheat to sow
And so your quest was ended
But I could never go, I could never go
But I could never go, I could never go

So stay in Gevarna
Beneath my roof of stone
Though tides took you yonder
You were carried, carried home
Great mountains, mighty rivers
More lands than I could know
And so you crossed the ocean
But I could never go, I could never go

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 26, 2020, 12:14:21 AM

Hi! Noob here seeking to gain a presence. I'd been looking for feedback for some of my stories that I'm unsure of. This first one is an excerpt, a letter written by a mercenary making an important request. Violence and war crimes are implied, but not shown.

Siege of Valentia

To his Royal Majesty, the shadow standing in the Light of the Ages.

All around the camp, from my camp, could be heard cries for rest, cries for peace from anguished souls waiting for release from the slow pain that bleeds them dry in the sweltering sun of a foreign land. Surrounding me is a nightmare symphony like in a village festival, a dance of prayers and pleas for death to strange gods whose names I don't recognize.

All that’s left are believers. All the rest have abandoned me, leaving me alone with the agonized revenants who lie on their backs in pain. This city, this Valentia had taken all of them, brought them despair, those who brought hope for victory.

When we first arrived by ship, we were informed that the other mercenary armies commissioned to siege Valentia were marching around the city, blocking any attempts to call for food or supplies. They were trying to starve them on the inside. For a few months, this had gone on and we were told until it became clear that a more belligerent solution was required.

Our band of Mercenaries was brought in to handle it. The Valentians were surviving with what must be hidden food stores, hidden water, mayhaps some aid from some outside helper. There was no other way short of divine intervention that allowed them to continue fighting, continue living.

Some of their men searched for points of ingress, places where they could fight their way through, waste tunnels, waterways, catacombs, each of them armed with too many cultists holding scourges and crossbows. When I first laid eyes on them I saw the face of death beckoning me to join him in those eyes.

The first sign of something awry was black billowing smoke rising in towers up to the sky. The second was the resistance put to our attack. We had anticipated a fight, not slaughter; they practically threw themselves at us.

After the first wave's bodies lay in pieces, nourishing the soil, the first sermon came in that most wretched of voices. To hear it is like the sound of one’s skull being crushed by a horse-pulled wagon, but listening to it was like drinking Ambrosia to those that understood.

We expected some of our own to falter and fail. There was a handful of us that I suspected held faith for the Hanged God and an even smaller handful held more faith in him than in whatever god made money. Every day more would turn on us and kill their brothers in arms in their sleep before making the sign of the rope and dying.

When just a few days ago, we numbered more than enough to take a city like Valentia, here, now we are barely enough to man the ships and make it back home. Night falls and fires burn from within the city, setting aglow the tallest buildings with orange firelight, almost seeming like they would break loose and burn the city down from the inside, crumbling its walls and allowing us to force ourselves inside and maybe make this entire trip worth the cost.

Alas, shrill cries of fear, and putrid squeals from the women and children of the city were just dreams. The sun would rise and more of my men would hear the sermon. I myself heard it after too long and every time I heard it I heard the most hideous voice shrieking at the top of her lungs at me in a language of pure gibberish. Not a pleasant sound.

I can't imagine what goes on in the minds of my men, seeing them walk around as if possessed and fight each other like tomorrow the world would be squeezed like a grape, first slowly as its juices squeeze out, trickling down the fingers, and then is crushed for good. That's how they went about their lives. I could hear the moaning of beasts wake me up at night and find only my men outside my tent, crazed out of their minds.

Excuse me if I've rambled like a poet too long. I've been a singer in my youth. It comes naturally to go on and on. The point is that at this juncture, we need a psychomancer. I've asked twice before and gotten nothing back. My ranks are starting to break. I don't know how much longer we can still hold out before whatever hides, festering, and burning in Valentia breaks out and attacks.

A psychomancer must come to our aid in these times. I, your humble servant, beg you. I have fought at your side during the campaign against the Castorians in the frigid wastes, at your behest I fought the fire-priestesses of the red river and delivered their smoking heads at your feet, and without my help, your victory over the continent would have been a vain memory. I write to you as your friend and loyal servant. Please deliver unto us, someone.

--Andruz the Bloody Bard

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 26, 2020, 05:39:08 AM

Autarch, this looks interesting. I am curious to see more from you!

Yastreb, this poem is beautiful and somewhat sad. I like the character as you write her, and look forward to when you can come over to visit again and we can read your stories together.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 26, 2020, 07:39:04 AM

Autarch, I second Róisín's comment.

Róisín; I second that wish!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 26, 2020, 10:21:29 AM

THE END OF THE WORLD:

It was bad enough, she thought, to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go and no money to get there. It was worse to have agreed to take a job that involved teaching three monstrously ill-tempered and bad-mannered brats, after their last boarding school had informed their doting parents that no amount of money would induce the school to take those children back for another term. They had advertised for a governess, and in desperation she had taken the job.

Worst of all was that a condition of her employment was that as well as teaching and supervising the children, she should be 'willing to assist with farm tasks as and when needed'. When her employers had learned that she could ride they had been delighted. So now the children had gone to visit their grandparents down in Adelaide for a fortnight over Christmas, and she was about to set out into the Outback wilderness on a nervous quarter-horse far taller than the ponies she had been used to ride in Yorkshire, to check dam levels, pasture condition and fences. None of this should be a problem; she had come from a farming family back in England, but it was six in the morning and already the temperature was climbing toward the century. She knew there were snakes, bushfires, half-wild natives, sandstorms and for all she knew about the bush, the bloody bunyip out there, but when she contemplated going back to Adelaide, and the husband who had turned into a very different man once she was alone with him, thousands of miles from their families and her friends..... She shivered, even in the heat. No, she would rather take her chance with the bunyips.

She rode through light and silence. Once the first shock of heat passed, she began to relax. A little niggle of pain in her lower back eased in the warmth, for the first time since her childhood.

Around noon she paused at the lowest one of three dams to eat lunch and to water the horse. The water looked clear and tasted sweet. She drank from her cupped hands and listened to the silence. Sand whispered in small puffs of wind, insects chirred, a raven complained, a tiny finch-like bird chirped on a grass stem. Just on the edge of hearing, some small creature scraped and burrowed in the hot loose soil. Under the noises was silence, and under the silence ran a song. She listened, solemn and attentive, reminded of the silence she had heard as a child, on her Yorkshire moors.

When she rode to the top dam and found the dead roo decaying in the water she laughed and made a note to report it. She knew that water poured straight down into the bottom dam, but she felt fine. The land sang to her like a lover all the way home.

Coming back to the house she paused by the name plate on the gate. In heavy letters of black and white enamel it proclaimed 'Worlds End Station'.

She sighed, happily. It may have been the end of the world, but it was also the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

*True story. This happened to a friend of mine.*

Yastreb, you might recognise Judith’s story? She has been dead for a few years now, but she gave me permission, way back, to write the story of how she fell in love with the land and came to settle here in Australia.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 26, 2020, 10:47:55 AM

Another short story, based on some of the stones on children’s graves in pioneer graveyards around here. Many of the early settlers in our area were Lutheran refugees fleeing religious persecution, such as those who founded Blumberg (later rechristened Birdwood), Lobethal and Hahndorf. Some of them married into Irish families (refugees from the famine) or Scottish ones (refugees from the Clearances). The names in the story aren’t.....quite......those on a stone I remember.

“When did you come in, I didn’t see you last night?”.

“Not until late, love. Or early, it was getting light. I’m sorry. You were asleep, finally, when I looked in so I slept on the couch by the fire. Or tried to sleep. It’s hard, just now. I didn’t want to disturb you - you desperately need the rest. It was good to see you sleeping.”

His broad shoulders shook a little as he bowed his head in relief. The big hands clenched in his lap, and she saw new cuts and bruises on his work-hardened palms and fingers. She crossed the room, knelt and took his hands in hers, stroking the scarred and calloused skin.

“Oh, your poor hands! Whatever have you been doing?” She saw the residue of grey stone-dust in the cracks of his skin. “Oh. Your masonry tools? You should have woken me.”

“No, sorry love, I couldn’t have borne to do......that work..... with you by me. Hard enough as it was. Sorry.”

“No, you’re right. I would have cried, and distracted you so you cut yourself with the chisel. Or spoiled your work.” Her voice shook as she bowed her head against his battered hands. Tears stood in her eyes, but after a moment she shook her head. “No. Not now. I’ll make a cup of tea, and you need some breakfast, and to get cleaned up. We’ll do her proud.”

From the small window she gazed out across the expanse of newly ploughed paddock which they had hoped in a few months to see covered with waves of wheat: their first crop. Their little girl had been so much looking forward to seeing ‘my dad’s wheat garden’ and to helping her mum to make bread from that first crop. Now......

Blinking back tears, she steeled herself to go to work. Stirring the fire in the woodstove and feeding it a few dry twigs ahead of loading in the split wood, she blew on the flames, filled the big kettle and put tealeaves in the pot, and put the frying pan on the stovetop to heat for making her husband’s breakfast. She should start making some scones. The neighbours would be over soon, and the pastor had promised to consecrate a small patch of their land to be their family graveyard. Her eyes filled again at the thought of the first small grave. She knew what her husband had been making, and what the inscription would read.

‘Anna Schultz. Loved and loving daughter of Helmut and Caitlín (nee MacNeil) aged 3 years. 1 February 1870 to 21 June 1873’.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 26, 2020, 10:57:37 AM

One last story, which I hope is somewhat funny. As I find other pieces I think suitable I shall put a few up.

From Prompts.

“Doctor! Help!”

James looked up in confusion at the girl screaming his name. What was going on here? He had stopped in the small coffee shop to get breakfast on his way home after an exhausting night of work, but before he had taken more than a sip of mocha and a single bite of egg and bacon roll she was there, right in his face, shaking his shoulder and yelling. For a moment he was disoriented. His mind had been far away from the café in its Paddington back street, lost in trying to memorise script changes and strange American pronunciations (why did script writers insist on making their characters American, he wondered, even in a series set in Sydney?). He tried to interrupt her, or at least to get a word in among her not very coherent pleas, but nothing seemed to catch her attention. Not even when he finally yelled back: “I’m not a doctor! I just play one on TV!”.

“No you don’t” was her reply. After which she stuttered, blushed, stopped herself, and finally came out with: “Oh, yes, of course you do, no wonder I called you doctor! But the situation is not a medical problem, I need help with something quite different, and you just looked so calm and competent.....”. Once more she ground to a halt, stuttering, then seemed to pull herself together. “The fact is....... oh, this sounds so silly now I say it! But there’s a spider in the kitchen!

“But I’m an actor!” James was now becoming a little incoherent himself. “Not a spider wrangler! An actor, and a good one! And anyway, I’m terrified of spiders myself.”

She now looked slightly less frightened and more interested. “What do you mean ‘a good one’? How does an actor even tell how good he is?”

James calmed a little as he tried to explain. “Well, a really good actor can play anyone convincingly. Anyone.”

“ What, you think you could play an old man? Or a woman? People would notice! Don’t be silly!” She was getting louder, and people were beginning to stare.

“Hush! I can be the queen of England for all they know.”

“What? You don’t even have a British accent and no, don’t you dare try! You will not get it right.”

Suddenly they were both struck by the absurdity of the situation and of their conversation. For several minutes all they could do was hold onto each other and try not to fall over laughing. By the time they trailed off into random giggles they were much better friends.

They looked at each other and said as one: “Alright! Now let’s go and deal with that spider!”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 26, 2020, 11:02:36 AM

Hello Autarch!

Very intriguing. The setting seems very original and you paint a picture of suffering without going into too much disgusting details. Well done! You say this is an excerpt, so maybe things such as the Hanged God were explained earlier, but I personally like this sort of style where there isn't too much explanations, the reader just picks things up. Your idea of sermons (religious sermons of the Hanged God, I understood? English is not my first language) used to break the siege is fascinating!

On the vein of possibly helping you along, there was one part where I was confused a little. In the following:

Our band of Mercenaries was brought in to handle it. The Valentians were surviving with what must be hidden food stores, hidden water, mayhaps some aid from some outside helper. There was no other way short of divine intervention that allowed them to continue fighting, continue living.

Some of their men searched for points of ingress, places where they could fight their way through, waste tunnels, waterways, catacombs, each of them armed with too many cultists holding scourges and crossbows. When I first laid eyes on them I saw the face of death beckoning me to join him in those eyes.

From context I assume their men means men of the other Mercenary bands? Or is it the Valentians? I would understand this to mean that the (other) Mercenaries are trying to break in via the tunnels etc, but there are too many Valentian cultists guarding every way. You may wish to clarify here a little.

Otherwise, your language is great! It looks like a very interesting story.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 26, 2020, 07:12:15 PM

I'm glad you liked it.

Quote from: Jitter on October 26, 2020, 11:02:36 AM

From context I assume their men means men of the other Mercenary bands? Or is it the Valentians? I would understand this to mean that the (other) Mercenaries are trying to break in via the tunnels etc, but there are too many Valentian cultists guarding every way. You may wish to clarify here a little.

Alright, my bad. :'D

I meant the previous mercenary bands. it didn't cross my mind to edit that. I'll keep that in mind. I'll keep working on it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on October 26, 2020, 07:15:32 PM

Quote from: Jitter on October 26, 2020, 11:02:36 AM

From context I assume their men means men of the other Mercenary bands? Or is it the Valentians? I would understand this to mean that the (other) Mercenaries are trying to break in via the tunnels etc, but there are too many Valentian cultists guarding every way. You may wish to clarify here a little.

Yeah, I had a problem figuring out that one too.

Anyway, good story. Hope to see more from you, Autarch.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 27, 2020, 04:47:20 AM

This is continued from the previous excerpt. It takes place in what is described as a special prison for a certain type of prisoner.

This letter was found folded up and torn slightly in what could be identified as the body of Andruz Dunnaz, leader of the latest band of mercenaries to attempt the siege of Valentia, a city situated at the border dividing the Dominion of Fasca and the Kingdom of Tunvoss. A copy of this letter was found in the hands of Dunnaz’s courier who sat in a cell at WhiteStone Prison, officially named St. Veneration’s prison.

The messenger boy, Deybid, stared back at the two prison guards opening the cell door, ignoring the man to come to interview him. Unlike the guards, who were clad in pure white uniforms, matching the pure white walls of the prison, Deybid could hear the sound of the man’s feet hitting the carved stone floor. That was a beautiful noise indeed. The guards at St. Veneration wore softened shoes to come as quietly as possible when moving throughout the prison.

Already for weeks, Deybid had been contained within his blank white cell. Though it didn’t matter for him. His cell was lit from the inside by pure white light, kept on at all times, there was no passage of time in St. Veneration. Whenever guards would come inside they would speak news of the outside, occasionally ask questions, or stay silent. The silence was unbearable. They would come in sometimes bearing white trays of white food, nearly flavorless and lukewarm, but able to keep him alive. When the man came in, Deybid’s heart was already pounding harder than the day he was sent here.

The man, dressed in a gray cloak, drenched in water, removed his hood. His face was that of a handsome northern specimen, possibly from Escoras from where some similar-looking squadmates hailed, blonde-haired and clean-shaven, looking younger than Deybid did when he first joined the mercenaries.

Deybid did not fear when the man spoke in front of him.

Facing Deybid, he said, “Simply barbaric, what you do to these people. How do you sleep at night, when this is your employment?”

One of the guards responded, “M’lord, we don’t sleep well. The screams and words of the prisoners don’t leave us, even after leaving the white halls. Folks like this one, are the lucky ones, getting visitors and all. The whispers and noises coming out of the other cells at night are simply something out of hell”

The other guard remained silent.

“My name is Alexis,” the man said. “I have come to ask you a few questions about what you saw back then, young man.”

“I don’t remember, that’s what I told the others who came! I don’t know!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I would tell you if I could, I swear! I can speak and think and everything like a normal man, but to even remember anything from before I came here is impossible, I swear by the Hanged God!”

“Hanged God?”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I mean--”

“No, no that will be alright.”

“No, it’s not alright! Since I was taken here I have had no answers, no help, or kindness from anyone! They come and go silently and refuse to listen to anything that I say! I know I had a life outside of this prison and deserve more than what you’re treating me with!”

“How can you be sure, that you were not simply born here and that the rest of your life won’t be spent in this cell?”

“I can’t believe that. I know that there’s a world out there.”

“If you can’t remember it, how can you be sure? There are no windows leading outside nor doors through which anything comes inside that you can see.”

“Because I remember.”

“What do you remember, really?”

“I remember what I was taken in for and I remember that there is something outside.”

“Alright, what?”

Deybid could not say with certainty. He knew that there were plains, but questioned that when he thought of the craggy hills he was in, but failed to reconcile the forest of trees with that.

Deybid fidgeted around stressed and one could almost hear a whimpering sound come from him as he desperately tried to remember. Alexis touched his hand to Deybid’s head and pulled in close to his ear, whispered something, and pulled away.

“Do you remember now?”

Surprised that now he could easily remember, Deybid said, “Yes.”

“Now tell me what happened in Valentia, what happened to your group. Alright? This is very important.”

Alexis moved in even closer, close enough to have breathed on him.

“Alright. You’re going to tell me everything about what happened here and if you cooperate, you can go free. Do you understand?”

Shocked out of his mind, Deybid whispered in the affirmative.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 27, 2020, 07:00:09 AM

Soo, I suppose the psychomancer didn’t get there in time. Another intriguing scene and setting, Autarch! I can see you have strong world building skills! If you can keep this level of imagination and originality also coherent within itself, this has the makings of a remarkable creation!

On the first chapter... the letter was found IN the body. That does not bide well. Definitely not for Andruz, that’s for sure.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Quetanto on October 27, 2020, 07:40:31 PM

A Smile In Your Heart

Noschyre, Province of Rethira, Irthiron
March 17th, 1287 AU/2477 LC

The Irthironians were among the most emotionally stilted people in the world. A proper man or woman had no time for flights of fancy, no fairytale ideals, no elves at the bottom of the garden. There were the stories in the Attestation, of course, but they were just that–stories. Parables. Explanations of good behaviour, with reference only to things that might happen. There was no time for Nonsense.
There was no patience for Fantasy.
And imaginary friends Did Not Exist.
Which is why it so disturbed Mister Cenric Fernburn, 24 Market Lane, to see a small boy, ten and timeless, creep into the bedroom window of his children from out of thin air in the early evening.
Because such things did not happen.
Children were not taken away by flying boys. Children were taken away in the middle of the night by monsters of a much more conventional kind. Rapists. Slavers from the barbarian lands to the far east. Drug addicts. Travelling sorcerers. This was what he'd been told, all these years, and this was what he believed.
And it was with all the speed a father could muster that he tore open his front door, pushed past Cook and Aeda, and bounded up the steps three at a time, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Leave them alone you bastard I'll kill you I'll kill you keep your hands off my children–"
But he was too late. The room was empty. That bay window was open wide, and that big room, with the blue walls and the three four-post beds and the old rocking horse in the corner, was silent and lifeless.
All except for the child.
It smiled at Cenric, like a doll. An expression of mirth painted on his cherubic face like a factory toy, golden curls tousled about his head, eyes as pale and cold as stars, dressed in leaves. Oak leaves, like the ones in the park, the only trees his children really spent any time with.
"I came to see you for myself," it said. Cora's voice.
No. Not Cora's voice. When Cora told the story of Girrah-Goorrah, the flying boy, to her brothers, she gave him a voice full of victory and daring. A voice like a hero.
This was that voice, coming from this mockery of a boy. An illusion.
"Where are my children?"
"You're not even afraid of me," said Girrah-Goorrah, and there was a hint of anger in his voice now. Anger like the Children's Mother had had, at the world, at everyone. Hateful anger. "You're supposed to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," whispered Cenric. "Not of you. You're not real. You can't be. You're a monster, and you stole my children, and you have the gall to wear the face of my daughter's imaginary friend."
"Oh, so you know about me?" said the boy. He rose into the air, sitting cross-legged at head height. "You actually listened to your children, then? All those nights spent sitting on the steps outside the nursery?"
"How would a kidnapper know about that?" snarled Cenric.
There. The shape flickered, just for a minute. Again.
"I'm no kidnapper!" shouted the timeless child. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"
"And now you're mocking my Warraen. That's what he does when he says something I don't believe. You're no child. You're copying my children. You stole them from me, and God knows I can't think of what you want to do with them without vomiting, but you're not Girrah-Goorrah. You're a sick, disgusting person who stole my children from me."
There it was again! A shabby old man, in a raggedy coat, with a leering face. Whatever it was scrunched up its face tight, like it was in pain, and the boy was back.
"Stop! Please!"
"And now that's my Persi when he and Warraen fight," said Cenric, moving forward. "You took my children, I don't know where you've hidden them, but I will find them."
And the ageless child laughed, and this time it wasn't the laugh of his children, or his wife-of-late. It was like the barking of a dog. The family dog. Bryne. And she'd been dead for years.
How long had this creature been watching his family?
"I wanted to see you," said the boy, "because I was afraid you'd forgotten me. So many people do, these days. Because you're all so clever, now. You don't watch out for us, you make it so we don't exist. You tell us you don't believe, and every time you do one of us disappears." He floated closer. Cenric backed away, but came up against the wall. And the creature reached out, touched him with a hand not much larger than a baby's.
And when he reached out to grab the hand, it stayed that size.
And suddenly it was Warraen's hand, the first time he'd ever reached out to Cora and wrapped his little fingers around hers–
He tried to pull himself together.
"Where are they?" he asked, real fear in the pit of his stomach. "How do I make you give them back?"
"You can't," said the boy. The stars in his eyes pierced Cenric like ice.
"They're not yours," said Cenric, in a low voice. "I don't care who you are, who you are to them, they're not yours. You can't have them for yourself."
"She let me in. She gave me a body, a voice. Her brothers' bodies, her voice. These are such precious gifts, Papa."
"Don't call me that–" he cried in despair, but the voice went on, "But you don't want me to be here, to have those gifts. Nobody on this island wants that, anymore. Except the children. You haven't taken them yet. Their minds are still open. And they will believe anything."
And now there were other forms, mixed in with the baby and the kidnapper. A hundred creatures, of all shapes and sizes, some of them innocent and some of them demonic, but all with that painted expression on their face. Like they didn't know how to move their muscles properly.
"So," whispered the boy, "I'll make you a deal, Cenric. You like deals, don't you, you grown-ups? You know where your children are. You know, if you've listened to your children's stories. You'll have to stop being a grown-up, and let yourself believe in us again. And if you can find them, you can have them back. It's a little game. If not, they'll stay with me, and eat pretend food and feel full, and fight pirates and listen to the elephants talk, and will never grow up. It's your choice."
"What do I have to–"
"You already know."
He patted Cenric's cheek again, and Cenric flinched, because that was what Cora used to do when she was all of eleven months old and everyone was happy.
And Girrah-Goorrah was gone.
And the room was empty, but for him. And but for a shadow on the window-frame, outlined in the light of the street-lamps, of a child, watching curiously.
Waiting for him to jump.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 27, 2020, 09:47:52 PM

Quetanto, that was pretty good. Do you know where I can find the rest of this or is this the beginning?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 28, 2020, 03:49:20 AM

RAIN ON THE ROOF

Close yours eyes and hear it whisper
Slipping down the windowpane.
Stifling air turns colder, crisper.
Listen to the falling rain.

Harder still the rain is beating
Lays the dust and cools the sky.
Now: Hooray, it's started sleeting!
Weather bureau can't tell why.

On the roof the rain like thunder
Hammers on the rattling tin.
Lightning splits the sky asunder
Gaping like some stormgod's grin.

Let us raise a shout together
Cheer the sound that keeps us sane
In our baking desert weather:
On the tin roof hear the rain!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Quetanto on October 28, 2020, 06:36:56 PM

Quote from: AndrogynousAutarch on October 27, 2020, 09:47:52 PM

Quetanto, that was pretty good. Do you know where I can find the rest of this or is this the beginning?

Glad you liked it!
Honestly this was all there was of this story up to this point, but I can certainly write more of you’re interested!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 29, 2020, 05:25:26 AM

I also have a wattpad account. I haven't uploaded everything I've written though there:

https://www.wattpad.com/user/KennichiNitta (https://www.wattpad.com/user/KennichiNitta)

My top story is Justice Inverted. A story split between the 1940s and the present in my country of the Philippines. It's in english with some easy to translate portions.

Quote from: Quetanto on October 28, 2020, 06:36:56 PM

Glad you liked it!
Honestly this was all there was of this story up to this point, but I can certainly write more of you’re interested!

oh, don't rush yourself. Do what you want.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 29, 2020, 04:30:33 PM

Quetantano, that is fascinating. And scary!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on October 30, 2020, 04:54:42 AM

Alexis left the cell, happy in the knowledge that Deybid would be let out soon. “Honestly, I don’t know how they can stomach keeping these people here,” he thought as he walked the featureless smooth white halls to the exit. He thought how easy it could be for every guard to die trapped if a small cave-in took place, collapsing the one exit, yet sparing the air vents, leaving them alive to suffer until they starved. It would be ironic that kind of fate.

Alexis did allow himself such thoughts, yet was claimed by the simple fact that he was thinking as an outsider; these guards had to stay in here all their lives. It was easy to think and a little more difficult to imagine what must be happening here.

He met with the prison’s warden at the steps leading up to the prison’s lone door. The warden, looking worn and stretched thin, stood tall in front of the doorway, making a stern face and expectant of answers as previously agreed.

“I couldn’t get anything out of him, I’m sorry. I think he’s clean.”

“As a psychomancer, is that your professional opinion or is that a mere guess?”

“I would stake my career on what he said, sir. Nothing less than that.”

Stepping out of the pale white light of the prison halls and into the moonlit darkness of the night outside, Alexis turned his head and saw the two guards outside the gate close it shut and stand silently as he walked away.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 30, 2020, 06:04:57 AM

What follows is the first part of a prequel story from my Dragonhost Saga, involving Dorian Wolfkin, the second major character to appear in volume 1 (Earthfire).

BATTLEGROUND

It was the perfect place for the battle to decide the fate of the kingdom, a grassy plain unbroken by gullies or hillocks or streams.
“Svarok be with you in the battle to come,” the priest said. “And should you fall, may you stand before the Lord of Battles with honour in your hearts.”
Zuranok raised the amulet to his lips. “Be with me, mighty lord.”
Around him, the other warriors in his hundred were doing the same.
They remained kneeling in silence until their stoiyatnar called out, “All praise the Saviours!”
“All praise the Saviours!”
The service was over.

It had been two months since the rumours of Lord Dumor Voyinok’s treason and the murder of Crown Prince Urosh had first been whispered, and then confirmed. After twelve years of his rule as regent, twelve years of corruption and misrule and oppressive taxation, the final atrocity had come as no real surprise, as foul a betrayal as it was. Now an army had mustered under the banner of Duke Vukor Branvok, the most powerful among the nobles of Rashka, and dozens of lords had sworn to bring an end to Dumor Voyinok’s ambitions, even as many others were supporting the Usurper, whether through loyalty to their pledged oaths or simple opportunism.
Fifteen thousand of Duke Branvok’s Loyalists were facing perhaps twelve thousand who would fight for the Usurper, and for Zuranok, there had been no choice. He would not be allowed to live in the Usurper’s kingdom.

On orders from his stoiyatnar, he stood guard with two comrades over the baggage park. There was little chance of a serious attack through the forest to the army’s rear, but there was always the risk of Usurper scouts trying to sneak into the camp; Duke Branvok had also ordered that the usual riff-raff of hucksters and whores and the like should be kept away.
It was not far from sunset when Stefan said, ““Here’s one! Ha! One man and his dog. You want to see him off?”
Zuranok shrugged and stepped forward, levelling his spear at the stranger emerging from the forest trail; a tall figure, though short of Zuranok’s inches, his head half-hidden by a shepherd’s fur cap, as worn in the south.
“Begone from here! No vagabonds permitted, by order of Duke Branvok!”
The stranger stopped, looking down at the point of the spear levelled at his gut, and Zuranok realised that the stranger had a sword strapped across his back, the hilt raised above his right shoulder, and wore a cuirass of leather and rings; not the garb of a huckster or mountebank, Then Zuranok glanced down at the black dog at the stranger’s side, and realised that it was not a dog; it was a wolf.
“I am here to fight, not to beg,” the stranger said. “And I choose this army as you would in my place, I think.”
Zuranok looked up from the wolf and peered at the stranger’s face. There was something unusual, but the shadows were hiding it...
He raised his spear and said, “Remove that cap.”
The stranger tugged the cap from his head. “Now you understand.”
“I understand, my lord... uh...”
“I am Dorian, Lord Wolfkin. My companion is Thunder.”
Zuranok had seen Veelas before, though never so close, but what he saw now was unmistakable; the pale features, high cheekbones and sharply pointed chin, the large, slanted blue eyes, and the lobeless ears sweeping up into high points that the golden hair did nothing to conceal.
“You and I are vermin in the eyes of Voyinok and his get,” Zuranok said. “I heard about what he did to Veelas...”
“Then let me pass and join the ranks!” the Veela said, finally showing emotion.
Zuranok glanced around at Marko and Stefan. Both men shrugged.
“I’ll take you to our hundred. Then it’s up to you to convince the stoiyatnar.”

(To be continued)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 03, 2020, 03:04:11 AM

I'm joining National Novel Writing Month for the first time after remembering it was a thing and quickly got to work on an introduction.

This scating scholarly paper is supposed to get one of our main characters into the thick of the plot in what I am hoping is a Jules Verne exploration style story.

A background on the Reformed Fascan.
By Elder Bjen of Valentia

Introduction
Reformed Fascan as a language can be considered a constructed language. This is for a few reasons; the most recent of which is the great reformation, which took place around the year 460 after the defeat of the immortal a vital event indeed; second in the order of events was the mergence of the two bordering Frater Civitatibi; and the first and most significant of them being the rise, fall, and subsequent defeat of the thrice-damned conqueror, The Immortal. The Constructing, as it were took place in stages according to the grand plan, the Unitatus of Languages that had taken place shortly after the defeat of the immortal.

Other scholars have debated this notion, though, arguing the claim that the state, the royal government of the dominion of Fasca is the sole shaper of Reformed Fascan as we know it, is a ludicrous overstatement that vastly underestimates the natural process and the denigrates the contributions of the countless ethnicities that now make up the Fascan Dominion. In my professional opinion, quite frankly, this opinion is hypocritical, and likely is the result of the new peoples, those currently disgruntled by their status (I mean no offense to those among new peoples who fall out of step with these opinions) and therefore must personally slander hardworking scholars of history and linguistics.

What can be considered correct and an opinion that would have been without many friends in the mainstream is the thought the observation that until recently, the words for "magic" or even the names of the Gods of our dominion did not have any presence. Though despite the kernel of truth present in this opinion, these individuals (their common name is "Non-Unitarians") are incorrect in their assumption of the reason for this. There is scant evidence of their claim that has supposedly "rocked" the world of Fascan historic-linguistics; rather there is an abundance of evidence against it.

Their claim is that, supposedly beyond the western sea is a continent that the ancestral Fascans emigrated from in great force in four successive waves and after their landing, found it a good idea to breed with the local peoples of the continent.

Firstly, the notion that the ancient people, whose wisdom in judgment could be so easily subverted by these indigenous populations is ridiculous on many levels that I will not even venture to discuss; secondly, the divine right of the Fascan people to the dominion is called into question in favor of a naturalistic and frankly (to put in in generous terms) blasphemous explanation that downplays and--I suspect--altogether eliminates the involvement of the pathfinders in the rise of the Fascan people; and Finally, thirdly and most importantly, even assuming that an indigenous people did inhabit this continent and was either altogether eliminated by some genocide that took place in antiquity or was absorbed by the merger of the two peoples, the burden of proof falls upon these individuals to prove the existence of this continent, this ancestral homeland from which our people came.

That last point remains very important to modern history discussion and regrettably remains pertinent to our field of history...

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Quetanto on November 03, 2020, 10:45:17 AM

Another from my Spell Merchant world! This time:

Visitation

14th of Woodmonth, 760 AP/May 29th, 3743 LC
The Imperial Palace, Henuia, Gienghia

An elephant went to visit the Emperor.
You might think you know how this story goes, but you almost certainly don't.
The elephant was not pushed on by drivers, or covered in gold and silk and wrapped as a present. It was covered in white and red paint, to be sure, special markings adorning its sides and forehead. But it came freely and frankly. The paint had been first applied by its own kind, and then willingly by humans. The humans who followed it were no great people in their own right, but followers. Some had followed the elephant all the way from the grasslands of its home. Others had joined in later, as it passed over the deserts of the Senok into the cold, snowy lands of Hercua.
And to the Emperor it came, to the marble steps and iron pillars of the greatest palace in the west. And it went before the Emperor, Commander of the Faith, and kneeled before him.
Your Eminence, said the elephant, in a voice that rumbled through the soles of the feet up to the soul of the heart, I wish to learn the True Faith.
The Emperor was utterly flabbergasted, understandably so.
"O great behemoth," he said, "I do not understand. Why come here? Why to my palace? Why ask myself, when so many others would have been nearer?"
I come from a land far to the north, said the elephant, where the grass is eaten in threes and the wells are living trees. My people have wandered there for many, many years, beyond the time of my grandmother's grandmother's grandmother's grandmother and thus out of living memory. We have learned from and lived with other apes like you. We have eaten sugar cane and sung blessings through the earth. We lead the apes to water, we protect them from the crocodiles and wolf-bears. And they leave us food, paint our bodies with bright colours, sing us songs of praise. And so it has been.
And then it was not.
Apes from your land, with fire and metal, took to the lands of the apes we knew, said the elephant. They do not take water from us, but our blood and our teeth. They have wrenched our tusks from our bodies and left the corpses for wolf-bears and hyenas. They build houses of iron, with curved roofs to drain away the rain instead of holding it. And now too so did many of our own. And we did not understand.
So I asked an ape that I knew, ones who had turned to the new faith, why this was. "We are reborn," he said. "You who were our gods are now but animals in our eyes." We have no gods among my people. I did not know what he meant. He said, "there is a Creator in this world, and a Ruler. Once we thought them different, now we know them to be one. There is a new Great King, and he lives to the south, where the masters-in-faith come from."
I told my tribe, said the elephant. They were skeptical, but I have much magic. I told them I would go alone, to the far reaches of the world, and find the people who killed my mother. And from them I would learn why the world is the way that it is.
"And you wish me…to teach you?" said the Emperor at last.
Yes, said the elephant. I wish you to teach me.
There they were, the elephant and the Emperor.
"Your mother was killed," said the Emperor at last. "I am sorry for that. I may command the churches of the Empire, but I do not control them. If you wish it, I can have the men responsible punished."
My people have done so already, said the elephant. They were only apes, after all. They were small.
"Was the punishment yours to give?" said the Emperor.
I see that it was not, said the elephant. They were your apes. But among my people we do not kill one another, save in the time of musth, and then it is hot and angry. So if we wish not to kill or be killed, then we must join you and you must join us.
"And should the church who owns your land decide that you are fallen beings, twisted grotesqueries of humans, and must be killed?"
They may try, said the elephant, mildly. Others have tried. Others have failed. This is how I walked to you.
The elephant raised its trunk, gently but firmly, and curved it a certain way, humming to itself as it did so.
And the red floor beneath them rose and twisted, and two figures emerged from the chaos. A cow (and that is a female elephant) kneeled beside a man at prayer, each on a woven mat. The statue faced, as all good statues should, towards the city of Carioa, the centre of the world. Two others rose, in another part of the hall. A bull (and that is a male elephant) faced a woman with a sword; they, too, faced Carioa. No statue had a face–this is forbidden by God.
We have choices to make, said the elephant. I made mine, by leaving my land of grass in threes and wells in the trees. You may choose to recognize me, and my people, and we will learn your faith and be under your protection. Or you may choose to make an enemy of the earth itself.
For elephants, as you know, are created from the energy of the earth, just as humans are created from the energy of life.
The Emperor thought long and hard, looking at one statue and then the next. In front of him stood the elephant. To his left, the scholars, to his right, the soldiers. And behind were the people of his empire, who had come to see the elephant.
Then he said–

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 14, 2020, 06:22:59 PM

~~Introduction to Petition of Reopening of Connection Zones~~

How does one discover one ended up in an alternate universe? The earliest known disappearance was in 1997, the longest one was also 1997. The researchers at The International Agency for the Reality Exploration (IARE)have only two realities to their names that they know of. One shouldn’t even count, Earth1, and its counterpart Earth2. Not that I said disappearances. Reappearances started occurring in the 2000s when, after years of having been missing and the authorities have given up their search and rescue, people ended up reappearing in odd places.

According to the agency, Earth2 (Not its native name, mind you) has a different language and culture that is subtly similar to our own. Human history is the same in the broad strokes, human migration out of Africa took place along the same routes more or less, the culture of one location looks pretty much the same or similar enough to that of our own.

One major difference is the counterpart to Homo Sapiens on Earth2 seems to have an odd feature: A third gender. This third gender can be considered Intersex or Hermaphroditic, but both of those terms mask the true nature of this condition. After reviewing the evolutionary history of Earth2, two things have become clear: that most mammals, reptiles, and birds possess some capacity for this, even vestigial and that as a result social mores and culture is different on Earth2. This suggests that these species evolved from a similar yet different most-reccent-common ancestor, one that possed this gender trait and have kept it up to the present.

All humans of Earth2 start out as this third gender, which I choose to refer--however erroneously--as hermaphrodites. After achieving sexual maturity, they “assign” themselves one of the remaining two genders based on different factors, including those common to many gender changing species in our world today, such as gender imbalance in the immediate environment or sexual attraction forming between individuals “forcing” compatibility.

Society-wise, this change has resulted in some interesting developments. For prepubescent children, there has formed in several societies, different activities thought to influence gender assignment in children. In their equivalent of western culture, this is performed by dressing the child in gendered-clothing and situating them in the presence of already “assigned” individuals. Due to the Westermark effect, the child does not develop a sexual attraction to these individuals. They are expected to adopt their mannerisms and behaviors.

There are some rare individuals who, even in adulthood, have not, “assigned” themselves a gender and remain fixed in that state. It is unknown how this occurs and such individuals suffer from discrimination that can be compared to homophobia in our world. Therefore we cannot get reliable testimonies at the moment. Additionally, world governments are placing restrictions on the IARE, and further explorations.

As an individual, I strongly believe that research and further communication with Earth2 is of vital importance, to our humanity and theirs. There is much to learn from them as they to us. An entire culture apart in another reality. This is truly an amazing opportunity and it would be unsound to restrict entry as heavily as this [CONT’D]

EXCERPT FROM IARE PROPAGANDA

PROPERTY OF THE EARTH1 INDEPENDENCE COUNCIL

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on November 15, 2020, 02:43:37 AM

(https://sites.google.com/a/rvschools.ab.ca/ssss-art/_/rsrc/1435857676765/home/Screenshot%202015-07-02%2011.16.39.png)
C-cliffhangers, plural?
*patience*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on November 15, 2020, 03:11:27 AM

Autarch, this is fascinating. Have you read Ursula Le Guin’s novel ‘The Left Hand of Darkness’? If not, I recommend it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 15, 2020, 05:34:08 PM

Quote from: Róisín on November 15, 2020, 03:11:27 AM

Autarch, this is fascinating. Have you read Ursula Le Guin’s novel ‘The Left Hand of Darkness’? If not, I recommend it.

I have heard nice things about Ursula K. LeGuin. I hope to get my hands on a used copy of her work someday. love anthropology and history. Gender is a subject I only just started getting into and find rather interesting.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 15, 2020, 06:38:24 PM

Excerpt From the Manifesto of The Earth1 Independence Council

Authored by:
O.
Jebediah Abrams Brown Sr.
Jebediah Abrams Brown Jr.
Ethel Abrams Brown.

Edited by
Adam Abdulaziz
Erika Yamaguchi
Gideon White,
Greyson Halleck
Washington Eriksen

[...] In these two thousand preceding pages, we have clearly outlined the reasons why it is that Earth2 is to be viewed with suspicion. Any sane and reasonable individual should realize that by now, the existential threat posed by the connection between Earth1 and Earth2. But here is a point not hitherto touched upon. Speaking as Jebediah Brown, I introduce a section written by O himself on what it is that the greater Earth’s independence movement is failing to grasp and I defer to his wisdom. No part of the text has been altered and I write this in the assurance and good faith that my source of O has not supplied me with a forgery.

For the service of the international members of our movement, we have republished this statement and posted it in all the relevant social media outposts available to us and at the time of writing, the E1IC holds the Guinness world record for the single largest crowdfunded advertising campaign. For this I thank God first and foremost, secondly, I thank O, of course for if not founding our cause, certainly giving voice to the silent majority around the world, our world. Without their contributions, the IARE would operate unrestricted and without accountability.

Imagine a number. An infinitesimally small number. Imagine the exponent of this number for a moment. I am aware that the nomenclature used to denote each earth from the other has no relation to mathematics and wish to communicate that despite my limited grasp of mathematics I and countless others know this much:

That any number whose exponent is one is itself.

This fact is clear, predictable, and without dispute.

I will come back to that number in a moment. For now, I wish to discuss the matter of Earth2. The IARE has published a flurry of papers on the subject of it. The media has romanticized its members as being misunderstood seekers of knowledge about this other world and harmless explorers who only seek the benefit for all mankind. That there is much to learn about this world is clear and indisputable. The pertinent matter is the reality of Earth2 that seems to get lost in the excitement.

Does anyone actually know the history of Earth2? Does anyone have a reasonably complete grasp of the culture or temperament of Earrth2? And finally, has anyone been able to provide an unbiased account of Earth2 for the masses, the common people to understand without obfuscation or Jargon or elitism?

In response to the responses to my previous posts, I will supply evidence that I have been to Earth2 and believe that it will be more than sufficient to account for my claims.

[Image Unavailable]

Keeping good faith that you will trust in indisputable evidence, I will continue.

The main distinguishing feature of the skyline of Earth2 is the persistent smog and mustard yellow color, as can be seen in my image. The people in the image are student protesters, chanting a slogan that in the quick pidgin I managed to construct with assistance from P that I translate as, “Free the Prisoners!”

The face in the placards you may recognize as Junko Jones, the Black-Japanese girl who had gone missing in the forests of Poland a few years back.

[Image Unavailable]

In this image you can see Junko Jones, starved, and emaciated in a featureless white prison. I had obtained this image from some of the student protesters. They are protesting for her release and return to our world, a request denied by their government. I have heard government propaganda on her, it implies that she is being kept prisoner after she committed some crime against one of their citizens. From my communications with P, I have managed to form a picture of society in this world.

Shortly after a rough equivalent of WWII in their world, a totalitarian regime (whose name, “Vtai- Vashyalawa”) rose to power and remained so until the present day. Its main ideology seems to be a form of what I can only describe as spiritual nationalism. Details are scarce at present for the actual truth of this regime’s origins, but the most consistent accounts tell of a“Glorious Leader, Seven-Times Praised” who took power somewhere in the Asian continent (I don’t know geography, can’t tell what country it is in Earth1) and now is worshipped in a cult of personality that permeates every aspect of society.

As I have stated in my previous posts, Totalitarianism and Fascist sympathies seem to have been more successful in their world than in ours. Whether this is as a result of some inbuilt genetic affinity for blind obedience to authorities like this or is simply a “for want of a nail” type divergence, I do not know.

What is evident is that the inhabitants of Earth2 are totalitarian today. Now. We must consider how much worse it could have been had it been Adolf Hitler who discovered the New World in 1492 or had Genghis Khan had genocidal ambitions during his conquests. We must consider that sea levels, as I remind those who read my previous post are much higher than on our Earth and natural disasters are common. Their world has entered a hothouse state and it’s people regularly suffer from natural disasters and famines. And yet somehow this regime stays, this “Vashyalawa” remains, even as in our world, rebellions, resistances, and oppositions would have formed.

The Vashyalawa knows about our Earth. They are starving their people and hunting down those who disappeared into theirs and presumably interrogate them for everything they know. Their methods are impressive and effective. Junko spilled everything about her earth and the moment my heart sank was when I saw on state-streaming the moment when She drew for them a map of the nations of our Earth as best as she could remember. When she presented it to her captors, they said something amounting to, “lying, she’s leaving information out.”

They know about the layout of our Earth.

Imagine what you believe is going to happen if this resource-hungry totalitarian regime filled with fanatical drones and ideologues who have no restraint when it comes to torture. Imagine what would happen if they discovered a world still rich in resources, one not yet destroyed by global climate change and full of arable land.

We must prepare.

It is indisputable at this point that Earth2 is coming and the IARE are falling right into their hands. Ignore attention seekers like B’n’B and William_CFoot.

Await my next message in two months, exaclty.
As I have stated before, O’s disavowing of B’n’B (Brown and Brown) was and remains to be a tactic to divert suspicion away from the brown family. It is the direct testimony of O that informs the majority of this document. It is to obfuscate and protect the Browns, the purported disapproving of us and as a personal friend of O, I can attest to the same with William_CFoot.

[CONT'D]

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on November 17, 2020, 12:09:24 PM

Autarch, this is really fascinating! With the first excerpt I was a bit dubious, because the statement about Earth2 being very much like Earth1 (us, I presume?) seemed wrong if human gender system were different. So much of our history and culture has been shaped by the various inequalities that a world void of that would have to be very very different. But this second part seems to show it is quite different after all.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 17, 2020, 05:11:28 PM

Quote from: Jitter on November 17, 2020, 12:09:24 PM

Autarch, this is really fascinating! With the first excerpt I was a bit dubious, because the statement about Earth2 being very much like Earth1 (us, I presume?) seemed wrong if human gender system were different. So much of our history and culture has been shaped by the various inequalities that a world void of that would have to be very very different. But this second part seems to show it is quite different after all.

Well, on that, I like to play around with different viewpoints and their biases, especially when there are vested interests involved. You may want to keep looking. I've hidden a few more hints in the text, implying something more.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 17, 2020, 10:19:06 PM

[Article from The Independent Brookfield Journal]
The Face of Independence? Jebediah Brown Sr.
By Michael O. Agosta

Sitting proudly on his porch in suburbia was the form of Jebediah Brown Sr., the public face of the E1IC (Earth1 Independence Council), sipping some iced tea. The house in which he lived was humble. A simple red-painted home in the style of all the others around it.. The very picture of idyllic 1950s suburbia surrounded him. The autumn leaves that fell slowly, the white picket fences, and the almost anachronistic style of architecture came together to paint a picture of a live life . Wearing a beige dress-suit, he was sitting cross-legged as he waited for me to arrive. On the phone he was excited to speak with me, yet here, instead was the picture of serenity and assurance.

As I came closer, he remained silent. The thick smell of iced tea wafted through the air as we exchanged greetings and I was allowed into his home. He put his hand on my shoulder as we walked inside and talked about the little things as we settled into his family sized dining room. Brown talked to me about the role of his son in his organization which I recounted in my previous interview.

Despite the unassuming look on the outside of the home, inside, on the walls hung an array of framed articles and accolades from different publications such as Earth2 news and The Mckellen journal. He must have seen me looking, as he sat me at his dinner table and explained, “I see my reputation precedes me,” as he sat himself down for our interview.

Rising to prominence in the news after a string of controversial comments thought to be in support of Katherine Clark Kelly and her recent mass-shooting of student activists in the Philippines, Jebediah Brown is the face of the Earth2 skeptic movement. First gaining notice as the purveyor of the still, at the time of writing, unknown “O.”, a purported photojournalist who supposedly resides in Earth2 reporting the progress of the Vashyalawa, a totalitarian regime that Brown and his supporters believe is coming for conquest.

“So, can you tell me in a sentence, where you stand on the issue of inter-earth relations”

“The Vashyalawa or Vash has vast resources at its disposal and is prepared to use them to colonize a willing or comparatively weaker civilization,” Brown said.

It is this claim that motivates Earth2 skeptics like Brown to protest the activities of the IARE, such as most recently in Bangkok, Thailand where a student protest against the opening of a recently discovered portal in the country to IARE researchers erupted into rioting after supporters of No Borders activist met them. At the time of writing, Thai security forces are working to quell the violence which is inspiring similar events in other countries..Regarding this, Brown expressed his grievances.

“I disavow their rash and frankly harmful actions and do not condone the violence now taking place in Bangkok. It’s a tragedy really. Let me make it clear that we have no affiliation with such organizations abroad and will not hesitate to condemn their violence.”

I asked him why it is that supporters of O. and the rest of the Earth2 skeptics may be motivated to violence like the aforementioned events. Critics have noted that Brown’s upporters act on paranoia and fear that Brown has cultivated in an almost cult-like atmosphere. I asked him about the role his aggressive self-promotion has played in inciting this violence.

“Listen, while the opinions and goals or our organization may overlap at times with that of these extremists, it must be stressed that we as an organization retain our right to our activities as long as they go without violence. Most people in support of us are non-violent and--despite what the media may have you believe--are not deranged lunatics waiting to kill and maim. I am proud of the young people who support our cause and set a good example in the name of Earth independence”

Young people like Katherine Clancy, a prominent youth leader who has proven similarly controversial for her extremist views in relation to the “Brownian” dogma of the organization and accusations of conspiratorial fear mongering on her Youtube channel which has accrued a subscriber count in the seven-digits. Brown had something to say about her in particular.

“I have actually met Clark on multiple occasions and she for one shows an excellent grasp on the issue of the two worlds. An interesting girl. She was, uh, more on the speculative side of the debate. But first and foremost is a defender of the people of the planet from the Vash.

[Cont’d]

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 21, 2020, 06:55:53 PM

[CONT'D]

A supporter whose meteoric rise to the forefront of the Earth1 independence movement was met with increasingly polarized responses. Clark’s trip to Bangkok during the riots is believed by many to be what stoked tensions on both sides with her almost accelerationist rhetoric.

Brown took a sip of his wife’s iced tea which he said was actually homemade from scratch. He looked into my eyes for a moment and set the cup down and looked earnestly, said, “I’m aware of what you’re trying to do. You need a statement that can be viewed as official out of me. You want me to give a nice quote for your paper on the tragedy in Bangkok.”

When I responded in the affirmative, Brown scooted closer, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“Here’s one, ‘Katherine Kelly Clark’ is the Joan of Arc of the new century’. If you want a quote, here’s your quote. Young people in Bangkok are performing their duties as citizens of the world and blocking out the march of the degenerates on the other side, holding fast to the guard walls against the torrent of a second age of colonialism, and protecting the veil from the naive.”

I observed that brown was beating around the bush or was otherwise not aware of recent developments in Bangkok, which at the time of the interview had happened a few hours before. Clark was the target of an attempted assassination by a still uncapture assailant while at an independence rally. Clark remained uninjured and has been rushed to protective services.

After informing Brown, a look of great concern flashed on his face before he returned to his perfect manner and composure. He requested that we cut the interview short to two more questions and I agreed.

The first was, “The discourse has turned sour in the intervening months in Bangkok. Reports are coming through that the assassin may have been an Earth1 independence activist against Clark’s rhetoric, viewing it as provocative of the Vash. What is your position on this if it is the case?”

“No comment.”

The last question, “What is, if there is any, the appropriate solution world governments must consider for the security of the citizens of the world in countries where portals have appeared?”

“There are too many portals to effectively contain and secure. Even if all the known ones are secured, according to some estimates, the number of unsafe portals means that there is a serious risk at all times. There is no perfect solution. We at the council, however, will work to the end goal of creating a lasting solution to the problem, I assure you. I wish Katherine Kelly Clark the best and pray for her assailant to be caught.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: AndrogynousAutarch on November 29, 2020, 11:31:33 PM

[Retrieved from the now defunct blog of Katherine Clark Kelly]
On the Earth1-Earth2 Student Exchange Program
Oh. My God. I literally can’t [Expletive] believe this. If you haven’t been updated so far with the dominos of idiocy that led to this pinnacle of human self-destruction, the links are in my archive. To put it respectfully, I think that this is going to be a prelude to the incoming colonization effort.

For those who need a recap:

More Kidnappings have been taking place from our earth (Disappearances have been on the rise since last year)
“Ambassadors from the Vash met with IARE officials and were forwarded to world governments.
After a series of closed door meetings have taken place with the aforementioned world-traitors.
The IARE announces a student exchange program between the Vash and several schools on our earth.
O has reported from Earth2 the presence of strange devices built around the portals, likely portal wideners based on his reporting.

Wake Up everyone! This is merely the preliminary! My followers, there has never been a clearer sign of the Vash’s malevolent intent than this. Masquerading as an exchange of students is the entrance of either advance forces or sleeper agents who are coming to collect vital information on our earth as the prelude to the invasion.

There has never been a better time to prepare for the coming of the Vash. As a species, their [Expletive] mollusks are coming to report back to their masters at the Vash. Selected and currently unannounced secondary schools situated in areas around the portals will be participating.

This will be a Bilateral exchange, and therefore mandates that some poor suckers from our earth will be spending time in Vash land. I have no doubt that they will be treated as well as tourists were during the Berlin Olympics before WWII and have the best stories to tell about how tolerant and kind the Vash are.

The exchange will be taking place for a limited time yet unannounced. While there the IARE will be holding events to educate (Indoctrinate) the students at these schools in Vash culture and Vash history. Certain members of the Vash hierarchy will be visiting through the portals to discuss these matters and answer questions.

There has still been no news on the potential release of Junko Jones from the Vash leadership, but O reports that Jones has since been rushed to one of their hospitals for unknown “Self-Inflicted” Injuries.

William_CFoot reports that in spite of the obvious potential consequences of Vash incursion, the government of Thailand, host to the largest Vash portal ever reported (may I remind you) is very interested in obtaining the weapons technology that the Vash reportedly possess, turning a blind eye to the deaths of innocent students in the streets, dying at the hands of IARE supporters.

I remain far too high profile to be an open target of the Vash or the Thai government and am happy to report my safety to all of you. Rather it falls upon me to use my position to inform the masses. You all deserve to know and be able to fight this threat.

I have, however, met up with countless thai counterparts of mine and have found that they are prepared for whatever the IARE supporters are able to dish out. Thailand has a rich protest culture and I appreciate its people. They don’t let up and don’t back down.

Protesting isn’t making the governments of the world listen. More drastic action must be taken in order to drive some sense into our leaders.They do not fully understand the threat of the Vahs and their citizens.

We must find out who these exchange students are and keep them under very careful observation. My little followers, I need you, wherever you are to keep in mind any announcement of the exchange program at any schools that you know about. The Vash citizens’ shapeshifting ability will make their child soldiers effective information gatherers and despite what the news media will have you believe, we know very little about their physiology.

Rise up, my little followers and keep watch.

In response to those individuals who are hesitant to act in the face of obvious and clear Vash intrusions in their neighborhoods, I beseech you. You must do something or else the entire world faces the same threat that countless indigenous peoples did when the bells of colonialism rang. Those who did nothing in the face of such overwhelming evil are worse even than Hernan Cortes and Christopher Columbus, worse than Magellan, the worst human beings who deserved to die far more than the innocents whose blood was spilt in their place.

The Vash leader likely now sits back in His/Her office right now secure in the knowledge that all is going according to plan. We can’t let that be all or the end of it. We will ensure that today will be remembered as a day of resistance, we must act in defiance and make a show that we will not be intimidated by the Vash.

Today I want to hear the people in the streets crying out the name of freedom. This day should not belong to the Vash. It should belong to the people of Earth1 as we face a new future and fight for a new and beautiful tomorrow.

We must fight. We must sustain. We must Survive.
[/list]

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on December 18, 2020, 06:34:07 AM

I had just started writing Dragonfall, the third volume of my Dragonhost saga, when I chanced upon something very striking via Google...

(https://mymodernmet.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/outdoor-sculptures-anna-and-the-willow-9.jpg)

It directly inspired this passage (and I wrote to the woman who made the sculpture to thank her).

***

The Forest of Horns could have been in Rashka or Caillor with its trees of oak, beech, ash and elm, birch and yew, and its underbrush of ferns and grasses, but none of those woodlands could have been as bright to his Sight. And the Dragon within him was content.
They moved cautiously among the trees, remaining out in the open as much as possible. Yastreb and Haaki had taken the lead, with Fortitude and Zabeelushka were by their sides, with the other Riders following in no real order, except that Sharats remained in the centre.
There was little to see of animal life, save for the occasional bird, and they held few surprises.
After three hours of walking there was no sign of habitation, but then it was a large forest. Again thinking back to Tunguska, Yastreb tried to work out the odds of finding a village in those woods by simply walking in a straight line from one edge, but eventually gave up.
“Wait!” said Haaki, and beckoned for the others to stop. “There’s a path ahead.”
Yastreb peered through the trees. There was a path, broad and apparently well-travelled, running across their line of march.
“No sign of wheel-marks,” said Dorian as they paused at the edge of the track. “Or hoofprints of any kind.”
“A long time between travellers then,” Myrallea suggested. “So where to now?”
Yastreb was considering his answer when suddenly Soraine said, “Hold!”
“What...?”
“Stay still and stay silent!” Haaki whispered. “Don’t move! For all our sakes and yours!”
She was looking past him, back whence they had come.
He shifted his eyes left and saw, out of the very corner of his eye, a tall, skirted figure in brown at the edge of the track, and it held a bow, and the arrow on the string was unwavering. It had not been there just seconds before.
Very slowly he turned his head, and felt his heart clench.
* My brother, I will protect you! Zabeelushka declared, but her determination was tinged with fear for him, and of the unknown.
The archer was not flesh and blood. Seven feet or more tall it stood, and its head and face was a globe of interwoven roots or branches without any Human or other features, none at all. Its entire form was made of those intertwined branches that blended seamlessly into the soil. Two arms held the bow, a weapon made of those same branches, and an arrow that was tipped with a winged head of bone. And there were seven of them, identical, spread across the track, and each with its arrow aimed for a different heart.
The silence stretched on, and each heartbeat was an eternity.
Yastreb manifested the Sight.
* They are not tainted, Zalushka, not gy’avol. They’re... creatures of Nature Magic. Plants!
As he shared that thought with Zabeelushka, Myrallea spoke hoarsely. “Wait, all of you. Be calm. Just let me try.”
He did not look around, but kept staring at the archer, at where the eyes would have been, as Myrallea stepped forward to face her archer, stopping just short of its arrowhead.
For another eternity there was silence, and then Myrallea said, “I understand.”
She turned around slowly. “We are to go down the track, that way, and not step off it. If we turn aside, they will shoot one of us. If we try to fight, they will shoot one of us.”
There was nothing said as the Riders slowly turned to follow the track, heading roughly north. But as they did so, Yastreb caught a glimpse of the archer suddenly disappearing in a swirl of dust. It had sunk into the soil so quickly that his eyes could barely catch the movement.
“They’ve gone!” Balatchko cried out.
“They’re still with us,” Myrallea said. “Don’t try to run.”
Balatchko gave a low moan and stumbled. He would have fallen if Dorian had not grabbed an arm and held him upright.
- By the Saviours, - the mage groaned, - I thought I would die, that we would all die. -
Yastreb knew what Balatchko was feeling; the nausea of death narrowly avoided.
- I feared that too, Balatchko. - Yastreb pulsed to Sharats, * The old man is ill. Could you carry him for a time?
* Carry one who was Drago’s man? Sharats glanced from side to side. * Also unwise, Falcon. He is scared enough to panic and try to get away, and I would deny that, but the archers might not show mercy.
* Just so, Cloud-Walker.
Yastreb let the matter drop, but wondered as he did if Thunder and Sharats had been sharing thoughts; until that moment only Thunder had ever called him Falcon.
Dorian was supporting Balatchko, helping him to walk along the path.
“For now, just keep moving,” Dorian told the mage. “You don’t have to run. Just enough to keep those... whatever they are from putting an arrow through someone’s heart.”
As they began to walk onward, Radul fell into step with Yastreb and said, - By the black hell, I don’t mind telling you, youngster, I was damn close to soiling my breeches back then. Even that gy’avol I fought when I was Lord Djano’s man didn’t scare me as much. -
- I suppose... the difference is, you were hunting for that creature. You were ready for danger, expecting it. Not the way they appeared from nowhere. - Yastreb tapped one foot briefly on the ground. - If they appeared as suddenly as that one facing me vanished... -
- Oh, they did, - the veteran said. - The real blink of an eye and no mistake. -
Myrallea had joined them as they were speaking. - I know how people must feel when I have them at arrow-point, - she said wryly. - Why so many would hurry to obey me when I told them to leave, or else. Those... willow warriors are powerful creations, and I believe, deadly from any range. -
- What? More so that you, my lady? - Radul gestured emphatically. - That’s hard to believe! -
- I’m not willing to test that on any of us. And trust me, they would kill us without hesitation to protect the forest. That’s their task. They gave us... gave me a chance to plead our case, and I dread to think what would have happened if none of us had Nature magic. -
She fell silent, and Yastreb realised that she was touching minds with Zabeelushka.
* They were asking about you, Zabeelushka pulsed to him. * She wants that kept from the others, for now.
With the Darkening, three Willow Warriors sprang up from the soil of the path, but they were not aiming at any of the Riders; their arrows were directed towards at a wide patch of ground off the path.
“We can make camp here,” Myrallea said. “But no fires. And nothing will harm us. They’ll make sure of that.”

***

For those who are curious, the artist's site is here; https://www.annaandthewillow.co.uk/ (https://www.annaandthewillow.co.uk/)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Quetanto on December 19, 2020, 07:18:25 PM

KINGAWA: THE PAINTER’S BRUSH

August 1st, 1488 CE
Iyáanga, Tonga Territory/33º45'N 118º05'W
Ah, you wonder about my images, milord? But of course. Come in, stranger.
A fine city, is it not? Not like the cities around the Bay to the north, of course, but Iyáanga has its benefits. A beautiful beach, of course, and the hills behind are just as lovely, but the heart of Iyáanga is in its people. Not just us Tongva–we've lived here longer than the living memory of the twentieth ancestor–but all others from across the known world. And now–a surprising thing indeed!–a man from beyond that world.
But you see, in Iyáanga there is a special feeling that we alone may covet. We call it the Race, and it is in a way–how we show ourselves, how we behave. In the Race we start at the bottom, drifting in from outside the confines of our fair city, and we run through the days until we find a treasure for ourselves. Perhaps through speech, as my father did; he was an interpreter for the Yokuts, well back when, and it earned him iron blades enough to become chief of his village for a full twenty years. Or through trade, that's always popular. Consultations–the Chumash have the best calendars in the world, and the best horoscopes. You'll have passed psychics on the streets, of course. Music and performance? They're always essential, and the dancers often turn to the fifth method–selling their, ahem, bodily services–to supplement the income they get from work in the trade. I see your look of incredulity, milord, but it's a profession like any others, and what happens in Iyáanga stays there.
Myself? I paint.
There are many people, milord, who would not understand my work, quite literally. Oh, pictures they recognize, and they may even speak aloud the names of pictures. But these are new–comparatively. The kehatak, the Miwok merchants, did the most blasphemous thing possible and let their script become available to all. But I must admit, the tellahapok, the logograms, may just be the best thing to ever happen to me. After all, it keeps me in quite high standing, here in Iyáanga.
Because people like the idea that they can put their words, any words, into a new form. They like that the sounds of their voices can be recorded down the ages, using the great gift the kehatak gave to the word. So I take my reed pen and my soot and my freshly-traded ochre and crushed shells, and I carefully paint on tule papyrus the words that people so often want to keep for themselves.
See this one! Kehaatkuhe', "May you become rich" in Miwok. But I see the word makes little sense to you, milord, and I understand why. Most do not speak Miwok, even now, even here. So I make it clear by other means.
The genius of the kehatak–one way among many–is the patterning of their system, complexity from an inherent simplicity. See, the symbols for KE-HA-AT-KU-HE: a hash, an eye, a stool, three reeds, an upturned arch. Simple enough, you might think–why not leave it at that? Because it would be impossible to understand to any who didn't speak the language! The best of us tellahpek, us scribes, we get creative. What is the surest sign of wealth? Shells! So I make a design of a man (but often a woman, these days) holding for themselves a shell. Behind him stands a doorway, the hash grown large over top; his eye is bright and brilliant; he sits upon a stool, a symbol of great worth; three beautiful maidens with reedlike bodies bow before him; a man bears a basket of shells. All this I paint on paper, outlines in black, skin in red, touches of white here and there for the shells and the door and the shapes of the letters. A dream as much as a message, no?
It's quite a popular thing, even for those who do not speak the language. And, of course, I can apply the writing system to almost all of the languages in our lands. Tongva, of course, but if you use another tongue I can apply that too if you tell me the sounds. It's all so simple, really, like a game, but it takes dedication as you wouldn't believe. And people pay well for my crafts–even the Land and Water Grandfathers of Hulpu-Mni and Sokel. Surely this tells you something about the quality of my work?
I wonder if you would like one yourself, milord. A foreigner, of course, one from the Far West of the world. Perhaps a simpler phrase for you. 'Etaalinam, perhaps–"I will return." Or something in your own language? And a portrait of the White Islands you bear yourselves across the sea in, between two great lands on a dark sea? I can provide the purple especially–
But no. You demur. Ah, you remind me, milord. Not everyone has an interest in the art of writing.
Ah, you laugh, milord? I wonder what it is I have said that amuses you so, that I might say it again.
Oh, yes, this is fine work, milord. The quality of the paper is astounding–so soft, so clear in colour–
Oh, the smudges?
This is your writing?
I see.
Hmm.
Yes, I suppose that makes some sense. You have turned pictures into words, as I turn words into pictures. But milord, a symbol for each word, unchangeable and over-complicated? Is that not terribly cumbersome?
No, I mean no offence. How could I possibly mean offence? It's not real writing, of course, but it's a remarkable idea nonetheless.
Ah, I see you leave, milord. I know not what this word "yaban baka" means–perhaps a farewell? In which case, milord, goodbye and yaban baka!
…pale-faced git. Didn't even offer a tip.

***

CONTEXT: An AU California where people got past the Neolithic and started empires up, much to the surprise of the Japanese who found them while looking for France. (Hence the derogatory name “Frenchmen” for the natives...) Also, Hungarians invaded China, Jesus became emperor of Rome, flexible glass is more precious than gold, and the Malinese are about to discover Haiti. It’s a fun little world.
(In case it wasn’t clear, they’re in Los Angeles.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on January 19, 2021, 01:46:02 AM

Well, since it's been a while, I'm back to bore you all to tears with the latest version of the first chapter of the first story in "The Coin, the Sword, and the Medallion"; I've taken pity on you and put the massive wall of text under a spoiler, with an introductory note on pronunciation first.

Spoiler: A Quick Guide to the Pronunciation of Names in the Saga • show

Spoiler: You were warned • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 28, 2021, 06:20:45 AM

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

It was a dark blot, moving with a sinuous grace straight for me.
I couldn’t hold back the shriek that rose in my throat as my stomach knotted, but the roaring in the ears drowned out my cry of alarm.
I had nowhere to go, and there was no-one to hear my panic.
My scrabbling hands closed on my staff… and I know what to do; the hardest thing I had ever tried.
I raised the staff… my vision blurred… and I slammed it dead centre with an audible crunch.
There was a brief scrabbling, and then it was still.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 28, 2021, 06:46:06 AM

Yeah, I remember, between you, Christine, Mungo and Iestyn, having a household of arachnophobes who were otherwise quite physically brave people could get interesting! I recall getting called out at godawful hours to kill or remove spiders from their various homes. So you broke a larp staff on a spider, huh? That must have been something to see! I think the last time I saw you practicing staff was with Becky on that camping trip.....

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 28, 2021, 07:55:35 AM

Oh, I didn't actually break my staff; that was for effect. My mage staff is still in one piece.

I don't recall the staff practice you mentioned too clearly; it's been overwritten, I guess, by a practice bout with a LARPer on a bitterly cold morning, when our knuckles collided. That was bad enough, but Judith was wearing several rings... and you wouldn't believe the words that I had to struggle to avoid saying.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 28, 2021, 08:15:40 AM

Not surprised, it was years ago. You went camping in Crawford forest with us and with Keryn’s family. Becky was still a teen. You and she were playing quarter staff. That was the same trip that had the spectacular, and very wet, thunderstorm.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 16, 2021, 05:46:08 PM

...Um, I have a question...

I know this is the original fiction site and all, but... I've written the first chapter of my Code Geass fanfic and I'd like to post it somewhere to get some feedback before I start posting it on ao3. Would it be okay if I did it here? I don't really know where else to go... :-[

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on February 16, 2021, 08:43:09 PM

Ran, I think this is a good place for that. Of course this thread is not meant to become a repository of fanfics from other fandoms, but I see no problem with the occasional one.
You can send a PM to Wave or Feartheviolas and ask. That's probably what I'd do.

And I'm happy to see you writing again! :)

I think I haven't told you that after you mentioned Code Geass I started watching it. It's interesting, but I saw only a few episodes so far. I'm very curious to see your take on it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 17, 2021, 04:30:09 AM

Quote from: thegreyarea on February 16, 2021, 08:43:09 PM

You can send a PM to Wave or Feartheviolas and ask. That's probably what I'd do.

That's a good idea, actually. I haven't thought of that. Guess I couldn't be Zero. Thanks!

Quote from: thegreyarea on February 16, 2021, 08:43:09 PM

And I'm happy to see you writing again! :)

Well, all of the Code Geass fics I've read were either dissatisfying, discontinued or both, so I figured that "if you want it done right, do it yourself". ;D

Quote from: thegreyarea on February 16, 2021, 08:43:09 PM

I think I haven't told you that after you mentioned Code Geass I started watching it. It's interesting, but I saw only a few episodes so far. I'm very curious to see your take on it.

No, you haven't, but if that's the case, you probably shouldn't read my fanfic, because it's choke-full of spoilers. It technically starts post-episode 4, but it references events that happen later on, including, quite extensively, the very end. Not that I mind spoiling the end of Code Geass, but I understand that other people may not wish to know it in advance.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 17, 2021, 02:51:03 PM

Quote from: thegreyarea on February 16, 2021, 08:43:09 PM

Ran, I think this is a good place for that. Of course this thread is not meant to become a repository of fanfics from other fandoms, but I see no problem with the occasional one.
You can send a PM to Wave or Feartheviolas and ask. That's probably what I'd do.

And I'm happy to see you writing again! :)

I heartily echo the delight to see you writing.

I will contradict my good colleague grey a bit here: this is precisely where any writing that doesn't pertain to the Minnaverse should go! Let your fingers and imagination fly.

A couple of guidelines:
:mikkel: Mature content should be posted in the 18+ Board - PG-13 is the limit here
:sigrun: We suggest that you place longer works under spoilers, to aid folks with limited screen real estate and/or patience
:reynir: You might want to post links to previous chapters if it's a multipart work
:tuuri: It wouldn't hurt to perhaps put tags outside the spoiler, indicating what kind of work it is or any applicable trigger warnings

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on February 17, 2021, 06:00:26 PM

Quote from: wavewright62 on February 17, 2021, 02:51:03 PM

I will contradict my good colleague grey a bit here: this is precisely where any writing that doesn't pertain to the Minnaverse should go! Let your fingers and imagination fly.

You're right, Wave. My initial view was that the occasional story from other fandoms would fit perfectly, but a lot of them could deviate this space too much from the original idea. However, after pondering a bit I believe that, as you said, this is the right place for all our stories that are not SSSS-related, being irrelevant if they are connected with other "universes" or completely original. Let them come, the more the merrier! :)

(And that's why I should not write - and post! - things being tired and in a hurry because I should be sleeping two hours ago... )

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 18, 2021, 07:03:58 AM

Alright, I've been given a go-ahead by our most wonderful mod, waveright62 (thank you, Wave!), so I'll be pre-posting the very first chapter of my new, as-of-yet untitled Code Geass fanfiction. As I mentioned earlier, I don't want to post it on ao3 until I have a clear idea of where I'll be going with the story. Therefore, minor changes might occur between this version of the chapter and the future "official" version.

Warning: the story contains EXTREME SPOILERS for Code Geass (it literally starts with the end) as well as some shaky headcanon regarding certain aspects of the original story.

The fic starts post-episode 4 of the first season (unofficially known as Code Geass R1) and kind of assumes you know what's going on. I'm going to put a summary of the previous events under a spoiler tag for some context.

Spoiler: the story so far • show

The story is not advanced enough yet for me to know how to tag it, so I'm going to have to give this part a pass, sorry Wave... :-\

The "beta" version of the first chapter can be read here (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Awa_VB2S7EiuaBN2LX70-QZfPX33nmzAZCIUzs0GSyM/edit?usp=sharing). Sorry for the google doc, but I don't want to post it on any fanfiction sites yet and Pastebin doesn't like italics.

Speaking of which, DISCLAIMER: All the dialogue in the italicized sections is lifted straight from the English dub of Code Geass anime. RanVor is not responsible for its quality.

Well, that would be it. Have fun (hopefully) reading and don't hesitate to PM me with your thoughts about it. I've already started working on the second chapter, focused mainly on Suzaku.

*doesn't know how to end the post, so just waves randomly and hides behind the nearest corner*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:03:12 AM

RanVor, that sounds fascinating! As you may have gathered, I am completely unfamiliar with the source material. I know this is a modern created story, but being a folklore nerd as I am, I had wondered whether there was any connection to the Celtic term ‘geas’ (plural ‘geasa’) which signifies a compulsion/obligation/ thing you are either required or utterly forbidden to do. Many of these can be found in the Celtic folklore and traditional tales (one of the things I do in real life is teller of traditional stories).

For example, in the Tain, which is the great Irish epic story in the same way that the Odyssey and the Iliad are in Mediterranean culture, the major hero comes to his doom because of mutually conflicting geasa: he is compelled always to do any thing which is required of him by a woman, and he must never eat the meat of a dog, which is his totemic animal/name creature. So when the granddaughters of the evil mage with whom he is contending for the lives of his folk stop him on the road to his final battle and demand that he share a meal with them because they have obligations of hospitality, he cannot refuse. And of course what they serve him is dog meat. After that, he is aware that his luck has left him, but goes on to the battle anyway, and at least dies well - the battle-raven comes for him to keep him until he can be born again as a hero of his folk.

Probably no connection of the terms, but I am curious to read this.

Edit, later: having read your story draft , I am still puzzled, but it looks interesting. I shall be very interested to see what you make.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 18, 2021, 10:21:53 AM

Quote from: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:03:12 AM

RanVor, that sounds fascinating! As you may have gathered, I am completely unfamiliar with the source material. I know this is a modern created story, but being a folklore nerd as I am, I had wondered whether there was any connection to the Celtic term ‘geas’ (plural ‘geasa’) which signifies a compulsion/obligation/ thing you are either required or utterly forbidden to do. Many of these can be found in the Celtic folklore and traditional tales (one of the things I do in real life is teller of traditional stories).

You are correct to wonder. Code Geass lore contains several references to the Celtic folklore as well as Arthurian myths, but as far as I know, there's no deep thematic connection of anything. It's just a source of inspiration for some elements of the story.

Quote from: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:03:12 AM

For example, in the Tain, which is the great Irish epic story in the same way that the Odyssey and the Iliad are in Mediterranean culture, the major hero comes to his doom because of mutually conflicting geasa: he is compelled always to do any thing which is required of him by a woman, and he must never eat the meat of a dog, which is his totemic animal/name creature. So when the granddaughters of the evil mage with whom he is contending for the lives of his folk stop him on the road to his final battle and demand that he share a meal with them because they have obligations of hospitality, he cannot refuse. And of course what they serve him is dog meat. After that, he is aware that his luck has left him, but goes on to the battle anyway, and at least dies well - the battle-raven comes for him to keep him until he can be born again as a hero of his folk.

Yup, I am somewhat familiar with the story of Cú Chulainn. It's quite a fascinating one.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:40:31 AM

It is that! When I do storytelling gigs at the Mediæval Fairs, one that the fighters especially like is ‘The Fight at the Ford’ from the Tain. It is interesting to make the Vikings cry. And that story is uniquely suited to achieve that end.

Have you ever heard the modern musical retelling of that tale by the band ‘Horslips’? I didn’t want to listen to it when I first heard of it, because many modern retellings are dreadful, but that one is well crafted.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 18, 2021, 11:02:05 AM

Quote from: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:40:31 AM

Have you ever heard the modern musical retelling of that tale by the band ‘Horslips’? I didn’t want to listen to it when I first heard of it, because many modern retellings are dreadful, but that one is well crafted.

Haven't heard of that. I'll check it out.

Quote from: Róisín on February 18, 2021, 10:03:12 AM

Edit, later: having read your story draft , I am still puzzled, but it looks interesting. I shall be very interested to see what you make.

Well, thank you very much. I'm stressed out like stupid about this. I feel like my heart is gonna burst any minute now. No answer is always the worst answer. I'd much rather hear that it's crap and I'm stupid and should never write anything again and should go die in a ditch somewhere than not hear anything at all.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 19, 2021, 01:19:50 AM

I know what you mean. Some feedback is better than none.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 20, 2021, 04:39:10 PM

I've finally had a chance to read your chapter properly, Ran. I like the intrigue this story promises, but I suggest spacing out the revelations and intrigue a bit more? Setting up the worldbuilding and premise is great in a first chapter, then introduce more permutations as you go.

Spoiler: specific items • show

tl;dr - moooore pls

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 21, 2021, 12:19:33 AM

Quote from: wavewright62 on February 20, 2021, 04:39:10 PM

I've finally had a chance to read your chapter properly, Ran. I like the intrigue this story promises, but I suggest spacing out the revelations and intrigue a bit more? Setting up the worldbuilding and premise is great in a first chapter, then introduce more permutations as you go.
Spoiler: specific items • show
Lelouce's feelings toward Nunally and Suzaku are well-placed in the first chapter. The note showing knowledge of the dream should definitely go into a subsequent chapter. CC/Marianne might want her own chapter? Geass being available elsewhere should be down the track, possibly after encountering it unexpectedly used against someone else. Too many shocks to poor Lelouche right away.
Knowing nothing about Code Geass, there are elements probably known from that world. Witch, for example, is a term used all over fiction stories, but no two definitions of their abilities and characteristics are the same. So I don't know whether the name Marianne is meant to be kept secret, or what CC stands for. Hence her thoughts might want their own chapter?

tl;dr - moooore pls

I've just come home from an all-night-long Munchkin session and I really should go to sleep ASAP, but seeing as I've finally got some useful feedback, sleep is going to have to wait! I'll try to explain some of my reasons for doing things this way under a spoiler. Please, keep in mind that the story is primarily intended for Code Geass fans, who already have the necessary context.

Spoiler: explanations • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 21, 2021, 01:26:16 AM

Oh good, you are going on. As mentioned, I am unfamiliar with the source work, but it sounds interesting!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on February 22, 2021, 11:47:15 PM

RanVor; keep it up. As I found out personally, honest feedback is the best way to learn and develop. I sent my completed manuscript of Earthfire, volume one of the Dragonhost Saga, to a friend whose opinion I trust, and she sent it back with strongly-worded comments about parts she found wanting. It improved the story greatly.

Speaking of feedback... on the Global Mythologies thread, I was detailiing the cosmology of the Dragonhost Saga (which at the start takes a lot from Slavic myth and legend) and mentioned that the major character's homeland is Tunguska; Maglor pointed out that Tunguska is Turkic rather than Russian. That started me thinking, and I decided to change that name to Gevarna, from the Russian for haven. That also makes sense in the context of the story, as the inhabitants came there seeking a home away from the devastation of a worldwide disaster.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on February 23, 2021, 05:26:48 AM

Ran, I have also finally read. It’s intriguing! It’s hard to know, when I am also completely unfamiliar with Code Geass, but calling C.C a “witch” here works for me. For me, the referral to “Marianne” also flows well. Are the sections in italics from the source material?

As I said, it’s hard to understand with no context, but I happen to like fiction like that, which just drops you in the middle of something and you figure it out yourself. So, while I probably didn’t understand all of it, I did get enough to get interested!

Oh and I especially enjoyed “he would eat breakfast, go to school, command the terrorists and...” As you do :) Very subtly humorous and it works!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on February 23, 2021, 06:39:30 AM

Quote from: Yastreb on February 22, 2021, 11:47:15 PM

RanVor; keep it up. As I found out personally, honest feedback is the best way to learn and develop. I sent my completed manuscript of Earthfire, volume one of the Dragonhost Saga, to a friend whose opinion I trust, and she sent it back with strongly-worded comments about parts she found wanting. It improved the story greatly.

Well, I definitely didn't get as much of that as I hoped. It doesn't matter that much in this case as I'm really satisfied with this chapter, but the next (which is being worked on I swear it's true) is much trickier for me to write and I have to concentrate on getting it done first and foremost, so more pointers would be welcome. I guess I'll have to be more insistent next time. :-\

Quote from: Jitter on February 23, 2021, 05:26:48 AM

Ran, I have also finally read. It’s intriguing! It’s hard to know, when I am also completely unfamiliar with Code Geass, but calling C.C a “witch” here works for me. For me, the referral to “Marianne” also flows well. Are the sections in italics from the source material?

As I said, it’s hard to understand with no context, but I happen to like fiction like that, which just drops you in the middle of something and you figure it out yourself. So, while I probably didn’t understand all of it, I did get enough to get interested!

Oh and I especially enjoyed “he would eat breakfast, go to school, command the terrorists and...” As you do :) Very subtly humorous and it works!

Spoiler: more explanations • show

At least in this and the next chapter, the italic sections (with the exception of the notes) are literally scenes from the anime transcribed by myself. Although I may have gone a bit more in-depth with the thoughts and emotions of the characters in those scenes than the show did. You can think of it as my interpretation of what happened.

As for the last bit, well, I didn't really intend that to be funny, but I guess I'm glad it worked out that way. ;D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on February 23, 2021, 08:15:13 AM

Ran, calling it “funny” is perhaps a bit much, darkly humorous maybe!

I gathered C.C. isn’t exactly a witch but it seems to suit the character.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Groupoid on February 25, 2021, 08:20:40 AM

Yesterday I got struck by inspiration, which made writing like solving a crosswords puzzle. i.e. very fun. You get to enjoy this piece thanks to a certain R.K. who encouraged me to publish it.
Edit: Warning for strong emotions ahead & verbal violence. The work is very much non-fluff, but I don’t think other warnings apply.

Spoiler: Do remember • show

Spoiler: Author’s notes • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on February 28, 2021, 07:27:40 PM

I looked over RanVor's chapter and PMd him.

Also, I put a couple of extremely brief bits up:
Light (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325177/chapters/73226565)
Dark (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325177/chapters/73226880)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 08, 2021, 07:27:42 AM

I was looking for something else among my old work and came across this poem. At the moment we are still afflicted by drought, and I found this a pleasing thought:

RAIN ON THE ROOF

Close your eyes and hear it whisper
Slipping down the windowpane.
Stifling air turns colder, crisper.
Listen to the falling rain.

Harder still the rain is beating
Lays the dust and cools the sky.
Now: Hooray, it's started sleeting!
Weather bureau can't tell why.

On the roof the rain like thunder
Hammers on the rattling tin.
Lightning splits the sky asunder
Gaping like some stormgod's grin.

Let us raise a shout together
Cheer the sound that keeps us sane
In our baking desert weather:
On the tin roof hear the rain!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: midwestmutt on March 08, 2021, 09:04:58 AM

Lovely. Really sets a scene.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Maglor on March 08, 2021, 09:56:37 AM

Quote from: Róisín on March 08, 2021, 07:27:42 AM

Hammers on the rattling tin.
Lightning splits the sky asunder

I love the alliteration here)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 08, 2021, 11:48:21 PM

Thank you both! I like both endrhymes and alliteration. I can write free verse, but I enjoy having internal rhymes even in that.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 09, 2021, 01:35:30 AM

Róisín, I love this poem! The rhythm is really nice, and also just the sound of the whole thing - both the way it physically sounds, and how it paints a picture.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on March 10, 2021, 12:36:53 AM

Róisín, I think the weather here likes your poem - it started raining as I was reading it. (No sleet, fortunately; some of our plants wouldn't survive that.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on April 09, 2021, 10:18:51 AM

While I was at Róisín's, I sat down with the local writer's group, who meet fortnightly and do challenges. I thought I'd take part in this one, and chose from the list the topic "Letter to a Government Minister." Talking a slightly liberal interpretation, I based this in the universe of my Dragonhost Saga, which begins in a world long after a global catastrophe caused by an... unwise experiment. What follows is that world's equivalent of Einstein's letter to President Roosevelt.

***

THE WARNING

***

To their Imperial Majesties Galeron Uvrann and Juille Kaldrenor
To the High Masters of the Orichalcum Tower
To the High Masters of the Tower of Swords

I submit this final appeal to the highest authorities of Zantria in the hope that reason will prevail.

The One Land Concept has received the final approval of the Orichalcum Tower, the Tower of Swords, and the Obsidian Throne. As of this writing, preparations are being made to initiate the final process within the next fifteen days.

I would admit that the Concept itself is laudable, upon first reading. To unite the known world with the Leypath network would seem to be the most praiseworthy of endeavours. But to achieve this dream, the Concept's creators have decided to harness methods that are fraught with danger.

I would draw the attention of Your Worthinesses to the work of Kasara Taniya in formulating the Aetherworld Doctrine, especially the conclusions in Codex Four: To breach the boundaries of reality and in so doing interfering with the flow of events in alternate worlds would be both morally wrong and potentially dangerous to an incalculable degree.

The Concept's creators have chosen to flout that warning. To bring about their dream of a global leypath network, they intend to draw upon the Life Force not just of this world but of other realities, and are willing to risk all to complete their work.

The One Land Concept must not proceed.

Should it proceed, I predict that the result will be calamity, and not merely confined to the shores of Zantria. I believe that the entire world will suffer from the corruption of the Life Force.

Should this warning go unheeded, I will take my own measures to protect Zantria, and to shield its Life Force from the destruction and corruption that threatens us all.

Let the Wisdom of the Dragon guide you in this matter.

Respectfully submitted
Syrivaln Anzarmal of the Orichalcum Tower

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on April 09, 2021, 11:35:35 AM

I like how you fitted this so neatly into the overall pattern of the tale! I should put my challenge piece up too, even if it was nowhere near such a literary piece!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Groupoid on May 06, 2021, 03:41:58 AM

I’d like to share the following piece, but am not sure whether it should go here since it’s in German.

Spoiler: show

A hasty translation to English

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on May 06, 2021, 05:03:12 AM

Groupoid, this poem is lovely! There isn't an established thread for poetry in non-english languages, so I think posting your poem here is fine!

I don't speak German, but reading the poem in German (and trying my best to approximate how things sound) I could really see (hear?) the rhyme and rhythm you've put through the poem. And the meaning is absolutely beautiful.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 06, 2021, 05:44:28 AM

Groupoid, pretty much what Keep Looking said. I can read a bit of German rather than speak it, but know enough to follow the pattern of the poem. Lovely!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Groupoid on May 06, 2021, 03:51:42 PM

Now that I read it again after reading your comments, I see that I covered the topic I had in mind sufficiently, that its practically impossible to guess it. Now it reads like a love poem or somesuch, and really not what I had in mind when I wrote it some months ago. But I'll take that as well.
*bows*
I'm astonished at myself how good I am at playing substitution games.
*bows again*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Lallicat on May 17, 2021, 06:17:51 PM

So I've been writing a story, which isn't unusual for me. But unlike all the others, I didn't drop this one within a few weeks. I've been working on it since January and I've been writing fairly consistently. The progress I've made from then to now in my writing is incredible! I've gotten so much better since then, and wanted to show the difference. This is the first section from the first time I wrote it and what it looks like now that I've finished rewriting it. And if anyone has feedback I would love that, I can always improve.

Spoiler: original section • show

Spoiler: rewritten section • show

The first sun’s rays peek over the horizon, slowly stretching across the land, warming the ground and waking the sleeping. Drowsy eyes blink and limbs stretch as every living thing starts their day. Some pull the blankets over their heads to enjoy a few more minutes of rest, while others sleepily walk outside, and enjoy the half-twilight before the second sun’s rising ushers in the beginning of the new day. Slumped over their desk, clothes wrinkled and glasses smudged, Lark Craft wakes up with the rest of the world. Rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, they look down at the blueprints on which they had been working and sigh. They give it one last longing glance, then turn and get ready. They owned one of the most popular shops in Leylock, repairing broken automatons and any gadgets their clients brought in. Their favorite type of client, however, was the ones who wanted modifications or customizations. Those were the requests that let Lark make something new, instead of fixing something that someone else had made. But as their shop exploded in popularity, there became less and less time for them to work on their own projects. Their days became filled with repair after repair, often spilling into the night. They stood up late every day, trying to catch just a few minutes to work on their project. They weren’t sleeping well and it was starting to show in their work. Their eyes catch their reflection in the window, and they sigh once more, dragging their fingers through their hair. They really don’t want to work today. Nevertheless, they make their way to the front of the shop to flip the sign to open. Straightening out their attire, they walk over to the kitchen to make themself a cup of tepsa. While they really should be tending to the shop, the bell on the door would alert them about any customers, and no one came in this early anyway. They sipped the drink slowly, letting its invigorating properties take effect. They could barely function in the morning without it. They slowly sip the bitter beverage, absolutely miserable as they hear the bell ring.
“Oi! Lark!” A high-pitched voice rang through the store, making Lark choke on their tepsa. “Where ya at little sib?”
“Andy?” they managed to sputter.

Something I've realized is that I can't rush the flow of events. It's really important to set up the story, and show the characters and the world they live in without rushing into the action immediately. That has helped me pace my writing much better and I think gives is a better flow overall.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: catbirds on May 17, 2021, 11:23:45 PM

Lallicat, I'm no expert at writing, but I like the depth of the description in the rewritten section! It's less active, but it's good! Better paced? I think you did well in taking your time to tell people about the world. It seems to describe a totally different scene, though, so I'm curious about what the rest of the story will be like.

Though there are times when you might not need long descriptions. I've used single words as paragraphs before, and there are times when the best choice is to just have alternating dialogue. I think you're a pretty good judge for that, considering you've written more than I have at this point... probably.

I also like that you started your story off with a much more everyday or "normal" scene, so the reader knows that whatever lies beyond will probably uproot the protagonist from their comfort zone.

I think the one real critique I have of it is that the first paragraph has very repetitive sentence structures, which gets a bit boring to read. A lot of the sentences start with a pronoun. Maybe changing up the way you describe it would be nice, like adding a sentence describing the tepsa in between two of the sentences towards the end or something. In this particular paragraph, it should be okay because it is one of those heavily descriptive parts. More sentences describing things in general would be a nice final touch here :)

I hope this makes sense? Take your time writing it!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Songbird on May 18, 2021, 11:53:21 AM

Lallicat Automatons? You got my attention here.

My critique should be prefaced with the obligatory disclaimer about my lack of experience in writing and how that may invariably lead me to approach a few things in a less objective and more taste-based way. Regard and disregard it appropriately. ;D

I like the structural (but not narrative) pacing of the original version better and the substance of the rewritten one. Taking a closer look at both may be helpful so that's what I'm doing if you don't mind.

Original
I like the active writing in the original version, it flows better and offers more opportunities to catch one's breath. The issues I had with it is its low density of information and the recursive writing. You're onto something when you talk about setting up the character and world. The original barely establishes anything except about them not being a morning person. The first few sentences lay it down with dash of humor I enjoyed, but effect was lost when the next sentences and actions kept describing Lark's un-morningness in different manners, missing opportunities to advance the setup or scene in a new direction, burning a mental image of a clumsy and potentially grumpy person instead.

I also felt a bit offended at being unceremoniously shoved out of the house, that's no proper way of treating your guests! :'D The first sentences offer a pretty close 3rd person POV look at Lark before taking a turn that locks you out of their house. Most books switch between POVs sparingly, and that's not to say it can't be done in a same scene, it's just that it's good to be careful and purposeful about it (eg Dune). Because that paragraph was in the still establishing the character obscuring them halfway works against it. There wasn't anything to get hold of before the switch, and if overused this device becomes frustrating as it can feel as deliberately withholding information from the reader to maintain tension. That's dangerous because it can erode reader's trust; be careful to not do it lightly or by accident nor before you had the opportunity to earn it.

Rewritten
I like what I saw of the world and character in the rewritten version. Both sound much less generic, presenting an idea that captures interest in the long run. I want to know more about Lark and the sort of world that has automatons—ot just automatons but so many in need of repair they keep a mechanic (?) up at night!

Like catbirds I had issues with the pacing and passive voice; this is a large chunk of information delivered in a too still manner.

At the risk of being too prescriptive it'd work better for me if the information was sprinkled in different sections as it became relevant or came into focus (eg empty cups of tepsa scattered in the kitchen making the person at the door raise their eyebrows, offering hooks to establish Lark is a bit disorganized and messy and very short exchange about being up at night to deal with the volume of work, introducing us to these characters voices and personalities at the same time). Sentences that can establish multiple things at once are worth their weight in gold. If you can rely information in active scenes like character exchanges it's even better.

Being descriptive is not bad, mind you, but my suggestion is to look at how the authors you love do it. How they make it work, why? What do you like about them, is it the voice, the rhythm, what? It's possible, for example, to give a distinct voice to the narrator and turn the location in a character of its own right like Scott Lynch does in his Lies of Locke Lamora. It's works wonderfully as the writing is kept dynamic and the sarcasm ticks a lot of personal preference boxes for me. It works in that case because at times the narrator actively and humorously critiques the setting as they describe it, and what would be an otherwise dark place gets an infusion of humor to lighten it. The narrator voice sides with the reader, anticipating their reactions at times and while it makes the narrator—which is not a character but in 3rd person if I recall it correctly—slightly unreliable it also makes it active. It compliments the story in a manner I look forward to infodumps, which is so weird! Finding the sort of voice that compliments your setting and type of story greatly helps with the descriptive parts.

That's it. I hope it helps and great work in sticking with the story and exploring writing structures!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 19, 2021, 05:20:47 AM

I had the idea of rendering a scene in Earthfire, the first of my Dragonhost Saga tetralogy, in the style of a story-teller. So...

SIR LAZAR AND THE VEELA'S SON

On a day one month before the crowning of King Vaslav, First of His Name, a Free Company accepted two new recruits into its ranks. One was a veteran crossbowman, and the other a young archer, and they were sworn brothers, by their own words.
The young archer, who gave his name as Yastreb, drew attention from his new comrades, for he was a beardless boy, though skilled with the bow, and his manners were almost those of one of gentle blood. Too, he bore a longbow of black yew, like those of the archers of Caillor, and on his belt he wore a good sword. And on his cheek was a large and livid scar, a sure sign of combat faced and survived. Was he truly of humble birth, cast out into the world to make his own way and befriended by the old warrior, as he said? So his comrades wondered.
Others in the company, especially among the spearmen, wove their own fancies about Yastreb, and some came to believe that he was in fact a woman who, disfigured and shunned, had decided to take the warrior's path. Still others said that he was more likely the illegitimate son of a noble family, unrecognised yet not wholly spurned, as his good accoutrements and attentive guardian testified.
But in time the truth became known, and whispered from one to another. that Yastreb was indeed the illegitimate son of a noble, but more than that; his mother was a Veela. They pointed to his lack of a beard, and the bow that he bore, for were such bows not the favoured weapons of the Veelas everywhere?

And so it was that the Free Company took its rest in a village to drill and buy provisions, and into that village rode Sir Lazar Azurok and his retinue.
Now Sir Lazar was a vassal of Baron Urosh Dulbrenok, a knight of little wealth who sought deeds of arms that might bring him honourable advancement, and he was making his way to his Lord in expectation of imminent war, as many believed that Sir Drago Voyinok would soon make war on Duke Vukor Branvok and the Ownership.
But on this day Sir Lazar was seeking diversion, and his eyes lit upon a young maiden of the village, and he commanded his men-at-arms to bring the maiden to him at the inn. At this a village youth rushed to defend the maiden, for he was her swain, but a warrior struck him senseless, and Sir Lazar said to his sergeant, "Kill that one!"
And in the next moment, before a blow could be struck, the youth Yastreb stepped forth, arrow notched and bow drawn to ear, and cried out, "If he dies, then you die also!"
Sir Lazar was astonished, and shouted wrathfully, "Know you who you would threaten, varlet?"
But Yastreb cried out again, "If he dies, then you die also!" and Sir Lazar cursed his fate and told his men-at-arms to stand back as the maiden and her sweetheart fled.
Now at this Sir Lazar spoke in wrath, "I am Sir Lazar Azurok, and I do not wish to hear your name! How brave you are, with all your comrades at your back! Let us meet in challenge between staves, and no quarter asked or granted!"
There are those who wonder if Sir Lazar knew Yastreb's origins, for as all know, it is the custom for one of gentle blood and coat-armour to only issue such a challenge to one of his own class. Others believe that he simply wished to dishonour the youth with a slow and lingering death in such a combat, and there is reason to believe this, as you will see.
Yastreb accepted the challenge, and the staves were placed.
Sir Lazar and Yastreb came to handstrokes, and it was soon plain to all that Sir Lazar outmatched Yastreb in skill. In just moments Sir Lazar struck Yastreb three times, wounding him in the thigh, the shoulder and the chest, and deflected Yastreb's attacks with ease. Indeed, it was as if the knight was toying with his opponent, as a cat plays with a mouse.
Then Sir Lazar swung hard, as if to cleave Yastreb in twain, and the blow did not land, but the youth's sword was shivered and he received a wound to the head that left him lying in the dust. He managed to rise and draw out his dagger, to meet his fate with weapon in hand.
At that, Sir Lazar shouted, "His blood is mine!" and stepped forward, whether to continue the slow shaming or deliver the killing blow no-one can say.
For in that moment, the Veela blood in Yastreb's veins boiled in wrath.
To the astonishment of all, he struck with the dagger, with blinding speed, and sent the blade into Sir Lazar's heart.
And Sir Lazar fell slain, and Yastreb knelt weeping by his corpse.

Sir Lazar's men-at-arms took away his corpse, and the Free Company remained, but the Captain realised that with their duty taking them through Baron Dulbrenok's lands, it would not be safe for Yastreb to remain with them. Told of this, Yastreb's companion said, "Where he goes, I go. My oaths to him come before all others."
And when the Free Company had marched away, the maiden came to Yastreb, to bless him in the name of The Saviours. He did not speak, but bowed to her, in all humility, and with his companion walked from the village.
And whither they went, no-one can say.

So ends this tale, as all things end.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on May 19, 2021, 07:02:21 AM

Nice use of the storyteller’s style, Yastreb! Well done. And a good story!

Edit: the language usage, since I assume you are going for a Middle English effect:
you ‘cleave’ something in twain (present tense), but the past tense is that something is ‘cleft’ in twain. And it might be interesting to try telling that as a story, I will have to try telling it next time you are over here.

Tomorrow is library writers group, and our assignment for this time is ‘create an original character’. I will be curious to see what they make of mine, since I plan to use Warri from some of my fanfic stories. I am still attempting to introduce them to the whole concept of fanfic, it is fun.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Alkia on June 04, 2021, 07:59:47 PM

Hullo! I wrote a little poem today, recorded it, and thought I'd share (also relevant because it has trolls in it):

video link (on imgur) because I'm not sure the forum allows video uploads/I don't know how to upload videos on here: https://imgur.com/mFE1ULp

(https://i.imgur.com/WP6LSAE.jpg)

It's about my favorite aesthetic, goblincore, and I guess I just kept coming up with fun rhymes and trying to slot them in until ta-daa! I got this!! I'm not a practiced poet at all so it's a bit awkward (that was my first time recording too hah) and I do apologize for the poor audio quality, but overall I'm very excited about this. I'm PLANNING on turning it into a song (we'll see how motivation goes :D), so I'll keep you all updated on that

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on June 05, 2021, 02:12:06 AM

It's a fun poem, and listening to you read it really added to the experience. Good luck with making a song of it, if that happens!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on June 10, 2021, 07:04:25 AM

The subject of this short story came up in another conversation on the Forum, and I was reminded of something I wrote for the library writers group back in 2019. I was playing with the theme of dragon and maiden, was reminded of a satirical ballad, and came up with this small piece of nonsense:

HOW THE DRAGON SAVED THE PRINCESS
ASSIGNMENT FOR 27 JUNE 2019

We are all storytellers here. So I expect that we are all familiar with that vast body of hero-tales, poetry, songs and folklore to which Sir Thomas Malory refers as ‘The Matter of Britain’. This story is not part of that canon. It is, indeed, a piece purely of my own invention, in which I am perhaps amusing myself a little at the expense of the oh-so-noble Sir Eglamour.

I’m sure all present have at least heard of that valiant knight, even if they do not know all of his story. I am not going to recite it for you. The tale is long and pompous, rather like the knight himself, and I refuse to go through the refrain of ‘fah, lah, lah fah, fah lah lah lankyedowndilly’ for as many times as his epic requires. I think it will be far more interesting to take a peek behind the scenes.

Perhaps you have also heard the story of how the fatherless boy Emrys became the Merlin of Britain? Trust me, the two tales are connected. By dragons. My own theory is that the dragon is the totemic creature of the Island of Britain, patron and guardian and most powerful landspirit. Never mind all this modern nonsense about lions and unicorns……revisionist twaddle, I call it.

However, when that stuffy fool Eglamour decided to slay a dragon, he made one very basic mistake…..he misgendered the dragon. You can see it in the ballad, right from the lines ‘There leaped a dragon from out of his den’ and ‘But when he saw Sir Eglamour, oh that you had but heard him roar’. Anyone who knows anything about dragons could tell you that all the really big, dangerous dragons are old, clever females. It is only the males who roar, while spreading their wings and mantling their crests in a ridiculous threat display. They are too timid to leap out at anything much bigger than a lapdog, little say leap out at an armoured knight on his armoured warhorse.

A female dragon, if she acknowledges the presence of a human at all, is more likely to speak. Or if she is very annoyed, to hiss. Since the hiss is often the prelude to a wave of fire and acid, that is not a sound one wants to hear!

The reason that Eglamour took it upon himself to play at dragonslaying was a silly one: he wanted to marry the local princess. She was far above him in name and fame, but he had convinced himself that if only he could impress her sufficiently with his dragon-slaying machismo, she would fall into his arms with glad cries of “My hero!” and they would live happily ever after. It was not to be.

When Eglamour reached the mountain where the dragon had her cave, he was appalled to see the princess sitting on a rock outside the cave, happily singing and playing her smallharp. She was a cultured woman with a singularly beautiful voice, and Eglamour was transfixed by her loveliness. Then, without any thought of courtesy, he sprang forward and clasped her to his breast. Her harp lay smashed on the ground under his feet, and that infuriated her even more than did his passionate and very bristly kisses. He obviously intended marriage by capture. She screamed at the top of her expressive and highly trained voice, and help came.

“Unhand my student!” hissed the furious dragon. “You savage! You will destroy her glorious voice as you have smashed her instrument! Die, you brute!” A single claw slid into Eglamour’s heart.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 10, 2021, 10:21:37 AM

Nonsense? Nonsense!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Groupoid on June 10, 2021, 02:28:16 PM

Struck by an impulse I scribble down some notes, step on this stage of our forum and recite “today’s happy thought” of mine.

There’s the wheel that’s spinning,
Always turning, never winning.
Ever onwards, ever lasting,
Through times and spaces blasting.

Slowly slowing, steady going,
not a moment backwards Boeing (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boeing),
but then stop.

Where is this time the crack?
We’ll try to fix it, put it back.
But horror! See:
The future’ll never like the mem’ry be!

And new things will roll and glide,
And steady towards future slide.

Spoiler: Apologies • show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on June 22, 2021, 03:33:35 PM

The bad news is, my main Code Geass fanfiction is, as of now, put on hold until I figure out what I want to do with it, which might take some time.

The good news is, I've written and published a short Code Geass piece which you can read if you want, available on ArchiveOfOurOwn (https://archiveofourown.org/works/32116015) and FanFiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13906388/1/Alive). It doesn't really contain any spoilers, so you can go ahead without worrying about that.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on June 22, 2021, 04:31:26 PM

Ran, I don’t know anything about Code Geass so it’s hard to understand what is going on, but I like your use of language. You don’t explain things, you just describe what Lelouch sees and feels unfolding, and it feels like the sentiment or the atmosphere thus created suits the story very well.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 03, 2021, 08:09:18 AM

I wrote this... pastiche under a YouTube posting of The Eve Of The War, the opening chapter of Jeff Wayne's classic rock opera The War Of The Worlds. You have to imagine Richard Burton reading it.

No one would have believed, at the end of the second decade of the twenty-first century, that societies and nations across the world were on the brink of disaster.
No one could have dreamed of the chaos that would be wrought by those microscopic creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.
Only a few souls considered the possibility of another global pandemic.
And yet, below our perceptions, a life form so immeasurably simple in structure compared to us stirred, and changed, and slowly, and surely, it crossed the barrier of species, and the Time of Isolation began.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on July 03, 2021, 11:29:04 AM

That's very good, Yastreb! I'm glad that you chose "Time" [of Isolation] instead of "Age". Much less ominous :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 29, 2021, 04:54:26 AM

@Yastreb please elaborate on the "some unpleasant aspects", is it violence, sex, horror, gore, language? (I don't think we can actually use really bad language in English, the Forum software censors keywords on its own)

If you feel knowing this would detract from the enjoyment, you can put the content description under a separate spoiler before the text, so that people can choose to check it or not.

Please also bear in mind we are PG-13

Note I haven't read your text yet and don't have time just now, this is a general request from you friendly neighborhood moderator!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 29, 2021, 07:02:34 AM

I added it as warning on your post. I’ll have to take a look to see if it should go into the Mature Board

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 29, 2021, 07:09:31 AM

@Yastreb please move your work to the Mature Board. I don’t think it conforms with our intended PG-13 rating. The things are implied, but very clearly so.

I will remove the work within a few hours if you don’t move it. I’m sorry, but we want to be a safe place for our teenage users too.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 29, 2021, 08:59:39 AM

Where's the Mature Board? I can't find it. Sorry to be a pain!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: JoB on July 29, 2021, 09:07:42 AM

Quote from: Yastreb on July 29, 2021, 08:59:39 AM

Where's the Mature Board? I can't find it. Sorry to be a pain!

In order to have access to it, you need to provide a birthdate in your profile (so that the forum can check your age to be 18+), and maybe (didn't do so myself yet) request membership in the appropriate group, also in your profile.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 29, 2021, 09:08:07 AM

I've deleted the story post and the related post about the content. When I find the Mature area, I may repost.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on July 29, 2021, 10:49:46 AM

Thank you Yastreb!

It is as JoB says, you have to add yourself to group +18. See here: https://ssssforum.com/index.php?topic=3.0

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 29, 2021, 12:57:24 PM

Please do put your birthdate up so you can join the mature board, Yastreb. I know I have found it interesting. It covers horror and extreme violence, as well as the usual erotica, which I suppose is what this is? I would be curious to read. I’m sure the mods will help you sort it out. I’m no good at the computer stuff, so can’t help, but they are helpful.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 29, 2021, 08:15:22 PM

I tried to join the Mature Board, and got told that I was off limits, despite changing my profile to include my birth date. I went back in to find that my profile still reads 0001-01-01.

So I changed the birth date again and was told that my profile had been updated. I tried again... off limits! I looked at my profile... not changed despite being told it had been updated.

Definitely vexing.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: JoB on July 30, 2021, 02:05:58 AM

Quote from: Yastreb on July 29, 2021, 08:15:22 PM

I tried to join the Mature Board, and got told that I was off limits, despite changing my profile to include my birth date. I went back in to find that my profile still reads 0001-01-01.

So I changed the birth date again and was told that my profile had been updated. I tried again... off limits! I looked at my profile... not changed despite being told it had been updated.

Definitely vexing.

Please try to join the 18+ group (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?action=profile;area=groupmembership) without setting a birth date first. It seems to (now?) have worked for me, too ...

(On the page to enter your birth date (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?action=profile;area=forumprofile), did you notice the "Change profile" button to the lower right to actually submit your changes?)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 30, 2021, 06:02:13 AM

Quote from: JoB on July 30, 2021, 02:05:58 AM

Please try to join the 18+ group (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?action=profile;area=groupmembership) without setting a birth date first. It seems to (now?) have worked for me, too ...
(On the page to enter your birth date (https://ssssforum.com/index.php?action=profile;area=forumprofile), did you notice the "Change profile" button to the lower right to actually submit your changes?)

1. I tried that, and I'm off limits.
2. I know you're being thorough... Yes, I used that button each and every time. And it never worked. The birthdate will not change.

ADDITIONAL: I followed the link in JoB's email and I'm in the Mature Group... but my birthdate hasn't been changed still.

Puzzling!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 31, 2021, 02:54:26 PM

I've really gotten into writing in the past year, and I have a couple short stories published on my website if anyone would like to take a look :)

The first is an action adventure romance-at-sea tragedy with copious lesbian yearning and sea monsters and a bittersweet tone ;D it's titled Beneath the Brine, since it was inspired by the album from The Family Crest of the same name, and it's 10k words or so. You can read it here (http://nymphofthevales.com/?page=brine)!
Edit: just remembered I should mention that this one has some harsh language in it, though it's all in Spanish iirc. Also gore—though not anything more than SSSS has.

Then there's also this short and sweet romance (http://nymphofthevales.com/?page=spring) that I wrote inspired by the feeling of biking out to see the sunset...titled "Spring"! ^-^

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on July 31, 2021, 03:07:59 PM

Quote from: RanVor on June 22, 2021, 03:33:35 PM

The bad news is, my main Code Geass fanfiction is, as of now, put on hold until I figure out what I want to do with it, which might take some time.

The good news is, I've written and published a short Code Geass piece which you can read if you want, available on ArchiveOfOurOwn (https://archiveofourown.org/works/32116015) and FanFiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13906388/1/Alive). It doesn't really contain any spoilers, so you can go ahead without worrying about that.

Ooh, RanVor, this is great!! That's a really cool view into what must have been going through Lelouch's mind during that scene, and has so much emotional weight to it. Nice one!

P.S. sorry for the double post :P

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 04, 2021, 09:35:48 PM

This piece came about after a challenge from a workplace writers' group. I have no idea what the challenge might have been (it was a long time ago...)

ACRONYM DISPUTE TAKEN TO COURT

Supporters of three organisations with names that are rendered as identical acronyms publicly clashed outside the County Court today.
Approximately 800 people exchanged gibes and hurled insults at each other, and 150 police struggled to keep order.
Supporters of Families Against Nude Sunbathing and the Federation of All-weather Naked Swimmers at first confronted each other in the street, but apparently put aside their differences when members of the Free Arthur Newcombe Society arrived. Scuffles broke out, and police made nine arrests during the afternoon.
In court, lawyers for all three groups sought injunctions against the others, each claiming to have the sole claim to the name FANS.
Judge Ann Djury adjourned the hearing to 5 November.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 08, 2021, 12:14:10 AM

And now, an extract from Darkmind, the first of two projected Steampunk-themed crossovers from the Dragonhost Saga.

Admontein, 9.52 am, 8 June 990
Paul Kilgerrin strode into Strandfield Central Station, the main rail terminus of Admontein, capital of Zantria; just another dark-clad figure among scores of others.
His left arm cradled a bulky leather satchel with a sizeable lock; his right hand seemed poised across his chest, as if ready to dart under his left armpit. Another satchel, of stitched green canvas, hung off his right shoulder.
The terminus was angular and sparse of decoration except for the massive wrought-iron framed clock above the ticket office. Typically, nothing had been wasted on fripperies. The only real colour derived from the occasional flashily-dressed woman among the throngs, and the advertising hoardings. Paul smiled at a poster for Grangerford’s Biscuits; he had worked with them once, a while ago…
Royle Society Bombing Suspect Apprehended, the headline read
Paul paused to buy the Admontein Gazette and the latest issue of High Adventures. He handed over twenty-five cents and tucked the paper and the magazine under his arm.
“Hurry up, Kilgerrin!”
“I’m sorry, Mr Dodd.”
He fell into step with the well-dressed accountant, a stout figure in tweed suit and deerstalker, silver-headed cane at his side, gold watch-chain across his left chest; the very model of a successful man of business who had left his office for a stroll or perhaps a visit. His garb was a stark contrast to Paul’s nondescript garb; sturdy trousers and jacket and flat cap, all black as against Dodd’s fashionable grey.

The crowds thronging Admontein Central Station were a cross section of Zantrian society; bankers and doctors, technicians and tinkers, labourers and artisans, with among them soldiers in uniform, some (from their tans) fresh from the southern Colony Islands, and one or two even bearing the propeller insignia of the Zeppelin Corps.
Paul kept a tight and wary grasp on the satchel under his left arm; Dodd grunted approval.
“You have a good attitude there, Kilgerrin,” he said. “Mr Porlock spoke well of you. I know you won’t let him down.”
They reached Platform Three where the sign read Greater Colton Limited Express, and Dodd clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Safe journey, Kilgerrin, and stay alert!”
Paul touched his cap and headed for one of the third-class carriages as the train whistle shrieked the five-minute warning to depart.

Two men in the same black garb as other labourers watched him discreetly from near the small kiosk on the platform.
“He’s tooled up,” said one. “Barker, shoulder holster. You see the way he’s always got his right hand free?”
The other grunted. “Won’t do no good. One man to carry two grand… well, their loss, eh?”
They waited for the two-minute warning, and then headed for Paul’s compartment.

Paul was reading the article on the Royle Society bombing when the first man opened the door to the compartment.
Early today, agents of the Zantrian Internal Security Force made six arrests in connection with the bombing of the Royle Society for Advanced Aeronautics Airship Arch-Chancellor Redford Bartleby, Snr.
No further information has been released to the press at this time. Questions about possible links to foreign sources were not answered.
Baroness Lucinda Royle is reported to have expressed satisfaction about the arrests. A formal statement is expected tomorrow.
The man saw Paul’s watchful glance and nodded to him before sitting down opposite and taking out his own paper; the Sporting News, Paul noticed.
The second man flopped into a corner seat and stared out of the window.
No-one spoke as the train finally set off.
Paul browsed further through the Gazette, spending some time on a lengthy report of an archaeological project that promised to give new insights into the pre-Devastation world. That apparently rash promise had sparked disagreements and even some fiery exchanges between Faculty members. Finally he moved on. He appreciated science, but there were limits.
He lingered for a while on a report about the upcoming commissioning of the Navy’s newest vessel, the fleet destroyer Myrallea Moondown, but eventually turned the page after the lengthy discussion of whether the 4.7 inch guns and two sets of triple torpedo tubes in the newly-introduced 21-inch torpedoes were a risk to stability, and a smile at comments about the Treaty of Grandville, which turned up in every article on naval matters.
Of greater interest was an article about The Kingdom, the upcoming second novel in the Forerunner Trilogy, and an interview with the author. Charles Newton has chosen to take us beyond the grandeur and tragedy of The Empire, with the grim but enthralling story of a world in ruins and the efforts to not only survive, but to rebuild…
The man with the sporting paper had pulled out a pencil and was making notes in the margins, looking worried; but then Paul had never seen anyone who bet on the races looking calm.
The other man had fallen asleep.
Paul folded up the Gazette and put it aside, and picked up High Adventures. He examined the contents page and smiled when he noticed that one name was missing from that month’s authors. “About time,” he said.
The sleeping man awoke suddenly. “Blazes, how long have I been kipping?” he blurted out.
“About two hours, I’d say,” Paul said. He had always been good at keeping track of time.
“We must be getting close to Lesser Colton then?” The man rose and looked out of the window, ignoring the Passengers Are Advised Not to Lean out Of the Window sign.
“Huh, track works coming up… brings back memories that does!”
“You were a ganger?” Paul asked. “Hey, I did some time tracklaying, even did some stoking, back...”
As he spoke, there was something at the edge of his vision…
He turned, reaching for the revolver under his left armpit, but the sporting man brought his to bear as the first warning detonator fired. No-one would notice the shots.
The revolver roared twice, and Paul felt the impacts like two massive punches to his chest.
The train entered a tunnel, and everything went dark.

Voices spoke in the darkness.
“It gets easier every time, eh!”
There was a mirthless chuckle. “Wonder who they’ll hang for this one.”
They both laughed.
“There’s a gully coming up in about a minute… let’s get the boodle and dump the stiff at the next bridge.”
The train cleared the tunnel, and the man who had been pretending to sleep drew out a long knife from under his coat and turned towards the man slumped on the seat.
His eyes took in the bloodied chest, and the eyes wide open in a face devoid of expression, the large revolver clearing the satchel on the right hip, and the finger tightening on the trigger…

Isaac Howard let his paperwork fall from his lap, and the report to a less than illustrious client spilled over the floor. “Did you hear that, Doctor Knox?”
The other passenger in the second-class compartment looked up from her Zantrian Medical Journal in annoyance. “Hear what?”
“Those were shots, I’m sure!”
The smartly dressed woman shook her head. “I don’t think so. It was more of those warning signals, my dear fellow…”
But even as Doctor Knox spoke, the sounds broke through the rattle of the train; two loud reports, a half-second apart. She looked around, startled. “No, you may be right! Could it be a train robbery?”
Isaac reached under his coat and drew out a revolver. Doctor Knox flinched.
“I doubt it,” Isaac said. “But I’m ready, whatever it is. It sounds like they came from behind you. One of the third-class coaches.”
They listened intently, but the only sounds were the clack-clack of the wheels and the train whistle blaring.
“We’re slowing down,” Isaac said.
Doctor Knox tugged out a watch from her waistcoat. “Almost twelve… we are nearly at Lesser Colton.”

The train eased slowly into the station at Lesser Colton at two minutes past twelve with a whoosh and hiss of released steam. Isaac stepped out from the carriage on the instant that it stopped, with his revolver at the ready. A few doors opened, and a half-dozen people began to step out, but froze at the sight of an armed man on the platform. He quickly gestured to them to stay back. Doctor Knox was leaning out of the door, watching Isaac stride down to the first compartment of the nearest third class carriage. Then he stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. “Gunpowder – it’s in this one!”
He flung open the door and levelled his revolver into the compartment, and then stepped back, lowering the weapon. “Doctor, get over here!”

Doctor Knox grabbed her black bag and hurried to where Isaac stood. He holstered his revolver and pointed inside. “It’s bad, Doctor…”
She looked past him into the train compartment.
On the right, two men in shabby street clothes were sprawled slackly over the seats. Each had a single large blood-rimmed hole in his chest, and a similar hole in his forehead, like a strange third eye. On the left, a third man was slumped against the seat, his black shirt drenched with blood that bubbled and ebbed as he gasped for breath. His right hand grasped a large revolver.
She nudged Isaac aside and climbed into the compartment as the passengers drew closer, and some tried to peer past Isaac. Then the driver and firemen edged through them with the guard arriving seconds later.
“What’s happening?” the guard asked. “Someone’s been taken ill?”
“Worse than that,” Isaac replied, gesturing the passengers back. “There was shooting…”
“Shooting!” the guard exclaimed.
The passengers drew back.
“Two dead, I’m sure, and one maybe dying,” Isaac added. “There’s a doctor working now.”
The driver spoke up. “Jack, get the station master, quick. Tell him we’ve got an emergency here, let Ellenborough know we’ll be at Lesser Colton for who knows how long, and to block back the line to Wicksteed until further notice. And someone, anyone, get the cops here.”
As the driver took control, Isaac looked in the compartment. Doctor Knox had worked her way in past the corpses and was kneeling beside the live man, cutting away his shirt.
She glanced around and called out, “Mr Howard, please take these guns away.”
Isaac climbed in and reached down to take the revolver from the wounded man’s hand. He straightened up with a gasp. “Blazes, this is a fine piece! Four-fifty-five Barrington Mark Six!
Top-drawer hardware! Just who is that bloke?”
“He is the man I am trying to save, Mr Howard, and those guns unnerve me. Take the one from under his shoulder and the one on the floor too. Take his satchels too, and that knife, if you please.”
Isaac did as Doctor Knox asked, putting on his gloves before picking up the dropped revolver by the tip of the barrel and then the knife by its point. He used his pocketknife to scratch marks on the plain deal floor where the weapons had been dropped, and made a quick sketch in his notebook to back it up..
Leaning over the doctor as she worked, he carefully removed the revolver from the wounded man’s shoulder holster, a Standish thirty-eight, and put it with one he had picked up from the floor; another thirty-eight, a cheap nickel-plated Jordan. He broke open the cylinders of each; the Standish was fully loaded, and three of the Jordan’s chambers held empty casings. The knife was a six-inch hunting blade, and it looked to have been honed to razor-sharpness.
Closing both guns and placing them and the knife onto a seat, he took up the Barrington. He swung out the cylinder and found that four chambers had been fired. He leaned over to look more closely at the dead men, and straightened up, looking thoughtful as he pushed the Barrington’s cylinder back into place.
Lastly, he placed all three revolvers into the wounded man’s satchel with some difficulty, wrapped the knife in a page from the Sporting News lying on the floor and put it with the revolvers, and then slung the satchels over his shoulders.
A few minutes later, the local Rural Constable arrived with four men and a litter to carry the wounded man to the local infirmary. Isaac handed over the satchels to him.
Doctor Knox took her bags and followed, saying to Isaac as she did so, “You don’t have to stay here, you know…”
Isaac smiled. “This has my interest. I’ll be staying… just to find out more.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 08, 2021, 12:34:30 AM

Admontein, 12.58 pm
He was a nondescript man in a nondescript room, and those who reported to him could barely recall his face or anything else about him.
The messenger arrived as the man was signing documents, and waited until he looked up. “Sir, we have a situation with one of the Special Assets. The Wolf.”
The man’s expression did not change. “He was at Midwinter Mining, assistant engine operator… what has happened?”
“The pay office staff chose him to carry cash. Special bonuses to engineering staff at Greater Colton. He was sent alone by train. Word has just reached the Metropolitan Force of a fatal shooting on the train. It stopped at Lesser Colton. Detectives from the Metropolitan Homicide Division are to be sent at once by special train. There is nothing more at this stage, since we have no-one there to check. It’s a small place, no call for coverage.”
There was a short pause, no more than a few seconds. “Get an agent and supports to the scene. If there is any risk of disintegration, it has to be dealt with. Inform Doctor Bennett to prepare for a possible reintegration. That is all.”

Lesser Colton, 4.26 pm
Louise Knox sat at a corner table at the Canary, Lesser Colton’s only real hotel, with papers spread before her.
The Canary was made of the same roughly hewn timbers as every other structure in the small town, and the only attempt at decoration was a set of prints advertising Lelibran burlesque shows, most of them smeared with coal dust.
The proprietor, a retired miner with a severe limp, had been careful to explain that quick service was not to be expected, and had made a show of wiping down the table and the bench. There were no chairs; brawls were too frequent of a night. So after cold mutton with loads of pickles, day-old bread rolls, and coffee that tasted like sweepings from the shop floor, she looked over her notes and wrote at length in neat, precisely-spaced handwriting.
At the other end of the common room, half a dozen miners in their grimy working clothes were drinking beer and gossiping about the gentlewoman sitting and writing all by herself. Fortunately, they had not tried to approach her.

Isaac Howard came into the Canary, clutching a folder. He came over to Doctor Knox’s table, hung his hat on a convenient hook, and sat own opposite her. “How’s the patient, Doctor?”
Doctor Knox put down her pen after wiping the nib clean. “Mr Kilgerrin will survive, but he is an extremely lucky young man. Firstly, he has a very sturdy constitution, rude good health, you might say. Secondly, I was on the train. Doctor Robinson strikes me as a less than competent surgeon and the facilities and instruments are of a poor standard. When this is done I will see what I can to remedy that lack. However, I can’t say when he will wake up, though. For now, what did you find out?”
Isaac tapped the folder before him. “Our man was carrying over two thousand dollars. It’s locked in the company safe. There were pay lists from Midwinter Mining. That’s a lot of money to be in the care of one man. The local constable’s got both his deputies guarding the carriage in the sidings, and the local undertaker took some pictures. The bodies are still there. Since this is a little bit more than he’s used to, he was happy to have my help, though I imagine that there’ll be city cops on the way. Special Branch. Any crime on the rails is within their remit. I hope they appreciate our work.”
The proprietor limped over with a tray and unloaded a plate and a mug before Isaac. Doctor Knox saw more of the same mediocre fare that she had been served.
“I am a surgeon, not a pathologist,” she said, “but I can give you some conclusions about my patient. Firstly, two of the shots that hit him were most likely fired by someone sitting or standing opposite him. Entry and exit wounds were on the same plane. I think I have the terminology correct.” After a nod from Isaac, she went on. “The third wound was from a different angle, above and to the left. It hit just under the left shoulder, went downwards, and chipped the scapula on exit. On the whole, he’s very lucky to be alive, as the bullets missed his ribs and did no vital organ damage, although I can’t rule out chronic lung problems from here on.”
Isaac grunted agreement. “Thank you, Doctor… well, I’m a consulting detective, not a crime scientist, but here are my findings. At first glance, it seems pretty clear. Two armed thugs tried to rob a wages carrier and lost their lives in the exchange of fire. One of them had a revolver and the other had a knife, the cut-throat sort. But it isn’t all that clear. There are some odd features in this case. We have a man who’s been shot twice in the chest with a .38 revolver at near point-blank range, but somehow he manages to get out a .455 Barrington, and shoot them both. Now, according to what I saw, each man was shot clean through the heart. That’s precision, even at close range, and with two sucking chest wounds as a distraction, and with something with the kick of a four-fifty-five, and considering that he most likely took the third shot before plugging the gunman. Then you have the head shots. Again, precision.
“And lastly, there’s his revolver. A Barrington Mark Six is a top of the range weapon, more like a professional duellist’s choice, but he doesn’t look like a duellist, more like your normal working man. Something very strange overall…
“Where does an ordinary labourer learn to shoot like that?”

Lesser Colton, 5.32 pm
He woke up between rough sheets, smelling antiseptic, and feeling a light pressure on his right wrist… someone was holding his wrist….
There was no pain; just an overwhelming tiredness.
He opened his eyes slowly.
“Oh, you’re awake!”
A woman was sitting by the bed; attractive, buxom, maybe thirty, neatly dressed in a grey waistcoat and matching jacket, her chestnut hair immaculately coiffed, keen grey eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. She smiled a professional smile as she gently released his hand and carefully tucked away her gold pocket watch.
“Mr Kilgerrin, good evening. Please don’t try to sit up. I’m Doctor Louise Knox, MD, FZCS. You’re in the Lesser Colton Infirmary, recovering from three serious gunshot wounds. Thankfully you’re a sturdy fellow. I wouldn’t have expected you to come round for another day at least.”
“Blazes!” he croaked as the memories surged into his mind.
“Please be calm, Mr Kilgerrin.”
“There were two of them! One of them shot me! We have to tell the cops, track the bastards down! How long was I out?”
Doctor Knox frowned. “Ah… well, that is interesting…” She raised a hand quickly as Paul drew breath again. “Please don’t speak just yet.”
She rose and walked to the door, opened it, and spoke briefly to someone in another room before stepping through and out of sight.
Paul took stock of his new surroundings; a stark room of sanded plank walls and ceiling. A gas lamp glowed softly in the wall above his head. He was wearing a white linen bed jacket. His chest and left shoulder were swathed with bandages.
How long was I out? And why the blazes didn’t they finish me off?
After a short while Doctor Knox came back, holding a tray bearing a mug fitted with a spout.
“You should be all right to take some beef tea.”
“Should I be drinking at all?”
“It will be all right. You’ve had the proper surgery. I sewed you up myself. Now drink up, please, Mr Kilgerrin.”
Paul slowly drank down the beef tea. He had tasted worse in his time. Barely had he emptied the cup, and Doctor Knox wiped his lips, than the door opened and two men entered.
One was small, wiry and black-bearded, wearing the blue shako and brass badge of the Rural Constabulary, though his uniform was rough brown woollens rather than blue serge; a lever-action carbine was tucked under one arm.
The other was an obvious city gent, clad in neat slate grey, top hat, waistcoat and breeches, with long fair hair an incongruous touch.
“I do not approve of guns in hospitals, Constable,” Doctor Knox said frostily.
“Symbol of office, Doctor,” the Constable riposted. “Mr Kilgerrin, I’m pleased to see that you made it! I’m Constable Metcalfe, Rural Constabulary, and if you’re up to it, I have some questions about what happened on the train. Oh, and this is Mr Isaac Howard, consulting detective. He and Doctor Knox were the first to arrive on the scene.”
“She saved your life,” Isaac said.
Paul held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Doctor Knox released his hand. “I will leave you to speak with the Constable, then.” She frowned again at the carbine under Metcalfe’s arm. “But if you feel any pain or discomfort, send for me.”
Paul blinked as something she had said came to him. “Wait, Doctor, you said something about three wounds. There were two shots, just two.”
Metcalfe looked at Doctor Knox, eyebrows raised. “What did you tell him, Doctor?”
“Nothing, Constable… Mr Kilgerrin was trying to tell me about the robbers, so they could be caught, well…”
Metcalfe laughed, a short, derisive bark. “We won’t have to look far, Mr Kilgerrin. They’re still in the carriage. Each one shot to the chest and one to the head. We found your revolver in your hand…” His voice tailed off. “Mr Kilgerrin?”
Paul answered, but his voice seemed to be another’s, from far away, and his eyes were wide with shock, even horror.
“What the... I killed them?”

Lesser Colton, 6.05 pm
The police special train arrived in Lesser Colton as workers were leaving the pits at the end of the last shift, and many of them headed over to the platform. The incident on the morning train was still being talked about, and the arrival of Special Branch detectives could provide some more excitement.
Doctor Knox, Isaac Howard, and Constable Metcalfe reached the platform just as the passengers dismounted; three plainly-dressed men of nondescript appearance, but their grey trench coats and black bowler hats were effectively uniforms.
Constable Metcalfe, still carrying his carbine, approached the new arrivals diffidently. He was greeted with a handshake before he gestured them towards where Doctor Knox and Isaac stood waiting.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Wright, and my colleagues are Detective-Sergeant Hammond and Detective-Constable Shawcross,” said the oldest of the three officers. He was tall and stocky with the neatly trimmed moustache synonymous with Army officers. He looked at their cards and handed them back. “Doctor Knox, Mr Howard, thank you. Shall we move inside? We need to…” He looked up and past them, and frowned. “Good grief, it’s going to land!”
They turned to see a long grey shape descending slowly towards Lesser Colton.
Doctor Knox and Isaac Howard saw airships most days in Admontein, but the miners and workers of lesser Colton seemed almost as awestruck as any islander of the Colonies.
The Zeppelin levelled out above the station, the quiet whirr of its engines slowly fading into silence. It had MIDWINTER MINING in large black letters along its envelope.
“Ahoy, below!” a voice boomed. “We are lowering mooring ropes! Please secure the ship!”
Without any further bidding, a number of the miners scattered to grab the ropes uncoiling and dropping from the airship’s keel.
After some discussion, they secured the ropes to the buffers in the siding to leave the Zeppelin suspended about fifty feet up.
“Nowadays every blasted firm thinks it’s nothing unless they have their own Zeppelin,” Wright observed with a sneer.
“Not just any Zeppelin, neither, mister,” said a miner enthusiastically. He had organised the mooring of the ship. “That’s a Montverne semi-rigid design, top of the range, y’know…”
He went on to describe the design in enthusiastic detail.
“I’d have thought the company would have chosen to stay quiet over this matter,” Isaac mused. “Coming along in the firm’s airship is a bit… flashy, wouldn’t you say?”
A rope ladder swayed down from the passenger compartment in the keel, and two men in grey coveralls scrambled to the ground. As they did, another man began to descend; a bearded man in smart grey suit and top hat, secured by a harness.
“VIPs like this one don’t arrive by mere train, Mr Howard,” Doctor Knox observed. “If I am not mistaken, that is Sir Anthony Wells, the chairman of Midwinter Mining.”
One by one four men and one woman were lowered from the airship.
Sir Anthony and two others were clad in business grey and top hats; the last man wore tweed and a bowler hat, and carried a familiar black bag. The woman was of a different style altogether; pale mauve blouse and dress down to her ankles, with a matching parasol and broad-brimmed hat.
Sir Anthony helped the woman from her harness and looked around. He saw Doctor Knox and walked over to her, beaming, to shake her hand.
“Doctor Knox, you have no idea what a pleasant surprise this is!”
“Honoured to be remembered, Sir Anthony… last April, at the Royle Society’s Morrison Lectures, I believe, though we only spoke briefly.
“Oh, this is a new acquaintance, Mr Isaac Howard consulting detective. This incident made us colleagues, after a fashion.”
“A bad business, indeed, Doctor Knox… Mr Howard, pleased to meet you, sir.
“May I in turn introduce Mr Roger Porlock and Mr Wilfred Dodd of Accounting, Dr Robert Prendergast of Health and Safety, and Lady Scarlett Devonleigh of Public Relations.”
At that moment, Inspector Wright stepped forward, touching his hat.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Wright. My apologies, Sir Anthony, but we have only just arrived to investigate the, ah, incident. Now, as I understand from my briefing in Admontein, your man Kilgerrin was seriously wounded and is still in a weakened state...” He looked quizzically at Doctor Knox, who nodded. “So I would like to leave him be for now and interview the key witnesses, namely Doctor Knox and Mr Howard. I sincerely apologise for interrupting the introductions.”
“You have your job to do, Inspector, and we will not get in your way. Perhaps I and my colleagues could see Kilgerrin briefly?”
Wright pondered briefly. “That would be all right, if Doctor Knox has no objections? All right then. Hammond, go with Constable Metcalfe and make a report on the crime scene. Doctor Knox, Mr Howard, shall we find a place indoors to talk?”
Isaac Howard watched the Midwinter Mining party walk away, and said with a chuckle, “I might have known they’d bring a Mulder.”
“Mulder?” queried Doctor Knox.
“Make Us Look Decent. Something like this makes any firm or college call out the Public Affairs people.”

Paul had sunk into a shallow sleep. He was dreaming about dancing in a large open hall with a woman in white and gold, to a tune unlike any he had ever heard. There was no-one else with them. Her face was partly hidden by a fine gauze veil, but he could tell that she was smiling, and her fair hair swirled as they danced.
There were voices beyond the door.
“He’s asleep, sir, and the doctor, Doctor Knox, she said he’d been badly hurt, sir…”
It was Rachel, the volunteer nurse, a young and pretty girl who tended to blush, and giggle behind her hands.
“It will be all right, young miss, I promise.”
He opened his eyes as the door opened softly and one by one they came in. He recognised Mr Porlock, the chief supervisor of machines, and Mr Dodd of Accounts. The city gent and the one who looked like a doctor he had never seen before, and the attractive woman in mauve, with jet black hair in immaculate ringlets under a fashionable hat, was a lady without a doubt.
“Mr Porlock, sir, Mr Dodd… thank... thank you for coming….”
“Please don’t move, Mr Kilgerrin,” the woman said gently. Her voice had the faint drawl of the Northern provinces. “I am Miss Scarlet Devonleigh, and this is Sir Anthony Wells, owner and proprietor of Midwinter Mining.”
Paul tried to think of what he could say to show respect, but he didn’t know what to say.
But then Sir Anthony stepped up and shook his hand. “From what we’ve heard you did a very brave and worthy thing, Mr Kilgerrin. You foiled a robbery and put an end to two dangerous criminals. You risked your life doing so. We owe you our thanks.”
Paul could only reply, “Sir Anthony, I… don’t know what to say, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything…”
The doctor spoke up. “That’s not unexpected, Kilgerrin. A violent attack, you were wounded, your life was threatened… that sort of shock does affect recall.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Sir Anthony said. “Mr Kilgerrin, since Midwinter Mining bears the responsibility for putting you in harm’s way, I guarantee you the best of medical care, a handsome reward for your actions, and a guarantee of continued employment when you are fully healed.”
This is what it’s like to be rich and powerful, when you can make promises like that…
Sir Anthony went on, “And on that thought… I can guarantee you that those who made such a foolish decision to send you alone on that delivery will be sacked.
“Mr Porlock, Mr Dodd, your employment with Midwinter Mining ends from the moment we return to Admontein.”
He was drawing breath to continue when Paul managed to croak, “No, please…”
Bafflement was on every face.
“Pardon me?”
“It wasn’t their fault, Sir Anthony, I mean, um, how could they have known? Please don’t sack them…”
Sir Anthony turned to look at Porlock and Dodd, who stared back blankly.
Miss Scarlett tugged out a small lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “That is so… Mr Kilgerrin, you are my hero!”
Sir Anthony was now lost for words. Finally he said, “Mr Porlock, Mr Dodd, your dismissals are revoked. Mr Kilgerrin, what can I say? You astonish me. I wish there were more like you.
“I think we should leave you to rest. Tomorrow we will see about getting you to a proper hospital in Admontein.”
As they turned to go, the doctor said, “Sir Anthony, I should check how he is, as company physician. I will be along soon.”
The door closed behind them. Paul saw relief on the faces of Dodd and Porlock.

The doctor sat down next to the bed and put down his bag. Reaching into an inside pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of pasteboard about the size of a playing card and unfolded it in front of Paul’s half-closed eyes.
The eyes snapped fully open and all the signs of weariness faded on the instant.
The doctor put the card back in his pocket. “Report.”
“I was attacked. I defended myself.”
Paul’s voice was quiet and without emotion, with no trace of accent.
“Describe your actions.”
“I used Beta Protocol, with the Barrington. Immobilise, then execute.”
“Why?”
“I needed to make certain in short order.”
The doctor paused, eyes narrowed. “Witnesses?”
“None to the shooting, but beyond that, I cannot say. I believe that Knox treated my wounds.
All else is what Kilgerrin told them. I remain hidden.”
The doctor smiled briefly. “Kilgerrin will only recall that he felt too tired to speak to me. Yield control when I leave. That is all for now.”

Lesser Colton, 8:30 pm
The interview had been brief, and Doctor Knox was happy to accept a sherry in the drawing-room of Horace Jones, the local manager of Midwinter Mining, and then a simple dinner of roast pork, roast potatoes and beans.
Not only was Sir Anthony present, with his retinue, but Jessica Royle, sister of Lucinda Royle, was there too. Jessica had surprised many when she took up a teaching post in a small and underdeveloped mining town, and became the mayor.
Some said she was staying out of Lucinda Royle’s shadow; others that she was simply taking her own path. Whatever the truth, Louise Knox found her a delight to converse with.
Dr Prendergast had been happy to discuss Kilgerrin’s case, and they lamented the fact that the clinic’s radiograph had been out of commission, but they wisely put that issue aside to allow more civilised discussion before dinner.
The main course had been indifferent, but an excellent apple crumble had made up for that.
As brandy was served and cigars were offered, but only Sir Anthony and Inspector Wright lit up at the table, as perhaps their rank allowed.
Jessica Royle asked the Inspector, “Now then, my dear sir, do you have a conclusion on what happened on the train?”
“Only a preliminary one, ma’am, but I have little doubt that the Prosecutor’s Office will accept it. It seems to be a clear case of justifiable homicide. Self-defence.”
Sir Anthony nodded urbanely. “What else, indeed?”
“Sergeant Hammond immediately recognised both men,” Wright continued. “John Dixon and Peter Mapleton were villains with long records of violence and larceny. Mr Kilgerrin saved us the expense of a trial and executions! Now, I don’t think for a moment they were on that train by chance. We will find their contact at Midwinter. I’ve already sent word to the office at Admontein to follow up at once. There was a putter-up, an organiser, who hired then, I’m sure of that, and we’ll find him.”
Miss Scarlett was making careful notes as the Inspector spoke, and he said, “I don’t recall this being on the record…”
Miss Scarlett frowned slightly. “Inspector, this is a great story!
“Two violent criminals perish in the course of their crime, felled by a brave citizen who was gravely wounded. Despite his wounds, the victim pleads that those who unwisely sent him alone with a valuable load be spared dismissal.
“A renowned surgeon swiftly acts to save the hero’s life.
“A consulting detective is first on the scene, and acts swiftly to secure the scene for the detectives of the Special Branch, who take swift action to track down the master criminal who planned the robbery.
“A philanthropic businessman races to succour the wounded hero.
“Oh, it’s a bit disjointed, but with some editing this will be a front-page story!”
Prendergast looked thoughtfully at Miss Scarlett over his brandy glass. “Kilgerrin might not welcome the attention. He seems to be painfully modest.”
“Oh, nonsense!” chaffed Sir Anthony. “He deserves praise. He’s hard-working, honest and unassuming as well as brave. Dear me, he is a model citizen.”
Doctor Knox glanced around to see Isaac Howard looking thoughtfully at her.
Where does an ordinary labourer learn to shoot like that?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on September 30, 2021, 09:54:18 AM

The answer came to him in a dream. It was the old dream which he had not had for many years.

He is riding home from school on his bicycle. He knows, as he did not know then, that he must get home, must get home at once. But the street gets ever longer, and though he pedals with all his might, he has not yet reached the corner when the explosion rocks the neighborhood. Though he knows he must not, he stops as he stopped then and looks around in confusion. When he sees the flames rising above the house before him, he remembers and he rides ...

He sees the house in flames, in pieces. He hits the curb, leaps off his bike, runs up the lawn, but Mr. Henderson, running out of the house next door, tackles him. "No, boy, no! You can't go in there!"

"But my mother --"

"No! It's too late, boy, too late!"

He jolted awake and rubbed a trembling hand across his eyes. Too late! Yes, he was much, much too late -- decades too late, in fact. He snapped on the light, put on the glasses that lay on the bedside table, and gazed blankly at the key that hung on the wall. Too late! The answer came back to him then, the gossamer strands of thought that we all bring back from dreamland.

Snatching up the pen and pad from the bedside table, he began to write, frantically gathering the thoughts even as they faded. The answer was there, he knew. Grammar, spelling, nothing mattered but to get the thoughts on paper. He had three pages of notes before the memory of the dreamtime answer faded entirely. Eagerly, he began to read them ... and his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Gibberish!

He turned the pages over as if looking for enlightenment on their backs, but after a moment, turned them face up again. The answer was there if he could only find it. Collecting the pages, he rose and moved to his tiny study and his cluttered desk. Reviewing them slowly again, he saw that this statement was connected to that statement, and if you assumed that this over here could be proven, then ...

He pulled out one of his reference books, one to which he had been a contributor before he retired -- before he was retired, that is, a thought which still rankled. But such thoughts were irrelevant. What mattered was the answer.

The sun was shining through the west window of his study and his hand was painfully cramped when he finally came out of his trance of concentration. Massaging his hand, he looked around the study, at papers thrown to the floor, at books piled high on the desk and on the floor, at business cards that he no longer needed marking important spots in the books. Precariously balanced on one pile was an empty plate that had held yesterday's leftovers; beside the pile was an empty pitcher and a glass. He found that he was fully dressed. He smiled wryly. Yesterday, if he had found himself dressed and with evidence of food and water, but with no recollection of dressing or collecting food and water, he would have had fearful thoughts of Alzheimer's or some creeping dementia. Today -- well, that was the sort of thing he used to do when he was deep in thought. He hadn't done it since retirement ... he cut off that thought and looked back at the handwritten sheets in front of him.

It was the answer. No question about it. It relied on some obscure findings in physics on the nature of time and it could be wrong -- but it could be tested. It could be demonstrated.

I can build a time machine.

He looked around the study again. It seemed as if the world must have staggered in its orbit when he realized that, but the objects around him were quite unchanged. Only he had changed. Gathering the precious papers to him, he walked out into the living room.

Her picture hung on the south wall. Not a portrait, it was simply a candid photograph that he had had enlarged. She was looking down and to the left, smiling gently at something outside the camera's vision. He wondered, as he had so many times, what she was smiling at: a kitten? a flower? himself? "I'm coming," he told her softly. "This time I won't be too late." He thought of the key hanging in the bedroom, as one like it had hung in every bedroom since he was fifteen. It was not the original, of course -- that was in a safe deposit box -- but it was a good copy. He would take it with him in the time machine. He imagined how it would happen.

He would take the time machine back to an hour or so before the explosion. He would go to the house and knock on the door. Pound on the door, in fact. She would be napping on the sofa; that was what the police determined afterwards. She would be napping, and she would hear him pounding and come to the door. Or, if she didn't hear him, he would unlock the door and go inside and get her. He would claim that he had smelled the gas and that the door was unlocked.

It was probably better that it had taken him so many decades to find the answer. If he had come for her when he was a young man, she would have recognized him and that would have been difficult. And if he had come for her when he was in middle age, she would have been afraid of a strange man. But an old man like himself? She would not be afraid. She would be thinking of the gas instead of worrying about his intentions, and they would run out together and call the gas company.

Maybe the house would explode and maybe it would not, but she would be safe. And when his younger self came up on the bicycle, he would quietly leave her and then ... well, it didn't matter what then. He would go find a shelter and claim that he was homeless and penniless and without family that would acknowledge him, all of which would be entirely true, and he would finish his life knowing that she was living out hers.

That was the good dream that had sustained him for so long. The years and the decades had worn away his memories of her; he could summon no memory of her voice or her face. This picture was all he had and all that remained of her.

Not all.

He turned slowly and with a strange reluctance to the displays on the north wall. There were three of them, collages of photographs. The center one showed his own family. The picture in the middle was the wedding picture of himself and Myra, so long ago. They had met in a physics class and she had seen something in the painfully shy and driven young man he had been. They had married three months after they met, and their marriage had endured until her death at age seventy-three, just two years ago. The time machine will not help Myra. I have no cure for cancer. Maybe someday ...

Their marriage had produced three children: Christina, Marianne, and Victoria. Their pictures were part of the collage, along with the pictures of their eleven children, and their four grandchildren: just four so far, but another on the way.

He stepped closer to the picture, searching for the picture of Jodie. She was his oldest great-grandchild and had presented the collage to him. Terribly shy and conscious of the importance of the task, the five-year-old had bungled the presentation and dropped the collage on his foot, then burst into tears. Her father had then made things worse by assuring his grandfather that she was a brilliant child who was already learning to dance and read music. The mortally embarrassed little girl had fled to her mother and had not dared to approach her great-grandfather for the rest of his birthday party.

Ah, there was her picture: a sweet little girl with a nervous smile. Some kind hand had written the genealogies of each descendant under the picture to spare an old man's memory: Josephine Sanders, daughter of John Sanders, son of Christina Sanders. He suspected Marianne's hand; she had always been a thoughtful child.

So: Josephine Sanders, daughter of John Sanders. The family liked to call John "Doc John" because he was the only "real" doctor among them. There were eight PhDs, counting himself, but only one MD, and that was John. He and Janet had met in the emergency room when he was a student and she brought her mother in with a broken nose. When Josephine was born, her mother had sent numerous presents for the baby -- and the rake that had broken her nose, sporting a large pink bow and a note reading "The luckiest rake anyone ever stepped on."

So: John Sanders, son of Christina Sanders. Christina had married Daniel Sanders on the rebound. Her first husband -- he couldn't remember the lecher's name and didn't care to -- had betrayed her with an unknown number of women. When she learned the truth, she had had to go through the humiliating process of being tested and treated for venereal disease. She never told her father which disease, but he knew that at least it could not have been HIV or herpes, neither of which are curable. To escape the pain and the shame, she had fled halfway across the country, fetching up in Memphis, where she took a job as a school administrator. Daniel had worked alongside her for years, patiently gaining her friendship and, at last, her love. Their marriage was still solid, he thought, looking at their wedding picture in the collage, and they had raised four good children.

His eyes went back to Jodie. She looks nervous. She should be nervous. Her great-grandfather wants to kill her.

No! Never to kill! Only to save my mother!

But part of his mind was still working on the implications.

I was planning to go into biochemistry. I never thought of physics. When my mother died, I went into physics because I wanted to study the nature of time. If she hadn't died ...

The good dream was coming back to him, but it was beginning to be a nightmare.

He would pound on the door and wake her. They would run to a neighbor's house to call the gas company. Then his younger self would ride up and he would leave them together. She would be alive and then ...

And then his younger self would never consider going into physics. He would go into biochemistry and he would never meet Myra. She would meet another young physics student and she would never know of the life she might have had. He would meet another woman and they would have children, but they would not be the same children. There would never have been a Christina, and she would never have met the lecher and never have moved to Memphis; she would never have met Daniel and John would not have been born. Janet would have brought her mother to the emergency room and some other young man would have treated her, and maybe some other family would have received the rake.

There would be no Jodie.

He continued to stare at Jodie's picture, his mind whirling. He could tell his younger self ... but even if he knew the importance of going into physics and meeting Myra, their lives would not be the same -- my mother bouncing her first grandchild on her knee, that same gentle smile on her face -- and they could never produce the same children. Never the same grandchildren, never the same great-grandchildren. Never Jodie. And not just his own descendants.

He tore his gaze away and looked at the other two collages, similar displays showing the descendants of his brother and sister. And besides them, how many of his students had met and married other students in his classes? How many had come to his university to study under him who might have studied elsewhere? What of their children and grandchildren?

But there will be others! There will be children who never existed because she died! What about them?

His gaze returned to Jodie. The number of possible descendants of any woman is unthinkably, unimaginably huge. Out of all those possibilities, Jodie was the one possibility that had been actualized. Did she not have the right to remain actual? Those other might-have-beens -- what right had he to take away her actuality for their benefit? To save his mother would not be to kill Jodie -- no, nothing like that. She would disappear back into the realm of probability. She would not die because she would never have lived. No one would even know that she ever might have lived --

No one will know but me.

He would know. He would know when he brought his mother out of the house that his children, his grandchildren, his little Jodie, were gone forever -- had unhappened. He would know that Jodie would never learn to read music, would never learn to dance, would never drop a picture on his foot ...

He looked down at the papers in his hand and found that they had somehow been crumpled in his fist. He laid them on the nearest coffee table and smoothed them carefully.

The Uncertainty Principle bites everyone. Even here. If these figures are correct, no time machine, not even the best of them, will ever be able to go back more than about eighty years. I would have time. Sixty years since the Explosion, maybe five years to build the machine. I would have plenty of time. If I don't have a heart attack or something, but I'm in good shape.

He was trying not to think of the implications, but still his eyes went back to Jodie's picture. He stared at it for a long moment and then turned back to his mother's picture. She was the possibility that was actualized out of the unthinkable number of people that could have lived. She had had her moment of reality -- too short and too painful, but she had had it.

Must I take away the reality of your descendants to spare you?

He looked down and found that the papers were in his hand, crumpled again. This time he did not smooth them.

This field is obscure. I'm the world's leading expert in this field and I almost couldn't get it. It might be that no one else will think of it for a hundred years.

He turned back to Jodie.

If it is not discovered again for a hundred years, it will be too late to make you unhappen. You will be safe. All of you will be safe. If it is not discovered again. If no one sees these papers.

Swiftly, not wanting to think of what he was doing, he strode to his study and hastily pushed the papers -- all of them, even the scribblings of his dreamtime thoughts -- into the shredder. As an after-thought, he pulled all the bookmarks out of his books and reshelved them, somehow putting them in the right places despite the tears that blurred his vision. At last it was done. He returned to the living room to face his mother.

And her smile.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on September 30, 2021, 02:17:14 PM

lwise, that is beautiful! Thank you for sharing this.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on September 30, 2021, 03:24:13 PM

Quote from: Jitter on September 30, 2021, 02:17:14 PM

lwise, that is beautiful! Thank you for sharing this.

Thank you! I wrote it years ago but never showed it to anyone. I'm glad you like it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on October 01, 2021, 12:03:31 AM

Oh, wow! That is very fine! Very well made!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on October 03, 2021, 08:38:55 PM

/me shuffles in nervously
So I decided to get a little better organized with my fanfic ideas, and I'm still trying to gauge interest levels for my stuff, so here (https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15Lq_TIzlF5DMCgX2qRN-2dNBtVFnjttYaTnJKjowup4/edit?usp=sharing)'s a link to the Google Sheet I made. Could y'all weigh in on whether/what you think I should go on with?

...I mean aside from chucking them all and not listening when I get an interesting notion or twelve...

/me ducks out quickly

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 04, 2021, 01:35:14 AM

lwise, that was outstanding. Well done.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on October 04, 2021, 09:02:46 AM

Thank you, Róisín and Yastreb!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 04, 2021, 02:12:52 PM

@lwise , I want to come back to your story. I really like the way you build up the scene but also his thinking. It’s not very long and yet you build a whole life, without it being a boring list of of things. And the main idea is really thought provoking - are the ones who happened to happen, more entitled to it than the others who never did but could have. What a staggering burden for him - it’s good he was old and wise already before he had to make the choice.

Oh and I love the point he makes about how it’s not just about his family, but how many other strings in the network of life would be different, if his life was changed. It’s… I can see in my mind’s eye a sort of web of life surrounding him, surrounding us all. Everyone matters to the whole.

Tldr I love your piece.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on October 04, 2021, 06:09:22 PM

@Jitter, thank you very much! That's the effect I wanted.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on October 08, 2021, 01:20:24 PM

Just posted this (https://archiveofourown.org/works/34367629) and I hate it, but I had to do it and since I've done it, might as well have someone read it. It's Code Geass fanfiction because that's what I write fanfiction of. It's rated M because I didn't know what to rate it, but it doesn't contain anything explicit. One character dies and there are some emotional issues involved, but that's about it. Contains spoilers for the parts of the show that suck.

Let me know if I'm required to remove this post due to the rating.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 08, 2021, 03:43:46 PM

Ran, linking to and outside site with clearly described rating is ok. The warnings I have been dropping around about links to adults only material getting removed mean situations where someone leaves a link without warning and someone may unwittingly end up having unwanted explicit content thrown on them.

I will also read your piece but not right now. As I don’t know Code Geass these require proper concentration from me.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on October 09, 2021, 03:34:54 AM

LooNEY, I admit to having little clue about the majority of these fandoms (just Star Trek to be honest), so cannot provide any guidance. I am however, duly impressed at your breadth.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on October 09, 2021, 05:02:59 AM

Ran, while I still don’t have a grasp of the overarching events, I did get and appreciate the majestic tragedy of this scene. Impressive. And no wonder Lelouch ends up having an abrupt change of plans.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on October 09, 2021, 10:17:00 AM

I would try to explain some context, but I'm afraid my explanation would end up devolving into a rant that is best saved for my other, more long term project, which I am in the process of writing the first chapter of.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on November 29, 2021, 04:06:51 PM

FINALLY, AFTER NEARLY TWO MONTHS OF STRUGGLE, MY WORK IS COMPLETE!

I've finished the first chapter of my great work, Code Geass: Kallen of the Atonement, and oh boy, is it a monster... The story is available for reading on Fanfiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13997346/1/Code-Geass-Kallen-of-the-Atonement) and Archive of Our Own (https://archiveofourown.org/works/35410432/chapters/88264120), although, frankly, the FFN version is superior, as it contains uncut author notes and a bonus scene. The rating is T for now (it might go up in the future, either due to actual content or my paranoia), and the warnings for the first chapter include character deaths galore, some mild swearing in the chapter itself, some less mild swearing in the notes and RANTS!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: tehta on January 07, 2022, 05:59:38 AM

A bit unsure as to whether I should post this, but wanted to see whether this sort of thing resonates with any of my fellow writers. (I am going through a very annoying patch of Emotions about my own writing.)

It's an old (and short) piece of Silmarillion fanfic that parodies both the Feanorions--especially Maglor, the artist--and my own struggles as a writer: The Artistic Temperament (https://archiveofourown.org/works/961836).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on January 07, 2022, 08:15:22 AM

Quote from: tehta on January 07, 2022, 05:59:38 AM

A bit unsure as to whether I should post this, but wanted to see whether this sort of thing resonates with any of my fellow writers. (I am going through a very annoying patch of Emotions about my own writing.)

It's an old (and short) piece of Silmarillion fanfic that parodies both the Feanorions--especially Maglor, the artist--and my own struggles as a writer: The Artistic Temperament (https://archiveofourown.org/works/961836).

Of course you should post it, I love your Silmarillion pieces! Then again, I may be biased... ;)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 08, 2022, 09:26:05 PM

tehta, that was an interesting exploration of the artistic temperament.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: CLamb on January 22, 2022, 10:22:46 PM

Hey, I have viewed the forums occasionally over the past few years of reading SSSS, but I did not create an account until now thanks to Róisín's suggestion when we conversed in the comments of SSSS.

So...I present to you all the prologue and the first chapter of a fantasy story I have been writing since high school! I'm still working on it and hope that someday it can be published (self-published or traditionally, idk yet). Enjoy! It's pretty clean, a little grim and sad, and mostly for young adults and older. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NI8OGp1o-H86wwv5njn3i9WymVMc7zdu/view?usp=sharing (https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NI8OGp1o-H86wwv5njn3i9WymVMc7zdu/view?usp=sharing) :reynir:

Also, any feedback: praises or critiques are welcome!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 23, 2022, 12:39:58 AM

This looks like a story worth telling! One thing you do need is a proofreader, to correct the small infelicities of spelling, grammar and word usage. I wonder if either English is not your first language, or whether you were educated in America? Otherwise it seems good. The mechanics of language can always be worked out, but having engaging characters and a good tale to tell are the important parts of writing, and you have those. Have you considered self-publishing on a site such as Ibooks?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: CLamb on January 24, 2022, 01:30:28 AM

Aww! Thank you, Róisín! Your praise means a lot! A proofreader would probably be a good thing for me to procure. Your latter guess is correct: English is my first language, and I learned it in America.
I have considered self-publishing, but I have not heard of Ibooks. (I should probably look into it.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on March 30, 2022, 12:03:32 PM

Hi! I wrote a short story for the "prompt of the week" thread, and thought I should put it here too.

It's my first original work, with no connection with SSSS or other fandoms. I hope you like it, and as always your feedback is welcomed! :)

Here's the AO3 link: Goodbye (https://archiveofourown.org/works/38059108)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on March 30, 2022, 05:40:19 PM

Quote from: thegreyarea on March 30, 2022, 12:03:32 PM

Hi! I wrote a short story for the "prompt of the week" thread, and thought I should put it here too.

It's my first original work, with no connection with SSSS or other fandoms. I hope you like it, and as always your feedback is welcomed! :)

Here's the AO3 link: Goodbye (https://archiveofourown.org/works/38059108)

Very interesting, and it's great to see you writing again! Good job, friend! :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 30, 2022, 10:07:28 PM

That was beautiful, and a little sad.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on March 31, 2022, 08:04:48 AM

Quote from: Róisín on March 30, 2022, 10:07:28 PM

That was beautiful, and a little sad.

It is but there is hope in it and a little smile about the surprise.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 09, 2022, 08:22:17 PM

So, I guess it's been long enough for me to put up an ad (https://tinyurl.com/C-S-M-Intro-Ad) again.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: RanVor on May 23, 2022, 02:02:25 AM

So yeah, I have committed Code Geass fanfiction again, and after many trials and tribulations (ask Grey, I was mostly just waiting), it is finally up on ao3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/39158397), where you can read it if you want. Or not read if you don't, I mostly just wanted to say that I've made something, I don't really expect you to be interested or to understand much of it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on May 27, 2022, 08:22:28 AM

And another short one, this time with Emil! Fire (https://archiveofourown.org/works/39255501)

Ran, I really like your story. It works very well with the others, and I'm very curious about what comes next. Actually I think your stories are better than the source material.

LooNEY_DAC, I haven't read all the whole CSM, but what I read is very good! Someone should publish it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Grade E cat on September 11, 2022, 04:52:51 AM

I had to write down a few Ascendance of a Bookworm ideas to allow my last SSSS fanfic to continue, but so far only one is resisting my chronic "this is a good beginning, but I have zero idea what to do for the rest of the story" problem.

Things Rozemyne is not allowed to do in the archducal castle and Royal academy:
1. Not allowed to read when I’m supposed to be working.
2. My status is second child of the archduke, not sixth most powerful adult in the duchy.
3. Not allowed to add "in accordance to the prophecy" to the answers I give to questions. If Hartmut likes the idea so much, he can do that himself.
4. Not allowed to name any new product "Get over it".
5. Not allowed to join the former Veronica faction on a whim.
6. Not allowed to join any faction other than the one I’m already part of.
7. This was supposed to be warning about starting my own faction, but it turns out some of my "relatives" are already doing that.
8. Not allowed out of the temple while archdukes of other duchies are visiting.
9. May not call any nobles of higher status than me immoral, untrustworthy, lying, slime, even if I’m right.
10. Must not taunt people from Ahrensbach anymore.
11. Must attempt to not antagonize the Sovereignty’s Knight’s Order
12. Must not tell any noble of higher status than me that I am smarter than they are, especially if it’s true.
13. Not allowed to chew that gum stuff in class, unless I brought enough for everybody.
14. Not allowed to chew that gum stuff in class, even if did bring enough for everybody.
15. I am not authorized to fire nobles of higher status than me.
16. It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no longer applies to Rozemyne.
17. I am not the Psychological Warfare Mascot. Ferdinand is much more suited to the job, anyway.
18. May not conduct psychological experiments on the rest of the archducal family. The same goes for my "biological" family.
19. Must not start any report with "I recently had an experience I just had to write you about…."
20. Must not challenge anyone of higher status than me to ditter. I don’t even like playing ditter.
21. If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it. I am to assume the same for anything that makes the archduke giggle for that long. If it makes Ferdinand giggle, I am to record it into an ordonnanz and send it to the archduke to prove it actually happened.
22. Past lives have absolutely no effect on my status within the nobility.
23. Take that hair stick off.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on November 18, 2022, 08:09:20 AM

I viewed a new piece of music by Phil Rey Gibbons, a composer I greatly esteem. The piece is called Gates To The Pantheon.

I was moved to comment...

These are the Gates to the Pantheon.

For those who strove for justice, who treated all with compassion, and worked for a better world, the Gates are open.

For those who reached out to the less fortunate, who comforted those in distress, and soothed the pain of those who suffered, the Gates are open.

For those who worked for the good of society, who raised their children to respect others regardless of any and all differences, and turned away from violence to foster peace in the world, the Gates are open.

For those who exploited and ruined the world, practiced and encouraged cruelty and dishonesty, made a mockery of justice, made a virtue of selfishness and disregard for the future, scorned and vilified those they perceived as below them, and laughed at suffering and inequality... the Gates are closed.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on December 05, 2022, 01:19:30 PM

i needed this out of my head to concentrate on secret santa
https://archiveofourown.org/works/43430788

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 07, 2023, 09:17:16 AM

This story is set in the world of my Dragonhost Saga, and takes place some years after the events intended for the fourth volume... so there may be some spoilers!

The inspiration came from a composition by Phil Rey Gibbons.

THE GIRL AND THE FOX

She saw him standing at the edge of the clearing, ready to dart away in a blink.
“Don’t be afraid, my love,” she said.
He edged forward as she crouched down and reached out for him. She drew him into her arms and hugged him close.
“I’ve kept looking for answers. Gods, I’ve tried. Wise women, a hedge wizard... even a Veela Lord. They don’t know how to remove the spell. The Veela Lord told me there was a great mage who might know, but he’s far away. He said he would send word. He didn’t know how long we might wait...” Her tears soaked into the red fox’s fur. “I’ll wait for as long as I must. As we must.”
It was a long time before she released him and took out the flute.

***

The stranger walked into the village an hour before sunset, and drew cautious glances as he headed for the tavern. He was Human, a sturdy youth in a warrior’s harness over plain brown homespun, with a sword and a dagger at his side, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder, a bulky pack over his back and a longbow in his hand. What drew their eyes at first was the wolf cub trotting along beside him, but as he came closer they saw the puckered scar across his left cheek and another scar on his forehead that left a white streak in his chestnut-brown hair. A youth, perhaps, but one who had seen and survived battle, and the way he looked around as he walked into the tavern was that of someone eternally alert, who left nothing to chance.
He was the only stranger in the tavern, and the innkeeper looked at him warily.
“I will not stay here long,” the stranger said. His accent sounded Rashkan but deeper than that of most Humans. “A meal and ale is all I need.”
The innkeeper brought bread and cheese and sausage and a flagon of ale, and started in surprise at the silver coin handed to him. “And some meat for my wolf also,” the stranger added.
The innkeeper nodded and hurried away. Not only was this stranger generous with coin, but he bore a fine sword with an ornate hilt... that and the wolf cub deepened the mystery. He was no wandering knight in that garb; perhaps a sellsword seeking a new master?

It was nearing twilight when the stranger left the tavern, tossing another silver coin to the innkeeper and walking away without another word, the wolf cub trailing.
“He’s a rare one,” the innkeeper said to no-one in particular.

***

Yastreb called upon the Runes for the cat, enhancing his sight and hearing and sense of smell as he entered the forest past the village.
* Do you scent fox, Zalushka?
* Not yet.
* Then we wait.

The faint sound of music drew him out of meditation into instant awareness.
* I hear it, my brother.
* It’s time.
Yastreb rose to his feet. Slinging his bow, he began to pick his way through the trees, manifesting the Runes for the cat once again. It was not long before his Sight picked out the shape of a Human at the heart of the forest. Soon he could hear the music more clearly... a sad and haunting melody, played by someone who had mastered the flute.
Summoning other Runes to mask his scent and muffle the sounds he made moving through the bushes and undergrowth, he edged closer.
* I scent fox, my brother.
They were near the edge of a clearing, and the melody played on.
At the base of an ancient oak a young woman in fine clothing of silk and lace was crouching over where a fox lay curled up among the roots.
By the faint moonlight he could see the sparkle of tears on her face as she played on.
Finally she stopped and looked up at the moon.
“I have to go back,” she whispered.
The fox raised its head.
“One day. One day...”
“Today,” he said. “It can be today, Dushanka.”
The girl bit back a gasp as she jumped to her feet, and the fox sprang upright, standing by her as if ready to defend her.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“My name is Yastreb. My companion is Zabeelushka. Lord Wolfkin told me of you... both of you.”
Yastreb stepped out slowly, keeping his open hands visible. Zabeelushka followed cautiously.
Dushanka looked him up and down. “Lord Wolfkin said... he knows a great mage. You’re a warrior!”
Yastreb manifested a moon orb and sent it to hover between them. “I’m a warrior when I must be. But a mage is what I am. And I’m here to right a wrong. Tell me what was done. Tell me who it was done to. And I will do what I can.”

They sat down by the oak, facing each other, and Dushanka began to speak.
“My parents... they have plans for who I should marry, when he is old enough. I don’t want that. There’s another...” She stroked the fox’s head. “Voyslav is the youngest son of an old house, but his family is not wealthy. They have great lands, but not as much wealth. But... I love him, and it would not be a bad marriage for my house, if I cared about that. But my parents care only about the gold and silver that Milosh Voyinok would bring them. They want to show that wealth when they go to the court at Belogra.”
“How long until he... that is, Milosh... is old enough?”
“Two more years. He’ll be twelve. I will be seventeen.”
“And Voyslav?”
“He’s just a year older than I am.”
Yastreb thought back to Caillor, to Gisela and Wolgrez. “I understand. I know why. Now... what was done?”
Dushanka swallowed back tears. “I... I don’t know, not for certain. Only... that they said they would keep Voyslav from me, that the Gods would see to it. He would not die, so that House Vedrenok wouldn’t be able to declare war on them. And... this happened.”
The fox whimpered softly.
“The fox is on the Vedrenok coat of arms. Whatever they did... it was a joke to them to do it this way.” She looked Yastreb in the eye, and her eyes spilled over. “What can you do?”
“What I can. Both of you, stay still and stay silent. And know this. I must see into your spirits, to bring you together. Do not be afraid.”
He manifested the Sight again, and slipped into Transcendence as the life-sparks of the girl and the fox became clear. Twined with the fox’s form was another shape, and it was Human.
* There will be pain, Zalushka. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.
* Do what you must, brother.
He drew forth Beast Runes, and then shaped the Spirit Runes for Sending, clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain to come...
Through the red haze he reached out to both minds.
* Think of each other. Think only of each other. Clear your thoughts of anything else.
The images flowed into his mind, growing sharper...
* Your heart beats in his soul. Your heart beats in her soul. Let your love make him whole. Let your love restore what was. Let your love take away what should not be.
He reached into the Beast Rune, unweaving the threads that twined it into the Human shape...
* Be the fox no more. Be who you truly are. Be Voyslav Vedrenok.
The Beast Rune faded from his Sight.
* Let what should be... truly be.
Yastreb heard a stifled cry of joy, and opened his eyes to see Dushanka clumsily embracing a naked youth sprawled among the roots.
“I doubted you!” she gasped. “Forgive me! Great mage!”
The youth slowly turned his eyes towards Yastreb. “I bless you...” he whispered. “Whatever you wish... If it’s in my power, my family’s power, it will be done...” Suddenly he looked down at himself, and cringed, clasping his knees to his chest. “Oh! I’m sorry...”
Dushanka, blushing crimson, released Voyslav. “I didn’t think of that! What do we do?”
Yastreb gave a long sigh as the pain receded and eased the pack from his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Dushanka. I brought some clothing. Plain, but useful. It should fit, more or less.” He rose to his feet and turned away as Voyslav began to open the pack. He was moving awkwardly for a moment, but soon he had opened the buckles.
* Granya taught me well, little sister. She’ll be pleased at what I achieved here.
Dushanka was at his side.
“My family... they won’t approve. I pray that what you’ve done won’t lead to misfortune for you.”
“I did what I had to do to right a wrong. I did what I could. They’re not always the same. But to fail to act? That’s not my way.”
“You speak as a true knight should.” She grasped his hand and raised it to her lips. “A mage who does deeds like a knight? I never heard of such a thing.”
He could not hold back a wry grin as something Radul had said long ago came to mind... the story tellers wouldn’t tell the truth about you, would they? The humble peasant lad who slays dark monsters and bandits and gy’avol with mighty magic, like the Saviours did? No, that’s for knights and heroes. Not for mages. He remembered too what Rajko the mercenary had said... Whoever you really are, what name you should bear, you behaved as a true knight should. Blood will tell.
“The desire to right wrongs... it’s not from the blood.”
“I remember now!” Voyslav had managed to don breeches and a tunic. “This one is no knight, Dushanka! Yastreb the Veela’s son! Sworn brother to Queen Myrallea.”
The legend has become truth. I’m remembered for a lie.
Dushanka lowered her hands. “No wonder Lord Wolfkin said you could help us. But... the Queen’s sworn brother? You came for us?”
“Finish dressing, Voyslav. Then you must leave. Both of you, if that’s your wish.”
Dushanka covered her mouth again.
“Both of us...?” Voyslav whispered. “How?”
“Finish dressing, then come with me.”

Hand in hand, Dushanka and Voyslav followed him to the edge of the forest. He glanced back and saw them looking at each other as if to reassure themselves.
“What now?” Dushanka looked around anxiously, grimacing at the sight of the castle beyond the village, and then cried out in surprise as a white horse with a flowing mane and tail of shining gold seemed to walk out from behind a tree no wider than a man’s hand.
“Greetings to you,” the horse said in a deep whisper that seemed to rumble more from its belly than its jaws. “I am Yabutchilo. I am here to take you home.”
Dushanka and Voyslav stood slack-jawed in disbelief.
“He speaks the truth,” Yastreb said. “Climb on his back. Trust me, you won’t fall.”
“He speaks the truth.” Yabutchilo snickered. “You are safe with me.”
Voyslav paused for a moment before springing up and astride Yabutchilo’s back and reaching down to help Dushanka up to sit behind him.
“It’s three or four days to my home,” Vaslav said. “We’ve no money for the way...”
“Days?” Yabutchilo tossed his head, and amusement sparkled in his golden eyes. “Hours, my friends!”
“How?”
There was a brief flexing, and suddenly wings like an eagle’s, snow-white edged with golden feather, blossomed out from Yabutchilo’s shoulders with a slight crack from the tips.
“I know the way.” Yabutchilo edged back from the tree line. “Farewell, Yastreb. Travel safely. Until we meet again, in this land or another.”
“Bless you, in the name of the Saviours,” Dushanka said.
“I owe you a debt,” Voyslav said. “And by my honour, I will repay.”
“Be happy,” Yastreb said.
Yabutchilo bounded upwards, rising into the night sky. His legs began to move as if he was cantering, mist billowing around his hooves as he ascended with the only sound the cries of awe from those on his back.
* They’ll speak of this, brother. Another piece of your legend.
* At least this will have some truth to it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 08, 2023, 01:04:31 AM

Well! That fox tale is sweeter than that of Reynardine. Or even the Japanese story of the nine-tailed kitsune. Well done Yastreb!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on January 08, 2023, 01:47:04 PM

Yastreb,
Wow Thank you. This is a lovely story.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 13, 2023, 07:24:37 AM

MORITURI

"The situation is grave," the Wing Commander said. His face was haggard from sleepless nights and the strain of command; of sending men out to die. "The Meuse bridges have to be cut to stop the German advance."
No-one spoke. We'd been there.
"I'm calling for volunteers."

When 15 Squadron first deployed to France in September 1939, we were confident. The Advance Air Strike Force was well-equipped, so we were told, and that's how it seemed at first. But doubts began to creep in. The Battle was a good aircraft for its day; a single-engined bomber with three crew and a capacity for a standard load of four 250-pound bombs. But it was over 100 knots slower than just about any fighter you could name, with no armour or self-sealing tanks, and just a single Vickers K machine-gun for the third crewman to use. The pilot had a single machine-gun too, for all the good that did. The Battle was no fighter. It was a barge compared with fighters.
When the German offensive began we went straight into action, bombing German columns advancing through Belgium. In two days we lost two Battles shot down and three others so badly damaged they were written off.
Then came the orders to bomb the bridges over the Meuse River, to stop the German advance and prevent a catastrophic breakthrough. Four of our Battles were shot down and three more badly damaged and written off. Now there were just six, two of them hastily repaired.
I'd been lucky. My Battle, which I had whimsically dubbed Beatrix, hadn't taken a scratch.

In the silence that followed the Wing Commander's words, I thought of numbers. Six Battles lost, six beyond repair; eighteen men I'd known, four from my school days, all missing, presumed dead. Maybe some had survived, but I doubted it…
"I see." The Wing Commander looked down at this feet. "Two squadrons of Hurricanes will be escorting. Take-off is in one hour." I thought I heard a sob. "Godspeed, gentleman."
I didn't realise that I'd stepped forward.
I looked around and saw that everyone had stepped forward. Dave Charnley, my bomb aimer, and Roger Brennan, my air gunner, were at my back.
Eleven crews; thirty-three men. But only six crews would fly.

I went back to my quarters, and found the letter I had been writing to Anne last night. I hadn’t finished it. I looked at the last sentence I’d written, a bit of gossip that I thought would amuse her, and tried to think of a way to end the letter, but in the end, I signed as I always had, and put the letter in an envelope for my orderly to post.

I was the leader of A flight. The other pilots joined me in looking at the map of the approaches to the Meuse bridges, trying to work out the best approach.
"We need cover from their ack-ack," Bill Forbes said. He’d survived two crash-landings, and something in his eyes made me think he wasn’t expecting to survive the next.
"North-east, here, using the ridges as cover." I traced a line on the map. "Their guns will only have, what, thirty seconds before we're over the bridges."
"You'll have that long to line up." Paul Sharpe’s voice was taut. He was the only one left of D Flight. “And we’ll have one chance only.”
“Dive bombing hasn’t worked. We have to try something else.” I realised that my voice was sounding harsh.
Bill and Paul looked at each other.
“All right, sir,” Bill said.
“Morituri, te salutamus,” said Paul.
I knew what that meant. We’d all learned Latin. But hearing it then...
“Let’s go,” I said.
We who are about to die, salute you.
There was time to confer with Roger Wilton, leading B Flight.
“We’ll be going in high,” he said. “Better chance to hit...”
I understood their thinking. If they were going to be killed, then let it be making a successful attack.

It was forty minutes after sunrise when we took off, to find our escort circling; fourteen Hurricanes. Two squadrons, the Wing Commander had said, so there should have been twenty-four; but the fighter squadrons had taken heavy losses as well.
There was one other aircraft with us. A French Bloch MB174; a trim twin-engine bird with three crew that could outrun a Hurricane and maybe even a Spitfire. The pilot told us his job was to watch the attack and report back. I remember he looked pale as he spoke. His name was Antoine, and he looked twice my age, but that’s all I remember about him.

Five minutes out, and we’d seem no sign of German fighters so far, B Flight broke away to climb to three thousand feet as I led A Flight down to tree-top height. We were in V-formation, and I was leading.
Then the leader of our escort spoke; “Bandits, north-east, twenty plus, engaging!”
“Hold formation, we’re going in,” I told the flight. The Hurricanes were outnumbered. Some of the Germans would break through.
“I’ll hold them off, skipper,” said Roger Brennan. “Trust me.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” said Dave Charnley. “Just as long as you keep them off until we get us over the bridges, I’ll do my part.”
“Quiet down, chaps,” I said. “Concentrate. We’ll all do our part.”
I know. Trite words. But we can’t all make grand speeches. What should I have said? Once more unto the breach, dear friends? Or Gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here? Neither of those came to me. I kept my mind on the mission.
“Skipper, bandits, six o’clock!” Dave Charnley called out. “Three 109s!”
One each. And they had heavy cannons. They could tear us apart.
We were two minutes out. I could see the dust rising from the road leading to the bridges. There’d be a convoy, and it would have ack-ack of its own.
“Just hold them off! We’re almost there!”
I saw tracers fly past us; not at us. The others...
“We’re on fire!” Paul shrieked, and then he was cut off.
“I’m hit...” That was all Bill said.
Two Messerschmitts arced past us, climbing away, and then I heard Roger’s Vickers-K firing, a single snarling rip, and he cried out, “I got the bastard! He’s down!”
I said nothing. The ridge was barely a minute away.
“They’re circling back,” Dave said. “Good shot.”
I couldn’t get Beatrix to go any faster. We were on our own.
“They’re forming up, line astern.” Roger’s voice quivered. “Coming in!”
I didn’t dare look around.
There was another burst from the Vickers-K, and Roger shouted again, “I got him! Oh my God, he’s down, he’s...”
Something smashed into Beatrix, and I flinched as if I’d been hit. But she was still flying, and we cleared the ridge to see the convoy below us, lorries and half-tracks, and tracers were flying up at us...
“Roger’s gone...”
I glanced up at the mirror I’d had fitted above the cockpit, something the Hurricane pilots had recommended, and saw the Messerschmitt lining up on us.
This close! I was about to shout at Dave to release the bombs before we were shot down, may as well kill some Germans before they get us, when suddenly the Messerschmitt vanished from sight.
Next moment I saw it slam into the roadway below, exploding in a fireball that engulfed two lorries, and a Hurricane swept past us, banking away.
I saw the pontoon bridges ahead, three of them, one broken and ablaze.
“Dave, get ready, trying for both!”
I angled Beatrix slightly to port. Bullets were hitting us. Not cannon-shells, just machine-guns. The light flak, their Oerlikons and Bofors, would be on the river banks.
“Ready, skipper, just keep her steady...”
I heard the clunk, clunk of two bombs releasing, and then two more, and I raised the nose to clear the ridges on the far bank as more tracers flew around us, and these were bigger, twenty-millimetre I guessed, and Beatrix shuddered again, and again, and she swung hard to port, wing dropping, and I fought to keep her level...
We were heading for the trees atop the ridge, and I dragged the stick back hard. No time for gentle handling. I was risking a stall, but if I didn’t we’d go straight in...I think we brushed the tree tops, but then we were over, and the tracers weren’t following us any longer.
Beatrix was handling badly. I glanced at both wings, and they’d been hit hard, both ailerons shredded. I could see vapour trailing from the nose; coolant leak.
“Skipper,” Dave said wearily. He sounded as if he was about to pass out. “Roger’s dead. I think a shell hit his gun. I’m all right. Scored hits...”
“We did what we came to do.” I realised that I was sounding the same. “I’ll get us back...”
The Hurricane had formed up on our starboard side. I saw the pilot look at us, and then tap his headphones; so his radio must be out. Then again, the Hurricane looked badly hit, with fabric blown away from the fuselage to reveal the framework beneath.
Moments later, the MB-174 swooped down to form up on our port side. I saw the crew looking at us, and Antoine giving us a thumbs-up. I acknowledged with a salute.
For now, that didn’t matter. We had to get back.

Beatrix lasted until final approach, when the engine cut out. I landed her anyway. The starboard main tyre burst, and we ground-looped, with both gear legs buckling. She slid for a good distance before coming to rest.
We made it out, and the other pilots were there, wringing our hands, but I couldn’t speak. Everything came back at once, and I fell to my knees. I was sobbing. I knew we were the only one to return before they told me.
Antoine had landed. He came over and told us that all three bridges had been hit. So we’d succeeded. But I knew, even as he told us that news, that the Germans would have new bridges up within twenty-four hours at most.

The Wing Commander wrote a citation recommending me and Dave for the Victoria Cross. For some reason he left our Roger. In the end I received the Distinguished Flying Cross, and Dave the Distinguished Flying Medal. Roger ended up with a Mention In Dispatches.
When we were finally evacuated to England, I put in a request to transfer to Fighter Command. I knew I could never go in for another bomb run.
The transfer was approved, and that’s how I ended up among The Few, the ones that inspired Churchill to talk about “their finest hour.”

I would have said that the finest hour was the last flight of 15 Squadron. We did our duty and wrecked those bridges. If others squandered our victory, it takes nothing away from what we did.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on January 13, 2023, 10:20:38 AM

Nicely done, Yastreb! It's been a while since I read a WWII story that felt like we are hearing it from someone that was actually there, particularly that last remark, "We did our duty", that I've heard from veterans before.

Also a well-thought and very appropriate title.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 13, 2023, 03:35:05 PM

Thank you! You would have liked an earlier posting of mine, A Hole In A Moccasin, which was in the same style.

WRT the character Antoine and his aircraft; that's actually Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the aviator and author of the classics The Little Prince and Wind, Sand and Stars. He flew a Bloch MB-174 during the Battle of France, and wrote of that time in his memoir Flight To Arras (which I must read someday).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on January 14, 2023, 06:19:20 AM

Yastreb,
Well done!! Thank you

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 22, 2023, 12:28:54 AM

VALKYRIE

“Look out, Peter!”
He was shouting it again and again, as he had been shouting ever since he was brought in.
I could barely hear it now. The pain had been building for some time now, spreading upwards from the wounds in my legs. There was no morphine left, so the MO said. There wasn’t much of anything left. Six days of fighting around the Arnhem bridgehead had left us short of ammunition, food, and medical supplies.
The Germans had more than enough ammunition. Their mortar bombs, and rockets from their Nebelwerfers, gave us no respite.
They hadn’t attacked our position in two days, since we’d beaten off their last attempt. Their dead were still lying out there, with three wrecked Panthers almost into our trench lines. I should know about those Panthers; two of those kills were mine. One with a PIAT, and the other by that trick that looks good in the war comics; a grenade down the hatch. That was what landed me here. A machine-gun riddled both my legs. That’s the part they leave out of the comics. Heroes don’t get riddled. Maybe a clean wound through the shoulder, if anything.
Corporal Parker had dragged me back, and then he’d been killed. What was that they said about only the best are taken?
“Look out, Peter!” Lieutenant Arthur Woodley, my chum from OTC... a mortar bomb had landed near him in the last attack as he shouted a warning to Captain Rogers, but it was too late.
He was sounding weaker... starting to fade. An orderly was by his side.
“Look... out...”
The orderly sagged, shook his head.
The pain was fading. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The noise outside was fading too. Relief...

Suddenly I was awake, and on my feet.
I was in a corridor... a passage, with roughly worked stone on each side and underfoot. Everything was quiet.
I was walking down the passage, and there was noise ahead... loud singing. Hundreds of voices.
I’d come to a door of stout timber, metal-bound, and it opened before me.
I was looking into a room so large I couldn’t see where it ended.
There were tables set up, rough wooden one with benches, and every table was full.
There were men sitting there, all of them soldiers, and of all kinds...
I saw redcoats sitting opposite French soldiers in blue, and they were laughing and toasting each other. Redcoats and Zulu warriors. Soldiers in pale blue and others in field grey... from the Great War, I realised, treating each other as drinking-partners. And others, in uniforms and trapping I didn’t know...
Moving among the tables, placing trays of mugs and glasses and bowls before the feasters, were women of such beauty that I had to blink. Tall blonde women in ancient armour, that’s what they were. The soldiers were smiling up at them, as you’d expect, and the women smiled back and moved on.
Suddenly one of them was in front of me.
“Welcome, Peter,” she said, and somehow I could hear her soft voice above the din.
I couldn’t say anything. She was someone an artist would have sold his soul to paint. Flawless skin, perfect features, large blue eyes just sparkling and happy, and a wide mouth open in a welcoming smile that revealed perfect teeth. And more... her armour was made of leather set with rings, but low-cut only slightly, but enough to just hint at full breasts.
She reached out and took my hands.
“Your friends are here, waiting for you.”
Then she turned and led me through the tables, and I realised that there weren’t just soldiers there. No... there were men and women in different clothing, all types and colours, laughing and joking and simply talking to each other as if they were lifelong friends...
Then the woman stopped at another table of soldiers and stepped back as two men stood up and turned to me and shouted, “Peter! Glad you can join us!”
Arthur Woodley and Bill Parker...
Suddenly I was afraid. No, I was terrified.
“No! I can’t be here! I can’t!”
I saw the woman’s face, and her smile had slipped. She was... pouting, as if I’d turned her down.
And I ran from them, towards the door...

I woke up suddenly, and gasped for breath.
The orderly was leaning over me.
“Thank God! I thought we’d lost you, sir.”

I was dozing again when someone said, “It’s over. We’ve got no choice...”
Not long after that, maybe an hour, German soldiers came inside. They were in the camouflage kit of the SS. Seeing them, I knew we were dead.
An officer looked us over, and his face was like stone.
Then suddenly he smiled, and said, “For you the war is over! As you English say. You fought well, but in the end...”
What followed surprised us all. The Germans treated us correctly, though not gently or showing any real kindness. They gave over medical supplies and their own medics worked alongside ours. We’d expected to be shot out of hand, or worse. Gradually I pieced together why this was happening from some off-hand comments by those SS who spoke English.
They thought of us as members of an elite, like them. Worthy enemies. I had to hold back my revulsion at that. We weren’t like them. We knew about Le Paradis and Oradour.
Two days later we were taken from Arnhem and into POW camps in Germany.

Six months later

I had healed enough to walk again, although with a limp, so I didn’t have to be carried off the prisoner train when it stopped at a battered marshalling yard somewhere in Germany, near where an equally battered flak train was standing. It had a mixture of quadruple and single twenty-millimetre guns on it, but the damage to the shields and mounts made us wonder which of those still worked. Something that drew our eyes was that there were women among the crew, and we couldn’t help but look at them.
Our guards were an odd mix of young recruits and older men. The younger ones seemed to have taken their Hitler Youth training to heart and enjoyed taking any chance at some act of childish tyranny; the older ones weren’t so bad once you got used to them.
Among the older guards was one called Gerhardt, who spoke fluent English and had been a student before the war. He was an engaging speaker too, and I enjoyed talking with him generally, of course dodging anything about military matters. Among the thing he’d studied was classical mythology, including the old Norse religions; he made some comments about how the Nazis had made use of the symbols and degraded them in so doing.
One day Gerhardt was in a bitter mood, and made a comment about how the Valkyries must have become exhausted choosing the dead from all sides to take them to Valhalla. When I asked him what he meant, he explained about the warrior women of Asgard, serving Odin and Freyja, who roved battlefields choosing worthy warriors to be taken to Valhalla to stay there in the feasting halls until the day of Ragnarok.
Something in his description made me recall that dream, and I told him about it.
He was astonished.
“Well, that is very interesting. It doesn’t sound like Valhalla. It sounds like Sessrumnir. Odin took warriors, yes, but so did Freyja. The goddess of love and war. She also took worthy people into her home. Not just the warriors. Yes, very interesting.”
Soon after he moved off, and I was left wondering.
Some of the flak train crew had come over to talk with our guards, including two women, and one of them caught my eye. She was tall and blonde and made me think of the woman in my dream.
Then a shout went up.
“Jabos! Alarm!”
We knew what that meant. Fighter-bombers. We’d seen them; RAF Typhoons, American Mustangs and Thunderbolts. We scattered to take cover, and it looked as though the flak train crew had had enough. They didn’t want to be targets, not any more.
Except one. The blonde turned and ran nimbly towards the train as three aircraft were circling for their attack run; American Thunderbolts, heavy with bombs. And if they went for the flak train, they might hit us.
The woman leapt up onto the rear wagon and took hold of an Oerlikon, swinging it round to aim towards the Thunderbolts as they came in line astern. I was lying behind a buffer, looking at her transfixed. I’d never in all my days thought I’d see anything like it...
The Oerlikon barked twice, short bursts, and the lead Thunderbolt exploded. One second it was there, and the next it was torn apart in a ball of flame, and scraps of flaming metal plummeted over the tracks.
The other Thunderbolts broke off and climbed away.
We didn’t come out from cover for a long time We all thought the pilots might come back for revenge, but in the end they didn’t.
The flak train crew were gathered around the woman, applauding and cheering, and I think some of us were impressed. Even if she was the enemy, she’d done something brave when everyone else had lost his nerve.
Finally the cheering was over, and the woman walked back to our train as if she was catching up where she’d left off. That brought her near to where I was standing, and she stopped and looked at me, looked me in the eye.
“Hello Peter,” she said, and I knew that voice. And it was her face; the face of the woman who had greeted me in that hall.
“It’s a shame you left. But you’ll come back in good time. And when you do, it will be to stay. And I’ll welcome you, brave warrior.”
Then she winked at me, and walked on, leaving me speechless.

When I got back to England after VE-Day, I commissioned an artist to paint a portrait of that woman, and I made sure he made it as close to my memory as possible. I gave it the title Valkyrie, and it hangs on my wall to this day.
I’m in no hurry to die. But when that time comes, I know I’ll meet her again in the halls of Sessrumnir.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on January 22, 2023, 03:48:58 PM

/me sighs

So, I guess it's been long enough for me to put up an ad (https://tinyurl.com/C-S-M-Intro-Ad) again.

Maybe.

/me sighs again

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on January 22, 2023, 08:54:23 PM

I must reread that. It was a good tale, LooNEY. And Yastreb, that is well made.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on January 24, 2023, 03:29:47 PM

Quote from: Róisín on January 22, 2023, 08:54:23 PM

I must reread that. It was a good tale, LooNEY. And Yastreb, that is well made.

Agreed!!!

Thanks

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Athena on February 03, 2023, 09:55:43 AM

Quote from: Róisín on June 10, 2021, 07:04:25 AM

The subject of this short story came up in another conversation on the Forum, and I was reminded of something I wrote for the library writers group back in 2019. I was playing with the theme of dragon and maiden, was reminded of a satirical ballad, and came up with this small piece of nonsense:

HOW THE DRAGON SAVED THE PRINCESS
ASSIGNMENT FOR 27 JUNE 2019

[story]

This was a lot of fun, Róisín! The "storyteller speaking directly to the audience" works great as a narrative voice :D

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on February 13, 2023, 04:04:19 PM

yastreb
I forgot how much I liked you story bravo!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 15, 2023, 08:49:59 AM

Our assignment for tomorrow’s Library Writers Group was to write a poem in Canzone form about any subject significant to us. The canzone form is difficult but is fun to play with, and of course I chose to write about the Land. Thought you might be interested, so am also posting it here.

A few explanations of possibly unfamiliar terms: songlines, in Australia, are the paths in which magic flows through the landscape, like the leys of Britain or the dragonpaths of Asian magic. Marngits are one of several types of native Australian mages. In Western alchemy, the Primum Materium is the substance with which several alchemical processes are kickstarted. Sounds frightfully mystical and silly, but what is actually meant is a handful of healthy non-polluted living dirt, preferably from a productive garden. The alchemical Magnum Opus or great work is the major test of an alchemist’s skill, so of course it starts with live dirt.

A CANZONE FOR THE ELEMENTS OF THE LAND

All that is living leans upon the land:
The land that is not solely formed of soil
But flows with force that makes it living Land.
Power of Earth, the magic of the Land
Where songlines guide the flows that shape the Earth.
For magic is a product of the Land:
Shaped by the Will and Word from life of Land.
For life, in living, generates more Life
For shaping into magic, flows of Life
That form the living essence of the Land.
That essence flows across the land like water:
The songlines flow with life, alive like water.

Yet many places songlines flow lack water.
Out on the Nullarbor, across the land
The marngits say the magic flows like water
Where only the deep caves hold living water
Buried so deep beneath the baking soil.
And yet the magic bears itself like water.
From higher ground to low it flows like water,
Following the subtle contours of the earth,
Bearing that energy that shapes all life
And feeds the elements to give them Life.

And it is quite definitive of life
That all life, to exist, has need of water.
Metabolism fuels the flows of life
All the processes that sustain our life,
That keep us living, help to feed the land
So in its turn the land can uphold life
In its creation of persisting life
In pushing plant life upward through the soil
So it breaks down to generate more soil:
Soil in its turn forms seedbeds for new life
Which in its own turn breaks down into earth
Which feeds the processes of Living Earth.

For all life generates from living Earth.
All beings, all organisms that have life
All consciousness that thinks upon the Earth
And all those simple lives sustaining Earth
All things inhabiting air, earth and water
Combine to shape the structure of our Earth.
All lives give life to Gaia, Mother Earth
She who both shapes and animates the Land,
She whose vast consciousness informs the Land
And makes it more than simple mineral earth,
More than the chemical processes of soil.
‘Primum Materium’ is living Soil.

For alchemy begins with living soil.
With a handful of healthy garden earth
From cabbage patch or herb bed, living soil
With which begins the Great Work, simple soil
From a humble garden, rich with teeming life,
With life that thrives in every bit of soil,
Fungi and protozoa of the soil:
Those tiny lives that thrive in earth and water,
(Remember, all that lives depends on water)
All the Earth’s creatures base their lives on soil
And all unite to shape the Living Land.
Never should we forget the Living Land.

For all that lives derives life from the Land.
From tiny lives inhabiting the soil
Turning that dead soil into living Earth
Enabling the flourishing of life:
Of all the life that fills Earth, Air and Water.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on March 15, 2023, 03:09:58 PM

Róisín,
Wonderful!! It really is quite lovely

I did not know what a canzone style of poem was.

So I looked it up
They are really quite complicated (Well done on yours!! So many rules)

I also learned they they developed into sonnets (structure a tad different) , madrigals and minnesang. Each with their own rules (yikes!!)

I learned something cool today !!

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 15, 2023, 09:58:03 PM

Glad you liked it! The writers did too, which pleased me, because canzone is such a hard form to write.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on March 16, 2023, 12:41:49 AM

Róisín, you made it look easy. It reads like a combination of teaching song and celebratory ode.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 16, 2023, 01:22:18 AM

That was what I intended it to be. Glad that came across.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 16, 2023, 03:16:32 AM

Róisín, this poem is amazing both in form and also in the topic it speaks to. I'm doing a human biology unit at university right now and it's really incredible learning all the different substances that the body needs in order to keep itself going. The cycles and flows of nutrients and matter and energy through the body isn't so different from how it is in the land itself.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 16, 2023, 07:48:19 AM

Precisely that! Are you doing a science degree?

My mindset has always been that magic and science are not mutually exclusive. Then, I am coming from the perspective of someone who grew up on subsistence farms in a culture that accepted both science and magic, then went on to study science and work a lifetime in the fields of botany and geology. Everything connects, I suppose.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 16, 2023, 10:09:37 AM

Quote from: Róisín on March 16, 2023, 07:48:19 AM

Precisely that! Are you doing a science degree?

I'm doing a psychology degree, but as a bachelor of science. I actually really enjoy learning about experimental methods and also biology! As you know I am also very interested in botany, although I'm not studying it. I think studying all these things really does open your eyes to all the different connections. I don't know too much about magic myself but the principles of how you talk about it always made sense to me.

And since this is the forum's scriptorium, here's a poem I wrote recently and actually read at a lakeside poetry reading one of my mother's friends organised (we read poetry outside by a lake in the evening, it was really nice. Except for the mosquitos, but deet exists for a reason).

Reed-Warbler

We hear it when we first arrive.
Nothing here is as it should be. And yet -
This lake, her throat bulrush-choked
Collared by constricting asphalt corridors
Still finds in her, miraculous, a voice.
The rustle of paperbarks melds with traffic’s thrum
Yet calling high and melodic over both
As bright and clear as wind over the water
The reed-warbler is singing.

It takes us several minutes to spot.
Nothing here is as it appears. And yet -
Tenaciously insistent, we remain
To stay and scour the choking rushes
Here at the kissing-point of lake and land
Where every sound must have its source.
We finally spot it, perching on dead branches
The larynx of this lake, a plain brown bird
Its throat thrown open in miraculous song.

Here is the true miracle of this place.
Nothing can be as it once was. And yet -
This lake, both wild and caged in urban sprawl
Is not unblemished, yet neither unloved, unvoiced.
Traffic cannot drown this lakesong
Bright and clear, a call like wind over water.
The darter nests in the rustling paperbarks
And we leave to walk the circle of the lake
While the reed-warbler still sings.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on March 16, 2023, 01:21:45 PM

Keep Looking, I've visited places like that. There are some close to where I live, but I haven't been to them recently. Now I think I'll start going back to them. May I take along your poem to read?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on March 16, 2023, 02:28:53 PM

A lovely atmosphere is called forth by your poem, Keep!

We also have reed warblers here, although I haven’t seen one as far as I can recall. It’s not the exact same species, but for once the Eurasian and Australian reed warblers are the same genus at least. Unlike Eurasian and Australian magpies, or robins here vs in America :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on March 16, 2023, 03:51:18 PM

I love both poems..These stir some inner working on my heart. It makes me remember places I have been that felt special and still are in my mind.

Spoiler: show

Bravo Keep and Róisín on such beautiful works..

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 16, 2023, 08:54:30 PM

Quote from: Buteo on March 16, 2023, 01:21:45 PM

Keep Looking, I've visited places like that. There are some close to where I live, but I haven't been to them recently. Now I think I'll start going back to them. May I take along your poem to read?

Of course! I think it's always important to appreciate the natural areas you can find, even in cities - there's so much to be valued there.

I read this poem out on a boardwalk over the lake while the sun was setting and the lake was all orange - it was really beautiful.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 16, 2023, 09:45:59 PM

Keep Looking, I read your poem to Star, who asked me to pass on to you that he found it very beautiful, and to thank you for something that reminded him happily of the camping trips we used to take before he became too severely disabled. He is a city man, but he used to enjoy camping with me when he still could.

And dmeck, I’m glad you like the poem.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 17, 2023, 10:37:57 AM

Quote from: Róisín on March 16, 2023, 09:45:59 PM

Keep Looking, I read your poem to Star, who asked me to pass on to you that he found it very beautiful, and to thank you for something that reminded him happily of the camping trips we used to take before he became too severely disabled. He is a city man, but he used to enjoy camping with me when he still could.

Tell him I'm really glad he enjoyed it and it brought back good memories! My girlfriend's also a real city person, but she's been learning (and in some ways I've been re-learning alongside her) to enjoy and appreciate the natural environment. I doubt she'd ever be comfortable living rurally, but she's gone from being nervous towards outdoor activities and walks (because of unfamiliarity) to going on walks together and finding cool birds and plants being one of our favourite things to do together. It's really nice.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 17, 2023, 11:51:28 AM

I have always found it a joy and a delight to share nature with a loved one.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on March 31, 2023, 11:18:41 PM

So here's something I started a good twenty-five years ago at least; it still isn't finished, but I'd like to know what you think of it anyway.

Spoiler: show

Fortunately, stories are patient.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on April 01, 2023, 08:43:46 AM

Oh, wow. LooNEY, while this isn't finished, it's still very good - it's very much a story that gave me pause.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on April 01, 2023, 11:29:39 AM

Ditto what Keep Looking said, LooNEY!

The simplicity and matter-of-factness about the details made the emotional impact greater, and almost startling, as it sank in.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on April 01, 2023, 02:09:49 PM

LooNEY!

Thank you!! is was sad, but really good. It is pretty self contained

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on April 15, 2023, 03:17:46 AM

I'm sorry that this one will be so long, but I had to put all of it in (and even then, it's still horribly fragmentary). This one DESPERATELY needs feedback, please. It's really just a skeleton right now.

Spoiler: Part One • show

Spoiler: Part Two • show

[All About Al -- Solitude]

The buzzer startled Alfred, shaking him free from his “troubleshooter’s trance” as the grating noise signaled that the time for his next meal had come (and none too soon for his growling stomach, either). He put the test leads aside and stood up in the slow, painful manner of someone who had spent far too long in a somewhat contorted and decidedly uncomfortable position, because, of course, he had. A bot-wright, like an auto mechanic, must needs twist himself into whatever shape was needed to access the broken system, no matter how pretzel-like it proved. Sometimes he wondered why the bots weren’t designed to grant access to their innards more easily, but he kept concluding that were that the case, he would be made redundant by some highly advanced bot-repairing bot. This had already happened in other fields too many times to contemplate, so Alfred just wrote off his aches as the necessary pains keeping his job demanded.

These fleeting thoughts behind him, Al slowly and cautiously approached the guard-bot positioned by the door; he took care to keep his movements careful and deliberate enough to avoid setting the guard-bot’s automatic defensive responses off. In as calm a voice as Al could muster (this little routine always made him nervous, even though the two of them played it out several times during each of Al’s work shifts), he said, “Alfred-7459 requests clearance for work zone egress; authorization: scheduled meal break.”

After what always seemed to Alfred like three eternities’ worth of silently mulling the request over, the guard-bot beeped the happy little sequence of tones that meant, “Egress approved,” the door slid aside, and the bot slowly exited the room, Al following a very specific distance behind it. As they entered the corridor, another guard-bot that had been stationed on the other side of the door swung into place behind Al to complete the procession. Thusly arrayed in single file, the unlikely trio made their way through the silent, deserted warren of corridors to the equally empty Mess Hall, where more bots waited behind the service counters with the preternatural patience common to all bots; they were waiting for Al to place his lunch order, and would wait as long as was necessary.

Every last bit of this was mind-numbingly routine to Al by now, as this same sequence of events had played out every day for the past two years, since he had stepped out of the holding area to find the guard-bots standing ready to escort him to work.

Al had not seen another human face since then, save only in his dreams; he presumed that it was part of his punishment. He further presumed that once his sentence had been served, he would be allowed to rejoin his fellow humans.

He had no idea how very wrong he was.

[All About Al -- Out of Time]

Alfred-7459 had been born into Commune 21, as had everyone he’d ever met; the concept of his meeting someone from Someplace Else had never even so much as fleetingly touched his mind, to say nothing of entering it. As was typical for the period, polity and region, the Commune was an aboveground arcology of approximately three cubic miles in volume, covered over by a clear, almost bubble-like dome that gave the Outer Perimeter and the Upper Levels a park-like atmosphere, as there was no further sign of human habitation withing the extent of human vision. This park-like atmosphere was why only Upper Level Citizens were allowed in the Upper Levels when off-duty, as the denizens of the Inner Mass were considered “too pedestrian of soul” to appreciate it.

He was sentenced to five years of excommunication: for the next five years, Al was not to be permitted to interact with or even to see another human being. Alfred-7459 had dared to reach beyond the circle of his peers; now he was to be exiled from that circle in order that he might appreciate it more upon his return to it.

In no area did Al have a score that was more than one standard deviation from the mean; usually, they were less than half a standard deviation from the mean. Or, to put it more directly, Al was just an ordinary guy.
[More TBA]

Spoiler: Part Three • show

Spoiler: Part Four • show

[Gwen fails to analyze the signals consciously, but decrypts them in her dreams: they’re security feeds of Al, piped in from the remnants of the arcology on the surface. This prompts a discussion of how and why the surface was abandoned, and what the Greater System is: a neural interface linking everyone’s minds together (with limitations).]

The creators of the Greater System had had to lie to get everyone to hook into it in the first place: they’d staged a fake “alien invasion” of the mostly abandoned surface, which had caused the necessary panic to allow them to have everyone hook into the System “for the duration of the emergency”; at the time of these events, the “emergency” was in its 326th year, with no sign of an end any time soon. This information is freely available to anyone who asks one of the Gurus, though they do not volunteer it.

[Gwen watches Al in her dreams and finally finds a way to talk to him in his dreams; when she remembers her dreams, she’s punished for being delusional. This leads to a discussion on what a mind is precisely.]

In the following discussion, I will be unable to use the precise terminology that I prefer, as there are so many near-synonymous terms in “popular” use for most of the difficult and/or disputed concepts that I will have to discuss that simply using terms without explanation would befuddle the vast majority of you who are reading this; I ask your indulgence for the many parenthetical passages offering alternate terminology, as they are intended to reduce confusion rather than to cause it.

When the body it was born into (or spawned from-—that debate is still going on to this day) dies, a human mind tends to-—well, the closest words in English that are anything like what happens are “fade away”, or “dissipate”, but that’s still not really what happens. All of the information remains, but the mind stops initiating actions and becomes solely reactive; that is, it never again undertakes action of its own accord; it loses its flavor, if you will, and its will. In a very distinct way, the mind becomes an “it”, rather than the person that it once was.

The creators of the System had not anticipated this, so when it first happened, there was quite a flutter about it, which essentially and eventually came down to this: it was decided that the continued smooth functioning of the System required the constant and perpetual presence of certain minds; therefore, it was necessary to find a way to keep these minds in the System in perpetuity. Alphas are the results of the experiments that followed: free-standing (or unbodied, or what have you) copies (or instances, or whatever technical term you wish to use) of minds that were created to see if a mind could be kept in the System in perpetuity, rather than allowing them to “dissipate” when the bodies that spawned them (or as you will) finally succumbed to death. The concept is sort of like having multiple copies of a file in use so that if the main drive fails the file can be saved locally.

The first Alphas were copied across several of the clusters that make up the system, as well as across several of the sectors in the cluster from which the template mind originated. Once the copy process was complete and verified, their templates were killed. Every stage of the process was minutely observed to see what would happen to these Alpha prototypes; I’m sure the researchers had several side bets going on what would happen to each of the various copies. There were many successes and failures in those early trials, and each test taught the researchers more.

So, since Alphas are minds that do not have a body or brain associated with them (at least supposedly), you might expect that Alphas would be susceptible to a whole suite of problems that “normal” minds don’t experience; you’d be both right and wrong at the same time. Alphas do tend to develop problems sooner or later, but they’re all the same problems that have bedeviled human minds down through the ages: psychoses, schizophrenia, and the like, just like anyone else might develop, though usually far more pronounced or extreme than you’d expect. Even so, the Alphas were considered a success, and used as templates to create the Omegas, the multi-ply backups for the coterie of minds “the System cannot do without”.

I have the feeling that those chosen for Omega status were chosen for other reasons than the ones given for public release.
[More TBA]

Spoiler: Part Five • show

(BTW, Roisin, this is the other "ghostly love story" in embryo I mentioned years ago.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on May 14, 2023, 01:10:37 PM

Looks pretty interesting, LooNEY! I'll read it and do my best to provide some useful feedback. :)

BTW I just published a new story (tied to the "prompt of the week" "Fae", from a few weeks ago) and it's here: Trasgo (https://archiveofourown.org/works/47173015). As always your appreciation and any suggestion are very important to me. :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: apprenticeNerd on June 06, 2023, 01:13:06 AM

Oh yeah, it only just occurred to me to put this here, a poem I wrote in Kalevala meter for TTRPG reasons (up on AO3 here, (https://archiveofourown.org/works/44752093) and under a spoiler because it's pretty long):

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on June 06, 2023, 02:14:00 AM

Oh, wow! apprenticeNerd, this is amazing! The way this takes you through the landscape and through the folklore and horror of the SSSS setting - it's beautifully written! And you've kept the meter really consistent as well (my mother's a poet and she has a bit of a Thing for meter that I've inherited - I always notice when the meter is off but at the same time, whenever it's done well it's greatly appreciated). Truly an impressive work!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on June 23, 2023, 04:34:02 PM

...And here I go again, dropping a link (https://tinyurl.com/C-S-M-Puff-Stuff) to a collection of what might be called "story seeds" so that I can get some feedback.

Sigh.

EDIT: link corrected.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 10, 2023, 07:28:29 AM

SACRIFICE

Private Lovett!
He was the albatross around my neck. The cross I was forced to bear. My personal Jonah. All of those burdens summed up in that name.
But in the end...

He came into my platoon just after we’d landed at Salerno. I was the youngest and the greenest of the Second Lieutenants in Able Company, and most of the men were as green as I was. I didn’t get the best of them either. I was lucky to have a competent Sergeant, and two Corporals and maybe ten privates likewise. But the rest were either straight out of boot camp, or the ones no-one else wanted. And in the second category was Private Lovett. I didn’t know his first name until I read it off his dog tag that day... But I’m getting ahead of myself.
He was nineteen, from Brooklyn. He had to be, with that accent. The kind that says “first” as “foist”. He had a juvenile record, and was a bit of a goof-off; but that could be said about a lot of the men. What set him apart was the inevitable foul-ups. Broken shovels, badly pitched tents, spilled saucepans on KP... the list went on. I wondered how he’d made it out of boot camp when I heard the stories about how he’d fumbled throwing grenades.
My platoon consisted of thirty-six men, including the NCOs; four squads of eight men, each led by a Corporal, and the little group with me. Sergeant Rearden, a radio man, a sniper... and Private Lovett; the man no squad wanted.
He’d been hazed and bullied, I knew, but he never talked about it. He accepted it like it was his lot in life. I thought of asking him about it, but I held back. I didn’t want to have to write men up for it. My authority over the platoon wasn’t strong. I was still working on it.

We landed just before the breakout. The Germans were falling back, retreating towards what later got called the Gothic Line. Booby-traps, mines and booby-traps, stay-behind parties ready to fight to the last man... it was a slow hard slog as we moved north towards Naples. By September 22nd we were down nine men; three killed and six wounded and evacuated. That was the day we reached San Michele. A small village like so many others.
The people were looking from their doors and windows, and they looked afraid. We were jumpy too. We’d heard stories about Germans, especially SS, using civilians as cover.
I’d learned some Italian. I said, “Ciao, siamo americani. Non aver paura.” Don’t be afraid... sounds stupid now. But it seemed to work. Slowly they began to come out to greet us; old folks, women and kids. I asked where the menfolk were. An old man said, “Si nascondono, quindi non saranno scambiati per lavoro da schiavi.”
I managed to work out what he meant. They didn’t want to be taken for forced labor. I said, “Non devono avere paura. I tedeschi se ne sono andati per sempre.”
There were cheers, and my men were smiling and ready to give candy to the children. You could never stop them doing that. I said, “First squad, set up to the north...”
I’d told the villagers the Germans were gone forever. I’d spoken too soon.
He was waiting for us to drop our guard, and the villagers to gather, so he could do the most damage to us and the people of San Michele.

I saw the stick grenade arc towards us, a perfect throw, just as I heard the bark of a BAR and two Garands as First squad gunned down the SS man.
It landed in the middle of the crowd, just six feet from me, and a woman holding a baby...
My first thought was; shove the woman and child behind me...
Someone leaped past me, towards the grenade, and he screamed, “Oh my God!” as he landed on top of it...
It was Lovett.
And I screamed, “Oh, no!”
When it exploded, it killed only him.

I wrote the citation for the Medal of Honor, and it was duly awarded.
What makes a man sacrifice his life for men who despised him, or people he didn’t know? I’ve asked myself that question many times, and I don’t have an answer. I never will.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on July 10, 2023, 12:45:27 PM

Yastreb
A sorrowful story on so many levels. Very good tho'

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on July 10, 2023, 01:17:02 PM

Yastreb, your version of the story is good.

The exchanges in Italian with the villagers sound so human, so comforting, lowering the tension for this reader as they did for the people in the story. Even knowing that something like the grenade had to be coming, I relaxed a bit, even got into the "nice, learning a bit about these strangers" mood.

Then the grenade arrived, and the shock of the climactic self-sacrifice.

And so much is gone. There is no more story to tell about Private Lovett, no more life for him to live, no reason for the viewpoint character to tell us any more about what happened before or afterward. Nor is there any reason to delve into Lovett's background, why he was so unpopular and so clumsy; not even a reason to tell us his first name.

I really do admire your short stories.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on July 27, 2023, 06:43:42 AM

Yastreb, well made!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on August 12, 2023, 01:32:28 PM

I don’t know where to out this but this thread isn’t too wrong.

I’ve joined a moss group on Facebook a while ago, and recently also started following a page about things gothic. So I’ve been thinking about bog witches and moss. Here’s a bog witch song:

Deep in the shadows
Of thorn and of thicket
I sing with the sparrow
I sing with the cricket

Deep in the shadows
I weep of greatest loss
I sing my weird songs
I build friends with moss

Deep in the shadows
Of pines and of birch
I work my bog magic
In darkness I search

Deep in the shadows
Of branches entwined
I seek for some purpose
Peat and bones I find

Deep in the shadows
Lies the pond I must cross
I wishper to fishes
I gather more moss

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on August 12, 2023, 11:21:20 PM

Pretty and scary. Subtle. I like it. What are those things called in your culture?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on August 13, 2023, 08:40:45 AM

I don’t know of specific names for various types of witches so it would just be ”noita”. “Tietäjä” (lit. the one who knows, the knowing one) could be used for a person who is highly respected or even revered but this particular bog witch doesn’t really strike me as one of those :)

I had the phrase ” I build friends with moss” in my mind so had to make up something to put it in. So this doesn’t reflect any actual tradition, Finnish or otherwise. The friends of moss are something a little like the stick people used in horror to indicate American (Southern??) witchcraft. But the moss friends are actually alive. I think. At least they ma6 respond, when spoken to…

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on August 13, 2023, 10:03:45 AM

The writing group I belonged to many years ago (the one that got me back into writing after a long hiatus) had the occasional challenge involving creating a story one sentence or paragraph at a time, with everyone allowed to join in and take the story wherever they wanted it to go (almost).
I've saved a few examples of what came out of such challenges; most of them had twists that would leave writers of thrillers suitably gobsmacked...

This one has no title. Any suggestions?

"I don't want to kill you, James, you have been a true friend all my life, but I will not be denied what is rightfully mine."
James bit back the first response that came to mind and replied in what he hoped were suitably urbane tones, "Then perhaps you could explain what you're claiming, Peter, as I'm no mind reader."
"Playing the fool insults us both. Hand it to me before I become truly enraged!" Peter spat in reply as his mood was taking a clear turn for the worse.
At least, that's the way the exchange would have gone, had the participants not both been goats. But I could see it in their eyes after Peter sheepishly looked in his brother's direction standing between the favoured nanny and his now rival.
"You have been the leader for too long and it is time I challenged you for the position," bleated James gruffly.

Emily, who had two legs and not four, sat on the gate watching as this altercation that was taking place in the front paddock, a little sad as she had hand raised these two goats from birth when abandoned by their mother. She pushed forward on her front legs, the awkward trolley that the vet had fashioned to support her withered haunches tinkled as the spokes cycled past the edges of the gate she'd been resting her grey hide against, distracting her two adopted billies from their incipient quarrel.
"Tell you what, Peter," mocked James, "the loser gets to hang out with Mum."

Kirk, the Concierge, shook his head at the display in the lobby of 'his' hotel – it was bad enough that the owner had been so desperate for cash that he'd let these 'people' with their strange costumes hold their convention here, but now these two in the matching costumes were acting out their animal alter-egos in his lobby in front of the other guests.
With a furtive glance around to make sure that he wasn't being observed, he pressed the button under the counter.
Downstairs in the cold depths of the basement, Big Sven was awakened from his slumbers by the annoying little buzzer on the wall, and moved to obey. He pressed the intercom button and said, "There'd better be a good reason for me to open the Gate this time!"

"While at first glance it might appear to be about goat skin used to make bagpipes and the annoying sound of a buzzer resembling a sour note from a bagpipe (although there is a school of thought which claims that ALL bagpipe notes are sour, I don't agree with that), it is actually a translation from the review in the Icelandic newspaper Morgunblaðið of the very little-known Zen musical collaboration between Captain Beefheart and Philip Glass entitled "The sound of one hand stitching", which, during the course of the first performance in Reykjavik an inferior brand of goat thread was used, resulting in a noticeably sour note being obtained, as the stitches leaking was actually a mistake in translation and should have read ‘the stitches failed’".

Sven glared at the intercom. "If I wanted a lecture in post-modernism I'd go to Madam Mim's!"
Then, realising that the words were inside his skull, Sven shook his shaggy head to stop the stream of bag-pipe trivia that had erupted into his consciousness and started towards the Gate, his vast bulk scraping against the rough hewn stone walls of the tunnel leading down from the basement.
"Sven," the voice called, proving that cold, alcohol, and one sentence stories can make the mind function at levels hitherto unknown to contemporary science, but correctly identified by the medicos on Star Trek, and exemplified by Sgt Detritus of the Ankh-Morpork Guard.
"Oh dear God!" he cried, "the Morporkian Mercenaries are invading my mind again, how can I get rid of them?"
"Sven," the voice called again, and this time he realised it wasn't just inside his cold and hung-over skull, now he could hear the same words echoing out from the far end of the tunnel…

Meanwhile, high on a Himalayan cliff-face, our intrepid hero clung to a tuft of grass and wondered, "How did it ever come to this?"
After a moment's thought, he came to the obvious conclusion that accepting a double-or-quits dare at Mary-Ann Ravenswood-Jones' shebeen was the answer.
He closed his eyes and could almost see the New York office as it was two weeks ago, and his first meeting with those bloody goats…

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on August 13, 2023, 12:41:15 PM

Yastreb, that story has potential!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 26, 2023, 07:27:39 AM

THE SEEDS OF DEFEAT

“Where are the flowers?” Yuri Kosyrev said, looking around the empty street. “A warm welcome, they said. Not here!”
Andrei Peskaryov could only shrug. “Just our bad luck. No hugs for us!”
They had arrived in Kamyantsiy just minutes before. There had been no resistance. That meshed with what they had been told to expect.
But the inhabitants had retreated inside their homes, and there were signs that many had fled the town ahead of the column’s arrival. That did not mesh with what the senior officers had said; they will welcome you as liberators, with flowers and hugs.
So Andrei and the rest of the squad stood by their BTR and kept watch over empty streets, as did most of the company as their officers conferred.

Then Yuri said, “Andryusha, you can get the hug!” and gestured at the small white-haired woman in a winter coat approaching. She looked old, but walked steadily, and she was glaring at them.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Tell her to **** off,” Corporal Kudrinsky said.
Andrei stepped forward to confront the woman, raising one hand. “We are on an exercise. Please go home."
She stopped just outside arm’s reach. “Are you Russians?”
“Well... yes.” He pointed to the flag on his sleeve.
"So what the **** are you doing here?”
Andrei shot a glance at Yuri, who seemed lost for words.
“Calm down, grandma,” he said. “Just go home...”
“It’s a special military operation,” said Corporal Kudrinsky. “Nothing for you to see. Go on, get the **** out of here!”
Her face hardened, and suddenly she jabbed a finger at them. “You are occupiers! Fascists! What the **** are you doing on my land with your guns and your tanks?” She raised her other hand and abruptly slammed it into the corporal’s chest. “Here! Take these seeds! Put them in your pockets, so that sunflowers will grow where you die!”
Kudrinsky said nothing. He was staring blankly at the hand as seeds spilled from it.
“Go on, put the seeds in your pockets! You will die here, and sunflowers will bloom above your graves!” Her dark eyes swept across the squad. “You come to my land with guns and tanks. You are occupiers. You are enemies. And you will die on my land! Remember!”
Andrei could only stare as a strange coldness passed through him. He could feel sweat beading on his face. The rifle slung across his chest was suddenly a dead weight.
He was afraid...
“Remember!” the woman said again, then turned and slowly walked away.
They watched her until she turned down a side street and was lost from sight.

She stepped into the garden of an abandoned home and sighed.
“Poor young fools,” she said. “As always. Pawns of dark souls.”
She took off the winter coat and placed it carefully against the garden wall, and as she straightened up, her appearance seemed to blur and change...
She was small, buxom, and ruddy-faced, in plain brown blouse and skirt under a green cloak edged with falcon feathers. Her flowing hair was rust-red, confined by an unadorned silver circlet, and her eyes were bright blue, with patches of grey. Her broad, pleasant features had the unblemished fairness of youth.
There was a vivid green flash, and she was gone.

A falcon soared above Kamyantsiy, and turned to fly north.
Baba Yaga had more seeds to give.

Spoiler: show

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on September 26, 2023, 08:54:53 AM

Yastreb
WOW!!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on September 26, 2023, 05:50:47 PM

Still gobsmacked about the goat story twists. Just, huh. O_o

Also, I am willing to bet you penned the crone with the sunflower seeds, and modelled Baba Yaga after our own dear Róisín, eh?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on September 27, 2023, 02:05:32 AM

The crone with the sunflower seeds is a real person who confronted Russian soldiers on the first day of the invasion with very similar words to the ones I wrote. A recording of the exchange wer viral, and prompted someone to tweet some time after, as Russian casualties mounted and the offensive stalled, "I think we found Baba Yaga!"

And yes, the Baba Yaga in this tale is modelled on our own dear Róisín; in fact that description is taken from Earthfire, the intended first vvolume of my Dragonhost Saga.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on September 27, 2023, 06:44:50 AM

I am touched! But although I do know falconry and sometimes help out the falconers at Mediæval Fairs or help with wild bird rescues, I am myself quite stubbornly human shaped and not at all shapestrong! Though I am a small sturdy woman of ruddy colouring.
And the touch of telling the Russian soldiers to fill their pockets with sunflower seeds so flowers grow where they die is I think something that an elderly Ukrainian woman did actually do, back in the early days of the invasion.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on September 27, 2023, 10:10:27 AM

Here is one of the videos Yastreb speaks of :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L17Bi7zBJHI (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L17Bi7zBJHI)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on September 27, 2023, 03:30:52 PM

Yes, I remember reading about the woman with the sunflower seeds for the Russian soldiers!

Yastreb, that is a great retelling of that event. I will now picture it including the transformation of Baba Yaga.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: dmeck7755 on September 28, 2023, 08:21:10 AM

Quote from: Buteo on September 27, 2023, 03:30:52 PM

Yes, I remember reading about the woman with the sunflower seeds for the Russian soldiers!

Yastreb, that is a great retelling of that event. I will now picture it including the transformation of Baba Yaga.

Me too!. It was a wonderful story

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on November 23, 2023, 10:37:27 PM

People said kind things about an earlier version of this (https://tinyurl.com/honorvalorlive), so I thought I'd see if the few additions I made haven't detracted from it.

People said nothing about this (https://tinyurl.com/al-and-gwen), so I thought I'd let them say nothing about it again.

People also said nothing about this (https://tinyurl.com/C-S-M-Puff-Stuff) collection of what might be called "story seeds"; ditto.

ETA: the links are to GoogleDocs; they should all be set to "anyone with the link can view" (now).

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Buteo on November 24, 2023, 02:48:50 AM

LooNEY_DAC, the first two links you gave led me to "access denied"; the third one worked.

I have always enjoyed reading your works, but seldom have anything to offer in return. Is saying "I enjoy your writing" enough to start with?
I've let it get very late at night, and I need to be functional in the morning; I'll leave myself a note to come back here tomorrow and try to leave a useful comment.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on November 30, 2023, 05:11:11 AM

This is a scene from Lifebearer, Book 4 of the Dragonhost Saga (work in progress). It is based on something I wrote in response to a writing challenge; When All Hope Is Lost.

Ellyneia crept into the herb garden at sunrise,. Her father had fallen into an exhausted sleep after another night trying to ease her mother’s pain. A gift that had made life together so blissful had become a curse.
The herbs and vegetables that had been her parents’ pride and joy had begun to blossom, but the flowers and berries were discoloured and shrivelling. Beyond the herb garden, the low-rolling hills were green with the growth of early summer, but there were patches in the blanket. It was the last summer of growth, the end of sowing, and harvesting, and reaping. The new seed would fall on barren soil, and Zantria would begin to die.
Mama’s sickness had become worse as the fertility faded away, a sickness of the soul and body together, and Papa was sharing her agony even more as he took her pain to himself to bring her relief. Every day Ellyneia had seen them suffer, and it bit into her soul.
“Never give up, Lyn,” Papa had told her. “As long as we try… we give her hope. Hope is keeping her alive.”
There was only one cure.

Ellyneia knelt beside the orhathun bush and said, “Please flower. You’re the only hope left for Mama.”
The jag-edged leaves of the bush were bright and green, veined with gold to her mortal eyes, and its buds were shining bright; but her Sight revealed the emptiness beneath. When… if this bush blossomed, it would be its last.
She wove Runes of Nature and Earth to give magic to the bush, and saw the flicker of life in the buds. For an instant her heart leaped... and then despair seized her as the life dissipated, and the buds remained closed.
She knew that there would be no fruit, not that day, not any other day.
Ellyneia threw back her head and sobbed her grief to the sky, grief for her mother and her father, her village, and the land, as years of wasted hope spilled tears from her eyes. They had invoked the Dragon and spoken the prayers, but it was gone and would never come back.

“Child, what’s the matter?”
She looked around to see a man looking at her from over the fence. He was Human, and young, surely not that much older than her, and it seemed strange for him to call her “child.” But she wiped her eyes, and then saw the scars on his face and on his forehead, and the weariness in his eyes... eyes of dark amber, and in them, the sparks of light that marked him as a Mage.
“Oh sir, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb…”
“I’m sorry I called you “child,” but in your grief… No, it is no problem to me.” His voice was deep, with a sonorous lilt so unlike the familiar drawl.
He stepped sideways, to the gate, and let himself into the garden. Ellyneia quickly rose to her feet, and then paused in surprise, for her visitor was not in the robes of a mage; his clothes were simple, made of coarse cloth, travel-stained and shabby. He wore a sword on his left hip, its hilt brightly ornamented. There was a wolf at his side, little more than a cub, grey-furred, but with silver streaks running through its pelt in patterns that drew the eye and…
“Please tell me what is wrong.”
Ellyneia dragged herself back to awareness, to see the wolf looking at her with an almost quizzical expression.
“The goldenberry… it’s for mama… but it won’t blossom…” She looked up at the mage. “Why did the Dragon leave us?”
“Do’kha,” the mage said, and his tone was gentle, for all the harsh sound of the word. He turned to look at the bush. “It is a beautiful plant, but why do you need it?”
She blinked in surprise, and then it struck her.
“You don’t… By the Dragon, you’re, you’re an outlander!”
“I am Yastreb, from a very distant land, but part of me has come home. What’s your name?”
“Ellyneia… Ellyneia Venstreth,” she stammered. “But… there shouldn’t be…”
“There are.” He turned to look at her. “Why does the bush matter?”
She knew she should be running and shouting, calling for the Vigilants, and denouncing the intruder…
“Mama,” she began, trying to keep from breaking down. “Mama… she’s a true Adept of Nature. When the fertility began to fade away, she... she’s been in pain for months, and Papa… if you saw how much they love each other, and how he feels it too, it would break your heart, and now.. only the ohrhathun berries can give her peace, for a time at least, but… it’s gone… no hope left… after this year, nothing, no crops, nothing!”
“You love them very much,” Yastreb said softly, and reached out to cup an ohrhathun bud in one hand. “You deserve hope. Hope never dies.” And the bud slowly opened, and a rich berry bloomed, and he said, “This is for both of them.”
Ellyneia slowly reached out, and the berry fell into her open hand. She stared at the berry for what seemed for an eternity.
“How did you...” She manifested the Sight, and saw the rich golden glow suffusing the berry.... like the radiance she had seen in the scroll plates of Dragon lore...
Slowly, almost fearfully, she looked up at the stranger, and her legs gave way and she fell to her knees.
“Kyl’Vizhand!” she managed to gasp.
“No, child. I’m not the Dragon. I’m just a vessel. A host. That’s all. Go, Ellyneia. Help your father and mother. I have to go to Vasaban. I have to complete the work.”
Far away, there was shouting, and she heard the words clearly. “Search everywhere! I mean everywhere! Find him!”
His face twisted in rage and despair. “Yov tovoyou maht! I have to get away from here!”
“No!” She sprang up and slammed the gate closed. “You have to hide!” She looked around frantically. “No, not the shed, not the greenhouse... Inside!”
When she grabbed his arm, the wolf looked as startled as he, but both followed her.

* I don’t care! That was foolish!
* You only did what you thought was best, my brother.
* In other times and places! Not here!
* She is good and kind, my brother. There is no evil in her.

She led them inside the house and raised a finger to her lips. “Ma and pa are asleep. There, that’s my room. Stay there, out of sight. Both of you! Arevor, hush!”
She stopped in the hall for a moment, collecting her thoughts.
First, her parents. That was what he... the Dragon had said. Questions could wait. Who, how, why... There would be time. She would keep him safe!
She hurried to the kitchen, searching through the cupboard where the best utensils were kept, and picked out the bone knife that Mama used… had used; it seemed like years ago…
She placed the fruit on the rosewood platter, took a deep breath and said reverently, “Bless this gift, and bless the Dragon, from whom all life comes.”
Then, with infinite care, she sliced the berry into quarters, to reveal the core, glistening like morning dew.
She picked up the platter and edged carefully into her parents’ bedroom to see Mama lying still, breathing softly, in Papa’s embrace as they both slept. She was pale and thin, almost emaciated; he was bruised from taking on her pain.
“Mama, papa, wake up, please…”
Her eyes flickered open. He gave a slight groan. Even that slight movement hurt him.
“Lyn?”
“Mama, you have to eat. Just this little bit…”
Ellyneia placed a piece of the berry on her mother’s tongue.
“Lyn, you… you made it bloom… bless you, Lyn, bless you…” her mother said as the fruit slowly dissolved.
She fed her mother another strip, and then said, “Papa, you need to eat.”
He weakly accepted the pieces of berry, and whispered, “You did it…”
Ellyneia barely heard her father’s words.
She was looking in the corner of the room where her mother’s staff rested in its rack. It had suddenly blossomed, glowing with renewed life.
Complete the work, he said…
Someone was hammering on the front door. She was about to put the platter down, but thought again, and then set off for the front door.
“Hello, Zav,” she said to the Human watchman. “Is something wrong?” She peered past him, at the two others behind him. All were in light armour, and clutched glavands.
“I don’t want to alarm you too much, Lyn, but there’s a stranger in the district. Scarred face, wolf companion. He has to be found. If you see him…”
She shushed him urgently. “Keep your voice down. Ma and Pa are still sick. No, I haven’t seen any strangers. I’d yell pretty loud if I did.”
Zavrann shrugged. “All right. But stay alert. He has to be found. Ah... tell them… I hope for the best.”

Yastreb cast his mind back to his home in Kamenistiy, and to Koschei’s home, now half a world and almost another life away.
Ellyneia’s room was more like a study. Two dozen large books in uniformly bound covers were carefully arranged on shelves of polished oak, and an elaborately shaped wooden rack on top of a simple table held five scroll plates.
She was little older than he had been when Koschei had chosen him, but she was seemed far more learned than he had been at that age.
The little black dog that Ellyneia called Arevor was watching them cautiously from under the neatly made bed. For all his attempts to calm Arevor, it had scurried away to hide the moment that it scented Zabeelushka. At least Ellyneia had quelled its fear.
He sat down on the plain wooden chair by the desk and wondered what would happen. Ellyneia had sent the guards away... and in doing that, she had effectively condemned herself to death, if he was found.
I can’t stay here. Leave after nightfall... all I need from them is a map so I can work out a safe path to Vasaban.
The door opened. Ellyneia was standing in the hallway. In her arms was a long staff of dark wood, ash or oak, with bright living flowers blossoming from one end, and vines curling around its length.
“This hasn’t lived in years, since mama fell sick. Thank you. Until I saw this, I couldn’t be sure that mama was well.”
“I’m glad.”
“So what now?”
“As I said, I need to get to Vasaban, to finish...”
A cheerful voice interrupted. “Lyn? I just have to say...”
Ellyneia froze as a tall dark-haired man in crumpled clothing, whose unshaven face was split by a broad smile, walked up to her side. His smile faded into surprise, then into mild exasperation. “You’re a bit young still to have a boyfriend in your room...” Then he frowned. “Specially not one who’s been in too many scraps! What’s your name, son?”
He had not planned to put anyone in danger, but events had overtaken him. Plans are like prayers, Radul had said. Be prepared for disappointment.
Before he could answer, Ellyneia said, “It’s not what you think, papa.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s best that I explain,” Yastreb said, and he was not surprised to see the man react with surprise at his accent.
“The fleg?”
“Watch your mouth, papa!”
“Sorry, Lyn, but...”
“He’s an outlander, papa. And he’s why mama’s not in pain anymore.” She grabbed her father’s hands as he recoiled in shock. “Please listen to him! Please! Yastreb, this is my father, Palvereon Venstreth.”
“It’s an honour, sir,” Yastreb said gravely.
“Uh... sure.” Palvereon reached out to shake Yastreb’s hand. “Yeah... best you explain.”

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on January 15, 2024, 03:56:14 AM

You may recall the story that was written one paragraph at the time (the one with the goats). Here's one from the same source that was written three words at a time. I didn't contribute anything, worse luck.

He shook the corpse but it failed to start, so then he told his mum, "Dad won't wake the dead up!" She saw that an Ogre had taken the washing to pay its taxes but failed to get a strict care certificate. This meant that the watermelons would explode and not transform into something beautiful, like a sparkling vampire called Prince Jason Junior.
So the Ogre took its harmonica hidden up his long blue jacket which he stole from the wizard who was busy with the wallpaper, because his wife wouldn't shut up.
Unfortunately, a blizzard hit the wizard and his lizard which actually was a turkey's gizzard and reeked of rotten egg gas and elderberry wine. Only someone who played the guitar could understand this bizarre sensory delight!
"Sup peeps," said the wizard's daughter.
"Nothing!" replied the Wiz. "Watch me make this corpse do the moon walk!"
And now watch the Ogre have trouble with his wardrobe as his long blue coat becomes a bunyip and eats the crusty ferret with gusto.
Later on the doomsday bell tolled thrice.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on February 28, 2024, 03:17:30 PM

Utterly brilliant. It reads a lot like Mad Libs, in a good way.

(Mad Libs being the game where there is a short story with words missing. One person keeps the story hidden, asking all participants for a noun, then an adjective, then plural noun, boy's name, etc to the end of the story. At the end, the story is read out with each person's answers inserted into their places, making a bizaare and often droll story.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on February 29, 2024, 07:21:26 AM

The rather similar writing prompt game I know is called ‘Hat Prompts’, because each of the players draws a prompt out of a hat and has to compose a story around the words they draw. I should put up one or two of mine.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on March 09, 2024, 08:04:37 AM

I chanced upon a poem I wrote in character during a LARP campaign. My character had just suffered a great personal loss, and then seen his homeland destroyed. Thinking himself the sole survivor of his people (correctly, as it happened), he stumbled through a blighted landscape until he found three children lost and frightened. He saw them safely to their home and protected them until their distraught father came for them.

Fire falls to sear the land
Black smoke blocks the midday sun
The birds are lost, no place to go
Fear fills the hearts of everyone

Yet some things are as ever were
As certain as the stars above
The trust of children’s innocence
The power of a father’s love

To my slain kin I promise this
Sent Beyond, no chance to flee
If mortal hands brought down the fire
I'll take revenge and set you free

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 09, 2024, 08:46:36 AM

Well made, Yastreb. Your poetry is better than you think. I remember, decades ago, you telling me that you were no kind of poet (I think it was in the context of my inviting you to join in a game of Capping that Iestyn, McAndrew and I were playing at one of Fabian’s parties at the Eyrie, and you saying that you lacked that wordskill). I disagreed at the time, and still do.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 10, 2024, 08:53:11 AM

I was trying to put up one of my short stories, but in the process of trying to copy and paste it I seem to have deleted it completely. Damn and blast! So anyway, have a poem.

COLOUR

Colour's the child of light
Born with the day.
In the first shades of night
She slips away.

First go the subtle tints
Fading to grey:
Sun-speckles, water-glints,
Mica in clay.

Next as the shadows come
Purple, red, blue,
Pomegranate and plum,
Lose their rich hue.

A twilight dragonfly
May catch a gleam,
Glinting from wing or eye
Swift as a dream.

Rich-shaded iris, rose
Fading to dun
Signal the long day's close.
Night has begun.

Now with the last light gone
Beyond recall
White blossoms spill their scent
As the dews fall.

The evening primrose flowers
Gold lamps held high,
Call, through the starlit hours
Moths from their sky.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 11, 2024, 09:18:54 PM

Róisín, this poem is beautiful! I love the imagery and the journey you take us on with the different colours giving way to night-time.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 11, 2024, 09:33:51 PM

Glad you like it, Keep. My eyesight is poor, but I know the Land, and the one thing I did inherit from my very artistic family was a very exact perception of colour, so that I am able to tell what a thing is at distance, even if all I can make out is a that-coloured blur.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on March 12, 2024, 03:42:26 PM

sooo lovely *chef's kiss*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Róisín on March 12, 2024, 09:59:47 PM

Glad you like it. I enjoy using poetry as a way to draw people’s attention to what is around them. So many folk just drift through the world in a haze of inattention, never being fully aware of their surroundings. This is not only a dangerous way to live outside the most controlled environments (and I live on a very small smallholding at the edge of a tiny town in the middle of the Australian bush), but causes you to miss out on so much of the beauty and interest in the world. Life is endlessly fascinating.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Keep Looking on March 13, 2024, 08:34:45 AM

I agree! One of the best joys in life is just paying a bit of attention to the world around us. I like to listen and look for the black cockatoos that often fly over the city - we have red-tailed black cockatoos here as well as carnaby's black cockatoos which have white tail feathers. Tragically the population of black cockatoos has been declining due to habitat loss leading to less old-growth tree hollows to nest in and less food sources, although many of the cockatoos have adapted to eating the nuts of introduced trees like the mediterranean pine and pinus radiata pine trees that have plantations here. It's always special to hear the cockatoos flying overhead or see them landing on a nearby tree.

I've gotten good at identifying different common birds by how they're flying, even with just a quick glance while driving. Whenever my girlfriend walks to the bus stop she'll always tell me and maybe send a picture of a honeyeater or magpie-lark she's spotted while walking, and of course if she sees or hears some black cockatoos. It's amazing how many birds we can find even while living in a city - let alone what we can find when we go to local wetlands or up into the hills.

Even introduced birds like the pigeons in the most built-up parts of the city can bring some amount of joy - it's amazing how so much life not controlled by humans can still live and thrive in the places we've altered the most. I admire the adaptability of the pigeons, ravens, ibis and seagulls I see even in the most dense urban areas.

One interesting book I read recently was "Curlews on Vulture Street: Cities, Birds, People and Me" by Darryl Jones. Darryl writes about his experiences as an ecologist studying urban bird life and how birds have adapted to cities and human environments - for example, the differences in behaviour between urban and non-urban ibis populations, or how rainbow lorikeets that live in cities often choose to roost in trees near strong sources of artificial light so they can see if night-time predators are approaching! In particular, the book challenges the idea that "nature" is something that has to be "out there" - far away and untouched by humans - when in reality nature and animals and ecosystems are all around us and are worth observing and studying.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Grade E cat on May 08, 2024, 04:37:05 AM

Poking my head on this forum after a long absence to inform anyone interested that I finally joined Archive of Our Own and started publishing there:
Maomao_the_cat's works (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maomao_the_cat/works)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Kitty on May 27, 2024, 11:14:32 AM

i'm writing a trash romance light novel, and i'd like to be noticed. here is the link, i hope someone likes it <3

https://www.honeyfeed.fm/novels/12368

it's not actually poorly written, i just call it trash out of affection. it's my hobby, so i don't take criticism. i'm just having fun scribbling here <3

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on May 28, 2024, 04:45:11 PM

I will definitely go have a look (when I'm not at work, whoops) - having fun is precisely why I engage with fandom and creative pursuits! (Also, I get that 'wanting to be noticed', so much.)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on May 31, 2024, 09:13:52 AM

Róisín encouraged me so much over the years that she naturally earned herself a place in my Dragonhost Saga as an incarnation of Baba Yaga, Second Guardian of Gevarna. I thought I would share those scenes in the first three books in which she appears (excluding first-person POV moments from Book 1). Here's the first, from Earthfire.

A keen-eyed falcon perched upon a high branch and looked down upon a village that was empty of life.
The buildings were undamaged, but doors and shutters stood open.
An expanse of woodland perhaps thirty paces across had vanished and the brown soil was now ashes the colour of bleached bone, save in the centre, where a single tree and a section of stone wall stood in a circle of grass.
At the base of the tree, a limp figure sprawled.
The devastation was a perfect circle, and its edges were as sharp as a knife slash. There were trees that were half living wood, half white ash, and rocks scorched black on one side but unmarked on the other.
The falcon leaped from the branch, wings spreading, and dropped to the ground near the edge of the devastated soil to vanish in a flash of vivid green.
A woman stood up and looked around.
She was small, buxom, and fair-skinned, wearing a plain brown blouse and skirt under a green cloak edged with falcon feathers. Her flowing hair was rust-red, confined by a plain leather headband, and her eyes were large and bright blue, with faint patches of grey. Her broad, pleasant features had the unblemished fairness of youth.
She bent down and dipped her left hand into the ashes, which looked as fine as sand, and her fingers met almost no resistance. It was almost as if she had plunged her arm into water until she struck earth just over a foot down.
When she drew her hand out, the ashes flowed off her arm and through her fingers without a single fragment remaining, and her face briefly twisted in revulsion.
She went around the boundary of the devastation, pausing on the way where nine sets of prints entered, and a place where dozens, scores of people had left in a body, their tracks of all sizes, as if a whole community had fled… and where a single set of tracks, made by someone struggling to walk, led towards the mountains.
Then she turned to face the forest, summoning her energies, and sharpening her senses, the wolf, the cat, the eagle, as new arrivals came into view.
Two dozen wolves were drawing near, and at the head of the pack were two grey vol’volkiy; a mated pair. She watched them close in, and then the pack halted just yards away.
* Red Mother, we greet you.
* What happened here?
Beast-speech did not always give clear communication. Animals, even the brightest, did not use words as Humans did; the Talent could render their thoughts, mostly images of sight, sound, and scent, in a way that could be understood, but not always clearly; and words were never easy to transform into sensations in return.
But the reply was clear, if in many voices.
* A Human did that. He burned other Humans. All the others here ran away into the night.
* We were hunting one who slew Our kin, and followed him there. The Human who destroyed him and the others used a terrible fire. Then he tried to run away. He was very badly hurt and very scared. With him was a wolf child.
* He was heading for the high rocks. We knew that the Old One was dead. We were angry at the fire the Human had used. But he stopped, when he saw Us. He was too hurt to go on. We would have killed him if We had not seen the Old One's spirit with him. He tried to Speak with Us, but he was in too much pain.
*Then the wolf child pleaded for his life and said that he was good and kind. We looked, and saw his spirit, and it is good. We healed his worst wound and let him go on.
She stood for a moment, eyes softening in memory.
* You acted well. The Pact still holds. Those who slew your kin do not live in these forests.
The wolf-pack turned as one and hastened into the forest, disappearing among the trees.
The woman carefully waded through the ashes to the huddled body on the grass and crouched over it. Her head slumped down, and she sobbed.
After some moments she wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and looked at the dead man’s hands. Her expression changed to surprise.
Releasing the hands, she turned away and looked down at the grass. Carefully tugging some free, she shook off the soil and caught the grass in a freshly plucked leaf that she folded delicately and placed in a pouch on her belt.
She passed through the ash and walked over to one of the houses to look inside before calling out, - Dotchka? Dotchka? -
There was no reply.
She moved on to four other homes, looked inside and called out to each of them, to be met with the same silence.
Finally she turned away and vanished in a bright green flash.
The falcon took wing, heading into the deep forests to the east.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thorny on May 31, 2024, 09:44:26 AM

I'm looking forward to the rest of these, Yastreb.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 01, 2024, 03:58:08 AM

Long after sunset, Lord Oleg Mikhailov of Vanavara, the most powerful of the boyars, sat in unaccustomed solitude in the feasting hall at the head of the great table.
The rumours had begun after the fire in the twilight had been seen searing white above the forests. For some days there had been a growing dread, a sense that something terrible had happened that night... and then the people of Kamenistiy had arrived in Vanavara, and told of what they had seen, and what they had been told.
Koschei is dead.
They had not been believed at first. For Koschei to die was as likely as the sun rising in the west, but then people in the villages around Vanavara spoke of the sorrow of their Domovoi, and soon after word came of the beasts of the forest growing hostile, threatening flocks, though thankfully no-one been harmed. And the fear grew for Baba Yaga...
Tell Lord Oleg that Koschei is no more.
So the people fleeing Kamenistiy had told him. He had no idea what to do as the most powerful boyar in Gevarna. The idea of taking power made him uneasy. So each night he had sent his servants away, even his personal guards and closest advisors, and convinced his consort to leave him in solitude until fatigue finally drove him to his bed.
He nursed a cup of vodka as he thought of what to do...
- I greet you, Lord Oleg. -
He froze for an instant, gave a quiet sigh, placed the silver goblet down carefully and rose, turning to face the one who had spoken.
- I greet you, Baba Yaga. Would you honour this house by sharing drink with me, Babushka, in this most solemn hour? -
The woman that Oleg saluted as Grandmother walked out of the shadows by the window. Her face was grave as she doffed her green cloak edged with falcon feathers.
Oleg had seen Baba Yaga many times since he was a boy, and in all that time she had seemed to him more a favourite aunt than a grandmother. He bowed to her as he had bowed to Koschei as she sat down in the chair of Oleg’s consort and accepted the goblet that he had filled from his own jug.
- I would have come sooner, Lord Oleg. The Pact had been broken. I needed to reaffirm it lest innocents suffer. That has been done. But now... - She sighed, and drank from the goblet, and Oleg saw deep grief in her eyes. - I will speak plainly. There may be bitter and dark times ahead. Do’kha. But there is still hope that the First Guardian will be with us one day… -
Oleg stared at her. - I don't understand. Koschei is dead, but he will be with us again? Is this a riddle, Babushka? -
Baba Yaga shook her head. - No riddle, Lord Oleg. Yastreb, the one chosen as Koschei’s apprentice to be the Third Guardian, is still alive. He took revenge on the slayers and fled. I don’t believe it was through fear. I know in my heart that he will return one day and take Koschei's place. -
Oleg felt tears of relief even as he cast his mind back. - His apprentice… yes, I remember him. The day Koschei punished Yuri Peshkov and his man-at-arms. A boy who did not speak, save to ask Vassili Ivanov why he did... what was done. An ordinary boy from his village, but he bore Koschei's symbol on his cloak. -
Baba Yaga put down her goblet and rested her chin on her clenched hands. - Koschei knew that his time might not be forever, for all that we called him the Undying. That time did come, and he perished at the hands of outsiders. -
Oleg looked away from Baba Yaga to the tapestries on the walls that depicted battles and victories and scenes of glory… scenes from places far away and centuries ago.
- So… do we face an invasion now that the First Guardian is no more, Babushka? None of us has ever ridden into battle in earnest. We have never needed to fight a true enemy. And we are alone in the world… -
Baba Yaga turned away to look through the window, and sadness tinged her reply. - If that happens, I’ll be at your side. Take heart from that. But I don’t believe it will come. I believe Koschei’s killers sought his power, not this realm. And they are dead now. Koschei knew that his death was near, so he passed on his power to his apprentice. Why Yastreb fled… I don't know. I wish I could have followed him, and brought him back, and found out why. But I dare not go beyond the mountains and risk leaving Gevarna without its only living Guardian. He is on his own now, wherever fate calls. -
Oleg downed the vodka in one gulp. What Baba Yaga was describing, travelling beyond Gevarna, to realms unknown, among strangers, made his innards clench.
- May Byelovoi guard him and Morena the Merciful bless him, wherever he has gone. -

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 02, 2024, 08:41:36 PM

This is the third and last scene from Earthfire. Baba Yaga appears in the second half; I've included the preceding events for full context.

The road led from the forest into more open country, but it remained little better than a track, twisting between hedges and hillocks much of the time, and Yastreb grew uneasy. It seemed to be the right country for ambushes.
Two hours in, with little said between them, and there were no others using the road, and scarcely any farms or hamlets visible; certainly there were no villages of any kind.
He mentioned his thoughts to Radul, who gave him a puzzled look. - I thought you’d prefer things this way. -
He did not respond. What was in his mind was that Zabelushka could have come with them.
No-one would have noticed her, in this countryside…
Radul seized his arm. - Quiet! -
There was a wailing scream that ended abruptly.
- You heard that? - the veteran demanded as Yastreb reached for an arrow.
The road ahead bent slightly to the right, around a stand of three oak trees. Radul whispered, urgently, - It came from the other side of those trees. Stay low and stay silent. -
They darted to the little grove and moved in at a crawl until they could clearly see the farm building beyond; a sturdy stone house, a sizeable wooden barn and a large stable grouped around a stone-walled well; the dwellings of a prosperous family group. Beyond that were broad newly ploughed fields.
Around the well stood a group of men in leather jerkins and brown tunics; seven all told, variously armed with swords, cudgels and axes, save for one toting a crossbow and another with a slung bow.
- Oh no, - whispered Radul. - Red Hand. See there? On their tunics? -
Yastreb felt a deep chill building as he took in the sight of the women and young girls lying sprawled beside the well, bound hand and foot, and the fire burning next to the well, the hay and scraps of wood heaped around the barn, and the cart in front of the barn door.
- They’re going to burn the barn! - Radul went on. - With people inside. The Red Hand are known for that. By the Saviours! What can we do? -
Yastreb put down his bow and took the quiver from his shoulder.
- What are you doing? - Radul said.
Yastreb felt the cold spread through his body, and with it, his senses sharpening. He knew what had to be done. - Take my bow and arrows. Get behind the barn. I am going to draw their attention, get them away from the women and children. When I... when I act, just… just shoot them down. The bow will shoot strongly. - He saw the disbelief on Radul’s face, and went on, - Please... just go, Radul. I know what I have to do. Do’kha. -
Yastreb scrambled back and rose to his feet.
There was no way that he could fight seven Red Hand men when all he had was a sword. He did not trust his skill with a bow enough to risk their lives, and Radul’s crossbow was slow to reload. He had magic, something the bandits did not have, but he could not use Fire because he could not control it; he would burn up everything around him. Air magic would likewise be destructive. Light would achieve little. All that he had to fight with was Beast.
He was accustomed to using his Beast magic in a limited way, to communicate with animals, and to enhance his own senses. There was the spell he had used to hide his and Radul’s scents from hunting dogs. There were other, stronger powers that could be called upon, to change his body form in small ways, such as giving himself claws, whether for fighting or for uses such as climbing. And then there was a spell enabling him to manifest Beast magic in combat, to strike not from arm’s length, but from much further, with deadly effect. Koschei had called that spell the Beast-Strike, and though he had taught it to Yastreb, he had been careful to explain that there were risks in using it.
To manifest the Beast power in that way, to shape and unleash it... you may never be free of the Beast thereafter. Use it rarely, and never for long. You must learn the limits, and remember them.
The Runes whirled, intertwined, and came together behind his eyes. His awareness narrowed as he strode around the trees and towards the farm.

The leader of the Red Hand men was leaning against the well, arms folded, one foot resting on the head of a woman who was sprawled face down in the mud, her hands and feet bound. She was sobbing quietly.
- You’ve all had time enough and more to make your peace, - the leader said casually. - So we’ve got nothing more to do here than plant the seed of king’s men in your wenches as you all burn! So, my lads, in the name of Prince Drago… -
- Hold! - shouted Yastreb.
The Red Hand men spun towards him as he approached slowly, hands by his sides.
- Hear me. Leave this place now, and let the people live, - he said, aware of a new rasp in his voice. - Leave now. -
The leader had a beard and a long moustache in the style of nobles. He sneered just as Sir Fedor would have done, made a show of stroking his moustache, and then chuckled.
- What's this, then, my lads? A hero in a green cloak! A beardless boy to boot! He must be one of Branvok’s pansies! Do you think you’re a Paladin, boy? You are? So, where’s your milk-white war steed and your shining mail coat and your mighty lance, eh? Do you even know how to use a sword? Come on, draw that blade, show us your skill! - He burst into mocking laughter.
The others joined in the mirth, laughing or guffawing.
Yastreb stopped at twenty paces away. He took a deep breath as pain suddenly spiked in his jaws and hands. - I’m giving you one chance, one chance only, to walk away from here with your lives. - The rasp had become stronger, almost a growl... - Do you understand me? This is your last chance. There won’t be another! -
The leader roared with laughter, and there were bellows of mirth from the other Red Hand men as he said, - Ah... break his arms and legs and put him with the others! -
Yastreb raised both hands. He was sick to the stomach… then anger surged, the Runes flared, and he roared, and he struck.
The leader staggered and fell as something tore into his face and ripped through flesh and bone, and the man with the crossbow was slammed back as something smashed into his chest, shattering ribs, and he sprawled in the mud, gasping as blood spilled from his mouth..
Two of the Red Hand Men had started forward at their leader’s command, but they, and all their comrades, froze in shock as their leader was cut down by a weapon none could see, and then they reeled back as Yastreb strode forward.
His hands were long, fur-matted, and clawed like a bear’s, his eyes were blood-red orbs, and his face was twisted in ferocity to something no longer quite Human. A guttural growl surged through bared fangs as murderous rage blazed within him. Any doubt, any thought of mercy, had vanished.
Suddenly the two men who had stepped forward came out of their shock and rushed at him, one with a sword and the other with a poleaxe. The archer drew, notched and stepped to one side to take aim, then suddenly stumbled and collapsed with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his back as the two other men came in at a run.
Yastreb side-stepped into the axeman’s path before the axe fell, his right hand closing around the man’s throat, and he swung around, lifting the gagging axeman up to hurl him into the swordsman, but that one had kept his wits.
As Yastreb released his grip, sending the axeman past the swordsman to crash into the cart by the barn, the sword blurred towards his neck. Yastreb tried to beat the blade aside, but too late, and it tore into his left forearm, slicing flesh until it hit bone…
With a howl he tore his maimed arm free and swung a back-handed blow that slammed into the swordsman’s jaw.
He did not feel or hear the man’s neck snap, and he did not see a raider clutch at the arrow transfixing his neck and slump down, or the last one break and run, heading for the fields, only to fall with an arrow lodged deep in his back. Instead he strode towards the leader, who was trying and failing to stand, crying out incoherently. Four huge gashes had torn away half his face, his nose and his left eye. He could only struggle feebly as Yastreb’s left hand closed around his throat.
Yastreb wrenched the leader up clear of the ground, drove the claws of his right hand under the man’s chin and tore the lower jaw away, roaring in savage triumph as hot blood gushed over his chest and arms…
He heard a scream, and a young woman’s terror broke through the rage to kill.
He let the ruined body drop. His deep breaths were rasping in his throat. The scent of blood was still strong…
- Yastreb! It’s over! Listen to me! You’ve done your duty here! It’s over! -
He turned to look at Radul, and then around at the sprawled bodies, and saw the sheer terror in the face of a young woman staring up at him.
- Come back! It’s done! - Radul stepped forward, one hand raised placatingly. - You’ve saved the people here. It’s over. Come back, youngster. Please. - His voice was shaking, but somehow his hand was steady. - Just… come back. Please. -
Yastreb felt the pain of his wounded arm, and grabbed it frantically to staunch the bleeding as weakness swept over him. He slumped to his knees beside the girl.
- I’m sorry… I’m sorry, - he whimpered as he felt his body returning to normal.

- He’s a decent lad, - Radul said, - and that’s the truth. But there’s something that… well, no-one knows what. The mark of the beast, some called it. The red rage, some others said. But Gods be thanked, his heart is pure. If it wasn’t, well, you saw, young miss. But he knew who deserved to die and he stopped when they were beaten. -
Yastreb sat in one corner, stripped to the waist, washing the blood from his face and hair. His arm was bandaged, and his tunic and undershirt were being washed. No-one sat near him.
The bodies had been gathered up and buried once the wounded Red Hand men had been finished off. No-one in the household had been killed, though three of the menfolk, the father, the oldest son, and a farmhand, had been badly beaten before being tied up and thrown into the barn with the other adult males and the younger children. There were eighteen in the household.
- I… I think I understand you, - said the father, whose name was Marko. - But… by Byelovoi, from what Masha said, it’s a terrible thing to suffer. -
Masha was the girl who had been under the Red Hand leader's boot. She nodded, glanced quickly at Yastreb, and shuddered. She was young, not far into womanhood, and she had vomited when she saw the Red Hand leader die.
- He saved us, but it was so horrible! - Masha said. There was still fear in her voice. - Please, sir, tell us there is a cure for the curse. -
Radul sighed. - We were on our way to find one. We were told that one certain cure exists, but it’s one only a certain Veela knows. That’s where we were going, to where the Veela called Myrallea lives. It’s been a long journey, and we pray it ends there. -
Yastreb stood up, fighting off a brief dizziness. - I need sleep. If you don’t want me under your roof, I understand. A blanket and some room in the barn or a shed. That’s all I need. -
He was telling the truth. As well as exhaustion, there was still the pain in his hands and throat and eyes, the still-sharpened senses threatened to overwhelm him, and he needed to use his Light magic on his wounded arm.
They gave him what he asked for, and he sat for a while in the barn, working healing on his arm, before he lay down in a bed of hay and let himself sink into deep sleep…

***

- There is a lesson that has been waiting for the right moment. Come with me. -
Baba Yaga took his hand and led him inside to her own room, where two moon-orbs shone faintly. She embraced him gently, and pressed her mouth to his for a gentle kiss. For an instant he froze in surprise.
When he could speak, he said, - Mistress… I didn't think that… -
- You missed your first Kupala Night, and both Kupala Nights since then, shalafei, - she said gently. - Tonight is Kupala Night. Let’s spend it together. Accept the friendship of my thighs. -
The surprise faded as she began to lift his tunic up over his head….
He felt awe and desire together as he beheld her naked, full-breasted and wide-hipped, with flawless pale skin... and beneath those sensations was a small touch of fear.
Would he be worthy of her kindness…?
They lay together for a time, softly kissing and caressing, before she carefully eased herself above him…
He did not want it to end.
But finally he reached an ecstatic climax, and she was hugging him close…

He was lying naked among the furs of a wide and comfortable bed, in a room lit by the glow of two moon-orbs.
He turned his head slowly and saw Baba Yaga lying next to him.
- Yastreb, you’re awake. -
She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him with sadness in her eyes. Her hair was unbound and loose, and he realised that she too was naked.
- I miss you, my dearest, and I fear for you. I see where you are, a long way from home, and you are still grieving. -
- But I’m here with you! How can you say…? -
She placed a finger on his lips. - You’re here in a dream, Yastreb. I had to know what had happened after Koschei died, and I found a way to reach out to you.
- We’re meeting like this, in a dream of a happy time, of that first night. Open yourself to me, dushka. I can tell that you’re troubled, but you’ve grown…
- In just a short time you’ve been through much, but you’ve done very well. Yes. You’ve slain marauders and murderers, and… a Demon? A monster from the Hell Reign. You’ve made friends and allies, and you have a goal now, to learn control of the power he gifted you…
- Wait, Zantria? The Ancients are alive still? They slew Koschei? Gods be with you, with all of us! Go carefully, my dear. Have faith in yourself. I know you can succeed. I know that Koschei chose well. -
- I don’t know… I don’t know if I can make it…-
She pressed her mouth to his for a gentle kiss, then drew back and looked him in the eye.
- Here's a truth I learned long ago. In peril we find out just what we can achieve. I know you’ll surprise yourself. -
He faded back into deep sleep, and she was gone.

Baba Yaga lay still, waiting for the pain to subside, her hands clasped over her breasts.
Beneath her fingers the little figure of woven straw, seeded with some of the dried blood that she had scraped off the grass where Yastreb had fallen, crumbled away into dust.
- Be safe, dushka. -

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Kitty on June 04, 2024, 07:34:17 PM

Quote from: wavewright62 on May 28, 2024, 04:45:11 PM

I will definitely go have a look (when I'm not at work, whoops) - having fun is precisely why I engage with fandom and creative pursuits! (Also, I get that 'wanting to be noticed', so much.)

let me know how you like it, please <3 it's not a fanfiction, all characters are mine :3

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 05, 2024, 07:14:48 AM

Moving now to Book 2, Stormblade.

Baba Yaga walked into Koschei’s home, and felt the wounds in her soul reopen; the grief for her mentor’s death, and the distress when she had realised that Yastreb had fled beyond the Tyurmai mountains.
- Sometimes it’s not the wounds in your body that can hurt the most, - she whispered.
From the outside, everything was unchanged, but once through the gate, she saw signs of neglect. Koschei’s little servants had once kept the courtyard swept and the walkways clean. Now there were dead leaves, bird droppings and blown soil strewn over the cobblestones and the planking.
A door creaked faintly. Baba Yaga looked around quickly and saw a cat peering at her. She manifested the Sight.
- Dotchka, don’t be afraid. -
The tabby cat edged back a little as Baba Yaga walked up to it and crouched low, but did not pull back from her hand.
- I’m so sorry, dotchka. I should have come before. I’m sorry. -
The cat’s shape blurred and shimmered briefly, and a small woman in a simple brown smock and skirt stood up, her head bowed. She had ears like a cat and short sleek fur on her head and along her bare arms. Her large dark eyes held such deep sorrow that Baba Yaga gently embraced her.
With a pang Baba Yaga remembered the bleak emptiness in Kamenistiy the day after all of Yastreb’s kinfolk and neighbours alike had fled, and realising that the Domovoi, in distress, had also left the village...
- They came for the Master, - the Kikamoro said. - He is no more. They… they wanted to kill us all! Why would they do that, Babushka? Why? How could they hate us so? - Her voice faded away as she sobbed.
- I can’t explain it, dotchka. -
- The Young Master went home, to mourn his parents. He never came back, Red Mother. -
- He is alive, dotchka, but far from us. -
The Kikamoro looked up suddenly. There was a glimpse of hope in her eyes.
- Some of us still live. -
Inside the fortress, Baba Yaga noticed signs of cleaning and repair, but there were weapons lying scattered on the floor. She saw several swords, a war axe, and daggers, as well as two polearms and three crossbows unlike any she had seen, whether with her own eyes or in any books of Koschei’s. The Domovoi and Kikamoroi were beings of peace, to whom weapons were an abomination that they could never touch. She would have to clear them away.
- The wolves and bears removed the bodies, Babushka, - the Kikamoro said. - They watch over us lest the… the destroyers return. -
There were no torches burning in the hallways, so Baba Yaga manifested a moon-orb as she followed the Kikamoro she knew as Tabby to the main hall.
There were seven more Domovoi gathered around the low-burning fire; three men and four women. They all rose to their feet and bowed gravely to her.
Baba Yaga felt the sorrow rise in her at their solemnity. All the joy had gone from them.
- We greet you, Red Mother, - said one with short and tangled reddish-brown hair like a terrier’s on his head and arms, as two of the others began to push a chair across the floor to her. Two more hurried from the room to return a few minutes later with a silver goblet and a platter, and present them to her; berry wine and good bread with cheese.
She thanked them gravely and sat down. The Domovoi watched as she ate and drank.
- Please… what will happen to us, Red Mother? - asked Terrier when she had finished the meal. - Without the Master, we have nothing. -
- One day, the Young Master will come back. -
They looked at each other and shared smiles, but with little happiness.
What will Yastreb be like when that day comes?
She pushed the thought aside.
- I will return in the days to come, to see what I can do to continue the Master’s work. -
She was considering what else she could say that could comfort them, when she noticed that Terrier and Tabby were looking at each other again, though not smiling, and then at the other Domovoi, and then they both said, - Come with us, Babushka. -
Slipping into their animal forms, they scurried from the hall, and the others did the same before turning back to wait for her.
They led her just a short distance to Koschei’s study, and waited at the door as she looked at the books and scrolls on the shelves, and then at the writing desk and the papers there, one of them half-covered with Koschei’s precise handwriting.
Koschei’s staff was there too, resting on a shelf. The symbol at its tip glowed faintly as she stood before it.
- Babushka? - Tabby said - The Master left something for you and the Young Master. -
Baba Yaga felt a light pat on her leg, and looked down to see that Tabby and Terrier had changed back from animal shape. They were holding up a large tome bound in brown leather edged with gold leaf.
- The Young Master is not here, so it must be for you, Babushka, - said Terrier.
She took the book carefully from their grasp, and noticed the design on the cover binding; two falcons, their talons clasped, carefully etched in gold leaf.
- The Young Master’s name-bird and your favoured shape, - Terrier said in a voice choked with grief. - The Master said there might be a day… when he would be with us no longer, and to… give you this… -
Reluctantly Baba Yaga seated herself at Koschei’s desk, gently clearing aside his papers to make space for the book.
As she opened it, she realised that most of the Domovoi were discreetly leaving the room.
The first page was not parchment but worked metal, and she could hold back a gasp, because it was orichalcum. Etched into it was the same design as the cover binding, expertly drawn in vivid colours. She turned the page and found the next was also of orichalcum, with words engraved thereon in Kethran script.

To my dear Granya…

It had been years since Koschei had used her true name... She drew breath and read on.

To my dear Granya and to Yastreb
This is my legacy to you both. It is also my confession.
Granya, you were my closest friend and most trusted apprentice, the best in all of those long centuries.
I treasured you especially as the last-born from among those Aelves who followed me to Gevarna when the Hell Reign began.

- What? - She read the words again. - I’m... I’m an Aelf? - She stared at the words for a long time, and then brushed aside her hair and ran fingers over both ears. Surely they were Human ears… no lobes, yes, but not pointed... well, slightly…
That can’t be true... can it?
She saw a mirror on one wall, and rose to look at her reflection, and then realisation struck, and struck hard.
- Gods above and below! I am an Aelf! -
- Babushka? - Tabby was at her side, looking up anxiously. - Did we do something wrong? -
- No, you’ve done nothing wrong, - Granya whispered. - None of you. - She returned to the desk and lifted Tabby up to see the book. - These words. Are they true? Speak freely and unafraid, dotchka. -
Tabby looked carefully at the words Granya traced out. - Yes, Babushka, of course they are true. The Master would never lie… Is it bad that you are an Aelf? -
- No, no, dotchka. I just didn’t know… -
I thought that I shared his long life, at his will, not because of being an Aelf. I thought my limitations in magic were a failing, and not because I’m an Aelf…
She let Tabby go and sat for a long time, collecting her thoughts.
Finally she was able to resume reading.

When I felt so alone and isolated, far from home, you were as a sister to me. You brought so much joy, to me and to the folk of Gevarna. And it gave me so much pain over the centuries, too, to deceive you.
Yastreb, you wondered why you were chosen, as you thought, to one day the guardian of Gevarna and its people. You were chosen for the qualities that would have made you the ideal choice; your selflessness, your strong soul, and your desire to do the best for everyone, but you are also guileless and trusting, and it hurt me just as much to deceive you also.
For I am not Koschei.
My true name is Syrivaln.
I was among the highest mages of the Orichalcum Tower, the supreme magical order of the Zantrian Empire. I foresaw its fall, and I fled its destruction, bearing with me the Dragon, its soul, its essence, its life force, call it whatever you will, for fear it be tainted by the unleashed chaos of the Hell Reign. I am the Dragon’s Host. And one day, it must return.
Zantria still lives. And I will not let it die in reality. The Dragon must be returned, or the land will go irretrievably barren. The people will die, or worse still, invade other lands to survive.
But I cannot be the one to take it. My guilt is too great. I did not prevent Kalsenor and those of his Order from bringing about the Hell Reign, and I feel, I know, that the guilt would corrode my soul and even the Dragon itself.
That may sound unbelievable. You do not know the guilt I have felt. To be confronted by the reality… it would be too much.
So I decided that I would need a new Dragonhost.
He or she must be selfless, desiring the best for everyone, with a strong soul and magical talent, trusting and without guile, and brave enough to take the Dragon back to Zantria.
And that is why I chose you.

- You deceived me! You betrayed Yastreb! You lied to us! All of us, all these years! -
She heard Tabby cry out in panic, and heard the other Domovoi and Kikamoroi running back.
They were trying to comfort her as she wept. And in the midst of her grief she knew that she could not tell them the truth about Koschei. It would destroy them as surely as steel.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 07, 2024, 09:33:42 AM

Continuing with Stormblade...

He was lying naked among the furs of a wide bed, in a room lit by a single candle.
- Yastreb, you’re awake. -
He turned his head slowly and saw that Baba Yaga lying next to him, naked, her hair unbound and loose. For an instant he thought that he was reliving the time she had spoken to him in his dreams, but then she embraced him, and he felt her tears on his face.
- Oh! What’s happened? - he asked urgently. In all those years he had never known her to cry. - Dushka? What happened? -
- Call me Granya. Please, call me Granya. Granya of Aelf-kind. All these years, I didn’t know that I am an Aelf. - She edged back slightly, and he saw deep sorrow in her eyes. - What I discovered, about Koschei, his motives, who he really is… -
- What did you find? -
- He left a confession for us both. His real name, whence he came, and so much else… -
- Syrivaln, of Zantria, and the Dragon, and… - He could not hold back a sob. - His plan? To use me? To be the bearer of the Dragon? -
- All those things, dushka. How did you find out…? -
- Some luck, some…deduction. Asking the right questions. But hear me, Ba… Granya. We met Zantrians. Two of them. A Human and a Targrath. And we are going to Zantria with them. In the end, I am doing what Koschei... what Syrivaln intended. -
She embraced him again. Her hair caressed his face. - He wrote of how he foresaw the Empire’s fall and fled, taking the Dragon, the very soul and life of the Empire, to save it from being tainted by the Hell Reign. When I read that, I’ve never been so angry at anyone. He used me to train you, to make you into his catspaw, and… he used all the good things you were taught, all the lessons you learned from your family and the elders, all the qualities that made me love you, to win your trust. I don’t care what his goal was. That was evil. All that was evil. Perhaps you can forgive him, dushka. I don’t know if I ever will. -
- One thing only I can think of, why I’d forgive him, Granya. Just one thing. Meeting you, not as Baba Yaga, but… as you truly are. -
She gave a slight chuckle. - I could say almost the same thing, my love… -
- Perhaps there’s more, things he never could have intended. So many lives were saved because of all this. So much that was wrong was put right, and not necessarily by me. By people whose paths I crossed, whose fates became linked with mine. In the end, all because of what Koschei did. -
There was a long silence.
- I may not be able to work this spell again, dushka. If I can’t… know that my love goes with you, no matter how far you go. -
He faded back into deep sleep, and she was gone.

When Yastreb awoke, he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling.
An Aelf... I should have realised. But it doesn’t change anything. I love her still. I’ll love you always, Granya.
* She is true, little sister. I am happy.

And a later scene, just because.

- Last night, Baba Yaga reached out to me through a dream. She did that once before. What she told me… confirms what I thought about Koschei. He left a journal with his confession to how he chose me to be the Dragon’s host. How he deceived me, and Granya. -
Dorian and Myrallea both nodded, and she reached out to clasp his shoulder as Radul said grimly, - Hah. So he had a conscience after all. -
- Wait... who’s Granya? - asked Dorian.
- Oh, that’s Baba Yaga’s real name! I never knew! And she’s an Aelf! She said she didn't know that, she'd only just realised that. I didn't realise… I suppose... there weren’t any other Aelves, and all I knew about them was in the books. She didn’t look... well, not that much, just that... Her ears were only a little bit... and her eyes were more like Dorian's, not those of a mage… and, um... - Yastreb looked down, blushing. - Merciful Morena, I must sound like such a fool. -
Myrallea patted his shoulder. - Oh, come now, little brother, you’ve made bigger mistakes than that. Trusting my cousin to keep you out of trouble, now... -
Dorian gave a weary sigh and rolled his eyes.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on June 09, 2024, 04:45:39 AM

The last one comes from Book 3, Dragonfall.

As Granya walked through the gates of Vanavara, an hour after sunrise, the guards bowed to her, and she blessed them in return.
She stopped at a street vendor to buy a bag of sweets so that children who ran to her would be happy, and asked the woman, - How is little Masha? -
- Bless you, Babushka, she is fine and well! -
People in the streets and standing at their doors reacted in their own ways. Many bowed their heads, and others, bolder souls perhaps, called out, - Ho, Babushka, a blessed day! –
And the children ran up to her, and she gave each one a sweet and urged them to be good.
Finally she walked through the doors to the Kremlin, above which Koschei’s banner still flew next to Lord Oleg’s, returning the greetings of the guards, and made her way to his hall.
Lord Oleg rose to greet her, and the servants bowed. - Babushka, I welcome you, - he said.
- The time grows near. The midwife says a day at most. Bring ale and bread for Baba Yaga... - He smiled, as two servants were already bringing goblets and a bowl of bread and meat.
- Thank you, but I must see to Katerina first. -

Lord Oleg’s consort was lying still, with two servant girls and a stout, broad-faced woman in a plain white smock by the bed.
The girls quickly curtseyed, and the woman smiled happily. Granya returned the smile; she and Bobra had helped deliver many babies over the years.
- Bobra, well met! - Granya said. - Lady Katya is well cared for, I see. Thank you, girls. -
Bobra laughed heartily. - You’ve come at a good time, Babushka. She’s not started yet, but... any time, I’m sure. -
Baba Yaga nodded gravely. - Let me see. -
Moving to Katerina’s side, she manifested the Sight.
She’s healthy... the child is a good size, not too large, praise Morena... nothing for now. Plenty to do when the time comes.
- I will be staying here for the delivery. Call for me at once when it begins. -

She sat down to break her fast, and said, - I’ve seen so many fathers waiting for the news. You are doing well. -
Lord Oleg smiled. - You do me much honour. But Babushka... by Byelovoi’s grace, I would be lost without your counsel. The people likewise. They... - He paused. - I must speak with you alone on this. -
- Agreed. - She gestured to the servants by the table, and the man-at-arms at the door. - Do you leave us be until called for. -
With the room empty, Oleg shed his lordly demeanour and looked earnestly at her. - They pray to Byelovoi for the Undying’s return. By all the Gods, so do I! I hear them praying for your long life. Do you have any comfort for any of us? -
Granya thought quickly while she ate a mouthful of meat and bread. What could she say to give Oleg confidence? She was certain that Yastreb was still alive; had the worst happened, she would have known. The links that she had established via blood magic were firm enough for that purpose, even if they were not able to carry dream-speech any longer, and she lacked the means to cast the magic again.
- No comfort, Oleg, not yet, save this. His apprentice is alive, somewhere far away. He is trying to carry out Koschei’s legacy, something that started centuries ago and a thousand leagues from Gevarna. When... when Yastreb returns, he will take Koschei’s place as First Guardian. -
- He’s but a youth, Baba! I saw him that day, just an ordinary village boy... - Oleg paused, collecting himself. - Yet he’s survived out there... how long now? -
- Whether by talent or fortune, he’s made allies. He’s learned to protect himself. Yastreb will return one day. Gevarna is in his heart... -
- Babushka! - Bobra’s voice carried faintly down the hallway. - It’s begun! -
Granya smiled wanly. - This is a battle of another kind, Lord Oleg. I must go. -

One of the servant girls was dashing out as Granya headed for the bedchamber. She found Bobra and the other girl helping Katerina from the bed to kneel on the birthing-sheet spread out on the floor.
- Tanya has gone for hot water, - Bobra said. - We have everything else. -
- I knew you would, Bobra, - Katerina murmured wearily. - Babushka? By Morena’s mercy, I know all will be well. The best in the land are here. -
Granya knelt by Katerina’s side. The baby would be Bobra’s focus; for Granya, it was the mother, easing the pain and ensuring that no harm came to her.
Light magic Runes swirled and settled behind her eyes as she took Katerina’s hand in hers.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 07, 2024, 04:56:01 AM

I've just started on the last chapter of Dragonfall. It's been the most difficult one so far, because of the changes I've had to make along the way. But I think it's been worth it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 24, 2024, 06:29:03 AM

Once there was a challenge to a writing group to write a story one sentence at a time... in reverse order. This is how it ended up.

Jane snapped the Zippo shut and drew in a long breath, saying in a whisper, "Count your breaths, Jack, you don't have many left."
Taking a long drag from her cigarette, she exhaled slowly and stared at the smouldering tip as Jack struggled and thrashed against the tight bindings around his wrists and legs.
"You should know that you should never cross a woman, especially your ex-wife," Jane pointed out as she tied and gagged him.
After she had hog tied him he started to convulse, so she ripped the tape from his mouth and stuck it to his forehead.
"What do you plan on doing with me?" Jack asked, confused.
"You'll be pleased to know that it won't be long until the coal-train arrives," she said with a fake polite smile.
"Please don't leave me here!" Jack pleaded.
"You brought this upon yourself, you know."
Jane closed the boot of the car with Jack still stuffed inside.
"You had your chance, Jack, but you blew it."
She flicked the cigarette into the gutter and walked away.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on July 25, 2024, 08:46:36 AM

Book Three (Dragonfall) is completed. The last chapter was difficult, as it ended with death and sacrifice. But now it is done. Now for Book 4 (Lifebearer).

I just wish I could tell Róisín about it.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on July 27, 2024, 02:34:27 PM

Just updated this (https://tinyurl.com/LooNEY-GDocs) with a new doc of fragments of stuff I've been working on.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on August 17, 2024, 10:12:11 AM

Believe it or not, I've planned a sequel trilogy to the Dragonhost Saga; a fantasy/steampunk crossover with the provisional title of the Aetherworld Saga.
Here's the beginning of the second chapter of Book One, Mageborn. The first chapter is the short story The Girl And The Fox, which I posted here in January 2023.

BLOODLINES

The man sitting quietly in the corner of the tavern had several qualities that made him very useful to his masters. Among them were a face that did not draw attention and would not be remembered, the ability to pick out words and phrases from overlapping conversations, to listen without appearing to be listening, and to pretend to follow another conversation while he listened.
- I’m telling you, it’s true! Drago’s bastard son! Think what it could mean! -
The speaker was a trader of some kind, not prosperous, or else he would not be drinking in a tavern in the poorer district of Belogra. But he had the attention of half a dozen others, and they did not react with outright disbelief.
- But Prince Drago... he hunted and killed Veelas! To father a child on one of them... -
- I heard tell that he rutted a couple of them. Didn’t kill them. -
- That’s right! - the first speaker said. - Just think! This... Yastreb is Vaslav’s ward. If Vaslav died... he could take the throne. Give that Veela b**** the Death of Nine! -
- He couldn’t do that to his sworn sister! -
- If he’s truly Drago’s son, he’d never have sworn that! -
- Could be, he doesn’t know his bloodline. Has to be told. Made to understand the proper way of things. -
- Who’s going to tell him? You? Us? -
- There has to be a way... -
The man in the corner listened for a while longer, until he had heard enough. But as he made ready to leave to report to his masters, he noticed someone else who had been listening to the discussion, but was less adept in hiding his interest.
When that one slipped out of the tavern, the man in the corner discreetly followed him.

***

Sir Lukor Vuzrok, stoiyatnar of Paladins, swept watchful eyes over the nobles gathered in the audience chamber and reflected again on the changes of the past two years as the Dukes of the kingdom and their families made homage to King Vaslav, First of His Name.
A king had taken the throne after ten years of the Ownership’s rule, and taken a woman of the Veela for a bride and Queen Consort... and then a man of the Veela had in turn married into one of the highest Human families in Rashka...
Approaching the thrones as the Herald loudly announced them were Baron Dorian Wolfkin of Eastguard, Baroness Yerina Wolfkin… and after a noticeable pause, the Baron’s consort, Lady Soraine Ska-Vargr.
Consort! His mistress, and openly acknowledged! There had been open shock and dismay at such blatant flouting of marriage and morals.
“Veelas! What do you expect?”
“But... by the Saviours, he let his sister marry one...”
Leka Kapillan had weathered the storm, but then he was a Duke, with power and status that could survive such a scandal.
“Baron Wolfkin, Baroness Wolfkin, Lady Ska-Vargr,” King Vaslav said urbanely. “Your journey was without mishap, I trust?”
“Indeed so, Your Majesty,” Baron Wolfkin replied.
“Welcome, cousin,” said Queen Myrallea.
“My pleasure, Your Highness.”
Baron Wolfkin’s vassal knights came forward and bowed before the King and Queen, were duly acknowledged and moved to stand with him.
As they moved away, a lone figure approached the throne and bent the knee as the Herald announced, “Yastreb Veela’s Son!”
Veela’s Son… Something that had often been whispered about, yet had never been seen to anyone’s knowledge; a man born of the union of Human and Veela.
No-one had known what to expect of such offspring. The reality was, to some, disappointing. Yastreb the Veela’s Son was a young man of almost ordinary appearance, lacking the most obvious outward signs that made Veelas most notable, namely the pointed beast-like ears, and large eyes slanted like those of a cat. If not for his beardless face, with no sign of ever being shaved, he might have been taken as fully Human. Then again, if he looked as a Veela should, would anyone have known of his Human parentage?
King Vaslav smiled. “Yastreb... so you not yet found the answers you seek?”
“Sadly not yet, your Majesty. But I will keep searching.”
“Good fortune, my sworn brother,” Queen Myrallea said.
“My thanks, your Highness.”
As the Veela’s son bowed and then moved to stand with Baron Wolfkin and his retinue, Baron Marko Ervanok was approaching, and Lukor frowned briefly as the Baron shot a glance towards Yastreb; a glance that radiated anger.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on August 17, 2024, 11:24:02 AM

Read that, Yastreb, and went back to read The Girl and The Fox. I really liked both! And I'm looking forward to see how this will develop.
I particularly appreciated the way you inserted magic through the ability use runes. And all the bits on court and race's politics/relations... all of that is quite interesting.
You have a fan! :)

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: thegreyarea on August 17, 2024, 11:29:31 AM

Quote from: LooNEY_DAC on July 27, 2024, 02:34:27 PM

Just updated this (https://tinyurl.com/LooNEY-GDocs) with a new doc of fragments of stuff I've been working on.

I'll take a look. I love to see pieces / fragments that will (or not) become full stories. And of course I'll give feedback ;) Thanks for sharing it!

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on September 07, 2024, 12:42:25 AM

As mentioned in the Forum Art Museum, I have participated in this year's Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang (https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TolkienRSB_24), as both an artist and a writer. You could do worse then making yourself a cuppa, settling into a comfy chair, and having a nosy through the works on offer.

My offering this year encompassed an artwork (https://archiveofourown.org/works/58312051) contributed for BardCoyote's work called All but the Brightest Stars (https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/149260069).

I also wrote a fic for the event which I proudly present to you here, Sam Crashes the Wedding (https://archiveofourown.org/works/58552804/chapters/149173780). This was a collaboration with artist AllyThistle, in which I was inspired to write for her drawing of the titular event of Sam Gamgee returning to the Shire after the War of the Ring and finding his crush Rose Cotton getting married to another bloke! I set up the situation leading up to the image, and then I got to let all hell break loose. The Scouring of the Shire was just a leeeetle weee bit different from canon.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on September 14, 2024, 10:58:07 PM

I've been doing a bunch of writing, so I turned this (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UMXuUDTHZ8c3fw-0Msl3GblbuLuPFimEu_D9yh8kwuU/edit) into a table of contents doc.

Anything anyone has to say about the content would be appreciated.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on September 17, 2024, 04:17:51 AM

I've dived in and out of a few of them. It's really intriguing how you have so many fragmentary snippets, I can see why you've resorted to some manner of filing system. Since I don't write regularly, those times I do sit down I tend to lay down reams.

I particularly liked the bits of observations about actors and the craft of acting, and fame; there are insights which parse as though you have lived them either yourself or been close with someone living them.

But what is the B at the end of each file? Is it a coding like old-school Excel 'eof' cells?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: LooNEY_DAC on September 17, 2024, 07:40:15 AM

It's my note-to-self that it's the Bottom of the text, so that's where I can (and eventually will) paste whatever more I'm putting in the file; sometimes I put an "S" at the end of a Section, bot that's more of a rarity these days.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: wavewright62 on October 13, 2024, 10:27:33 PM

It occurs to me that I never posted my writing contribution for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang. At the end of the claims process, there were a couple of pictures that no one had picked up. I thought I could do something with one of them, so I was a late addition to the writers. Refreshing my memory, I realised that the situation pictured contradicted canon. Since I had to bend canon anyway, I decided I could make a balloon animal out of it!
If you're in the mood for Tolkien Done Stooopid, have a gander at Sam Crashes the Wedding (https://archiveofourown.org/works/58552804/chapters/149173780).

Edit some weeks later: D'oh, I actually had posted that, a month earlier, just a few messages up. *headdesk*

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on October 30, 2024, 06:52:14 AM

I've taken a break from writing Book 4 of the Dragonhost saga (Lifebearer), for a couple of reasons, and returned to re-reading the first two for proofing, especially for continuity. Just as well!
I soon noticed something in Book 1 (Earthfire) that had got past me.
The major character (Yastreb) had arrived with his friends in a town beset by an evil force, and they go to a tower inside the town to get a view from there so Yastreb can use the Sight to look for clues to the nature of said power. But I realised that between asking questions, and the characters going to the tower, I'd left out any discussion of that. They'd stopped talking and headed for the tower without explanation.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Yastreb on February 22, 2025, 04:35:45 AM

I'm back to working on Book Four (Lifebearer), and I thought I'd share a part from an early chapter that doesn't involve the main characters; rather, it's about setting the scene for later complications. There are always complications throughout the series; for example, in Earthfire, everyone with a plan finds it going wrong.

Incidentally, the setting for the early part of Lifebearer is a homage of sorts to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's historical novels Sir Nigel and The White Company, and the style of speech therein.

***

“I worry greatly for you,” Lady Melangell said quietly. “Your father… his temper grows ever more foul by the day. All around him are fearful of his moods, and dare not raise their voices to him or offer counsel unbidden, lest he take their words amiss and order them thrown in the dungeons or dragged to the block.”
Princess Losira, heir to the throne of Kaldor, only living child of King Eddard, sat with her handmaiden and closest friend in the solar of the Royal Palace in Camlann. A half-finished tapestry sat on a frame between them.
Losira looked carefully at the tapestry, shifting her gaze from different angles to assess the work, as memories crowded in.
The King’s bouts of temper when she sought to understand what she would one day need to do as Queen of Kaldor; his equally angry responses when she tried to suggest clemency for what seemed to her to be minor crimes; and the way he would ignore her at table, whether feasting or simply sitting with him in the evenings…
He had increased taxes at whim, given attention to all manner of charlatans and mountebanks, and inflicted savage punishments for lesser crimes by noble and commoner alike.
Yet the raids by Sevlosha on the borderlands had been disregarded, and pleas to help resist the marauders were ignored at first, and then resulted in prison or floggings, even execution, for daring to raise the matter at all; punishments were ordered without regard for rank or age.
“I will not gainsay you. Because I cannot. He is no longer the father I knew. Since my mother passed… the light has gone from his heart. More and more many of those I would see daily, I see no longer, and none will tell me of their fate. I see the fear in their eyes if I ask. And how they bid me by gestures to stay silent and ask no more.”
Melangell lowered her eyes. Losira heard the sound of a muffled sob.
“Please, your highness… save us. He will listen to no-one else.”
Losira took Melangell’s hand and whispered what words of solace came to mind, but her heart shrank as she thought of how her father would react…

When they left the solar, it was late in the day.
Losira nodded to the two warriors of the Citadel Guard waiting at the door. They left their post at the door and fell into step behind them.
Losira knew them well; hulking figures in plate mail with helmets that hid all but their eyes, with great shields on the arms and swords at their sides, wearing red cloaks that billowed behind them as they walked. She had seen them every day since childhood; the guardians who stood and watched and never spoke.
She had often spoken to them, acknowledging their presence and giving thanks for their service, but they had never replied, though sometimes there was the slightest nod or shake of the head, and occasionally a gesture that seemed to be apologetic.
They walked the short distance to the Lesser Hall, where dinner would be served, to find two Guards at the doors. Losira could not help but frown; normally there would be servants by the doors to admit them.
Inside, King Eddard was seated at the head of the dining table, with scrolls and parchments spread out before him, peering at one page and scowling. A scribe sat nearby, holding a quill in trembling fingers, and a Citadel Guard stood in each corner of the room.
The King did not look up when they entered. It seemed an age before he put the parchment aside and turned to look at them.
“You are late. You, leave us.”
Melangell curtsied and left the room without a word.
Losira said, “My father, I hope all is well.”
“It will be. Sit. There are matters to discuss.”
She took the seat at her father’s right.
“Speak then, father.”
“It is time to discuss your wedding. You are eighteen, and a suitable husband has requested your hand. I see no cause to deny him.”
She had known that the day to come, but not like this; announced with no feeling whatsoever in his voice.
“Who has requested my hand?”
“Prince Airik of Sevlosha.”
“And… you see no cause to deny him, father.” The words came out slowly as she struggled to comprehend his words.
“None at all.”
“He is unworthy of even the dirtiest peasant trull!” Now the words came out in a rush. “An enemy of Kaldor and its people. Detested even by the court of Sevlosha. A brute, a savage renegade, a…”
“Be silent!” her father roared. “You will not speak of him in such a dishonourable manner! I find him worthy, and that is enough! All that remains is to raise the dowry and…”
“A dowry?” Why would he speak of raising the dowry?
“Yes, a dowry!” King Eddard jabbed a finger into the parchment before him. “A suitable dowry. Four hundred thousand gold marks.”
Losira could feel the blood drain from her face. Such an incredible sum could not come from the royal coffers. Surely…
“That mandates a special impost. To that end I have instructed Chancellor Clergis to prepare the proclamation for my signature and seal. All that remains…”
“NO!” Losira thrust back her chair and rose. “What has happened to you? How could you do this to me? To the people? To Kaldor itself? I do not consent!”
King Eddard stared at her, and his face was like stone.
Finally he said, “Guards, take the princess to her chambers. She is not to leave them without my authority. We will talk again when Prince Airik’s emissaries arrives. Go.”
The last that Losira saw of her father, he had turned back to looking at the parchments as if nothing had happened.

Three days later, Losira heard the clatter of many horsemen entering the palace courtyard. She peered out of the solar as Melangell joined her.
“See there, your highness!” Melangell gasped. “The arms of Sevlosha!”
Losira’s heart sank as she took in the sight of the black bear symbol on the shields and tabards of the fifty horsemen.
“I must prepare to meet them.” She turned away from the window. “But I will not hasten to do so. Let them tarry a while.”
“As your highness wishes.” Melangell opened the garderobe that held Losira’s finest gowns and dresses, then paused as if gathering strength. “I saw them… the Chancellor was greeting those brutes as if they were… honoured guests!”

Losira waited for the third summons to emerge from her rooms with Melangell, to be confronted by a red-faced Chancellor Chemlen, who was clad in his formal robes.
“You have insulted our guests!” he hissed.
“Oh?” Losira raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”
Chemlen seemed to be grinding his teeth before he finally said, “They should be greeted with all due ceremony, not… left kicking their heels waiting!”
Losira could not help but imagine another meaning of the Chancellor’s words, but confined herself to a blatantly false smile. “I must be suitably attired for the guests. Do you not agree, Chancellor?”
Chemlen had no words. He simply gestured to follow, a cursory flick of the hand, and started off down the hallway, looking back angrily as Losira followed at a measured pace, Melangell at her side.
Chemlen led them to the Greater Hall, where there were servants waiting to admit them, but as before two Citadel Guards. And inside, at the table of conference, the King was seated, but not as one end as was usual, but on one side, with a dozen courtiers and knights; on the other side were twelve men with the symbol of Sevlosha on their tabards and jupons. At the sight of those men, Losira could not hold back a shudder of revulsion.
My father is greeting enemies of the kingdom as guests! Two years ago we would have laughed at the very thought!
“I am here as you request, my father.”
King Eddard looked at her with clear anger. “You did not come promptly. But let us move on from that… for the present. Sit and meet our guests.”
Losira moved to the empty chair at the King’s side, and as Melangell duly seated her, she took stock of those her father called “guests”.
The one opposite her father was stout, clad in courtier’s clothing of sober colours and little in the way of ornamentation. He was hard-faced and clean-shaven, looking as if he rarely if ever smiled, with thinning brown hair and harsh brown eyes; only slightly younger than her father, she guessed.
To his right was his opposite in most every way; slim of build, dressed in bright colours, mainly yellow and green, with gold chains and other jewellery on display. He had a prominent beard and moustache that did not hide his confident smile, blue eyes and long fair hair styled in the most fashionable manner. He was younger, perhaps as old as she was.
“Pray greet our most honoured guests, my daughter,” the King said. “Baron Kovar…”
The older one smiled and bowed his head slightly, much less than custom demanded.
“Baron Rupar.”
Rupar smiled even more broadly and raised the goblet before him… a gesture closer to an insult to one of her rank.
Losira responded with a nod, and “Welcome, Baron Kovar, Baron Rupar.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father glare at her two, no three heartbeats, and then turn back to the nobles of Sevlosha.
“You have ridden hence on a matter of high importance, and I trow you would all rather settle the matter ere we feast. So, I would ask, is Prince Airik still of mind for the marriage to proceed, in accordance with the agreements reached between us?”
Baron Rupar smiled, and Losira felt her lips tighten, for that smile was more of a leer…
“Very much so, your majesty,” said Kovar. “He sees no reason for any delay. Unless you are having… difficulties with the dowry?”
King Eddard flushed slightly, but it was not in anger. Losira sensed embarrassment, even as her disbelief was growing.
“Then nothing remains but for Princess Losira to travel to Sevlosha for the wedding…” said Rupar. “It will be…”
Losira’s disbelief could not be contained.
“My father, something has been forgotten.” She struggled to keep her voice calm. “Is it not a fact that my consent must be freely given ere any marriage take place?”
Rupar’s smile had faded suddenly; Kovar’s lip curled.
“You will consent. My honour demands it!” Eddard slammed both hands on the table. “You will consent!”
Losira fought down a growing fear and finally said, “I do not consent, father. I cannot consent to marry a man no better than a leader of brigands and cut-throats…”
Eddard’s rage cut her short. He leapt to his feet.
“You bring shame upon me and upon the kingdom with this insult to our guests!”
Losira kept her eyes on her father, but she could see that Kovar’s face showed cold rage.
“The shame is not mine, father. Not mine.”
“Out!” Eddard roared. “Guards! Take her to her chambers! By the Lord and Lady, by the Holy Lamb, think well upon this insult!”
Losira rose from her chair, made an immaculate curtsy to her father, and left without looking back at those from Sevlosha.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on March 21, 2025, 01:36:45 PM

I don't know if this is the right place to suggest this, but is anyone interested in a Python script and some CSS files that make it easy to turn an AO3 html download into a PDF file that looks like a regular book? If so, I will provide them.

I used them on my "The Watcher on the Water" work, and here are some samples of the output.

Title page:

Spoiler: show

Table of Contents (I had to fill in the page numbers by hand, but the format is all generated by Python and CSS):

Spoiler: show

Main text with chapter heading, justified, single-spaced lines, and first line indented:

Spoiler: show

The Table of Contents has pages numbered with lower-case Roman numerals, and the main text has regular Arabic numerals. There's code for a cover page, too, but that's just an image. Everything is editable, obviously.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on March 23, 2025, 09:43:20 AM

Wow that looks really smart! Can it combine a series of works (that are a series on AO3) into one?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on March 23, 2025, 10:31:10 AM

It can't do that specifically, but once you've converted the work to a simple html file instead of the complicated AO3 html, you could easily copy the body of one file into the body of the other, and string them together that way. You can make a table of contents pretty easily as well. My "Into Silence" text is so big that once I'd converted it, I split it into Volume I and Volume II. That's not difficult. I also have some other little scripts to make it easier to fix the page numbers. If you have images in your text, the formatting can get messed up on printing. I have some code in the CSS file that's supposed to fix that, but you might have to fiddle with it to get your images to look right.

Would you like me to put all this up on Google Drive or something?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on March 23, 2025, 10:56:15 AM

Well, I said it would be easy to string texts together, but I was thinking about stringing together short texts with no separate chapters. If you want to merge in some that do have chapters, the table of contents would have to be more complex. I'll look at that in a few hours when I get back from a family occasion.

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: Jitter on March 23, 2025, 02:05:31 PM

To be honest, I’m interested in theory but not sure I’ll ever get around to actually doing it. But since you already have it, in my opinion it could well be useful! Maybe put it into the Academy bpoard and link into this as well as the SSSS Scriptorium thread?

Title: Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
Post by: lwise on March 23, 2025, 10:55:04 PM

Okay, I put the information in Archive of Our Own usage and tips. I got it to work with lists of files, so you can put together a series with it.

The Stand Still, Stay Silent Fan-Forum

Creative Corner => Writing Board => Topic started by: Nimphy on January 18, 2015, 10:57:02 AM