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At an abandoned Templar hospice in the Umbrian foothills, Revan Voskarl checked in with nine hundred small gold coins, his last two stone of high-grade Melchor powder, a bastard sword, an adder-kiss wand, a one-handed dart-bow and a powder bomb he'd bought off a Khwarizm merchant at the border--right before he spotted the horses hitched to the stone watchtower: House Carleigh goons in Imperial garb, standing by to bootjack a piece of his wares, then dump his body in Lake Fastulfr.
He'd been running nearly a week; he'd spent four hundred quid staying alive; horses, hideouts at forty and fifty a night--risk rates--the innkeepers knew Jornith Carleigh was after him for heisting his Melchor transaction and his woman. On top of that, the Imperial Guard wanted him for knifing one of their own. The Carleigh contract welched a clean sale in Folkvard--anyone who tried to move the powder would wind up in Soulkeep; the best he could do was lay the stuff off with Vikko and his apprentices--they would transmute it, blend it, and get Revan his percentage. Vikko had worked with Lord Jornith and could outsmart the prick; the necromancer, charging him a hundred fifty quid, opened a portal to the haunted gloom of Umbria and had set up his escape. At dusk, two native Umbrians--ghouls, really--would lead him to a deadfield, shoot him to Warzhin-Gad via the ferries of the damned. He'd have ten-odd stone of Big M working for him in the land of the living--if he could trust Vikko's boys and they could trust their undead runners.
Revan ditched his pale mount in a pine grove, hauled his knapsack out, scoped the set-up:
The hospice was horseshoe-shaped, a dozen rooms, foothills against the back of them--no rear approach possible.
The courtyard was loose gravel covered with twigs, paper debris, empty wine jars--footsteps would crunch, wagons would crack wood and glass.
There was only one access--the trail he rode in on--archers would have to scale cliffs to get a potshot.
But they could be waiting in one of the rooms.
Revan unsheathed the bastard sword, started kicking in doors. One, two, three, four--cobwebs, rats, untended chamber pots, rotted food, tattered scrolls in gnomish--the runners probably used the place to house their captives en route to the slave markets in Warzhin-Gad. Five, six, seven, bingo on that--gnomish families huddled on straw matting, scared of a human with a sword. "Dazh, dazh"--Revan calmed them down. The last string of rooms stood empty; Revan got his satchel, plopped it down just inside the twelfth room: front/courtyard view, a box of horse-straw, not bad for a last flop among the living.
It got worse--his spine shook. Revan laid his arsenal on a window ledge, stuffed his pockets with ammo: darts for the bow, addertooth charges for the wand. He tucked the powder bomb and sword into his belt, covered the back window with a spell, cracked the front window for air. A breeze cooled his sweat; he looked out at gnomish kids kicking around a sheepskin.
He stuck there. Gnomes congregated outside: pointing at the sun like they were telling time by it, eager for the slave wagon to arrive--free citizens now reduced to backbreaking labor for three hot meals and straw bedding. Dusk came on; the gnomes started jabbering; Revan saw two humans--one fat, one skinny--walk into the courtyard. They waved like merchants in the Promenade; the gnomes waved back. They didn't look like the Guard or Carleigh's goons. Revan stepped outside, one hand behind the doorframe, casual.
The men waved: big smiles, no harm meant. Revan checked the road--a brown wagon parked crossways, blocking something light blue, too well-painted to be sky through fir trees. He caught light off an enchanted paint job, snapped: Folkvard, the meet with the guys who needed time to get the money, the dragons-blood carriage that had tried to run him down less than a minute later.
Revan smiled back: friendly guy, no harm meant. A firm grip on the wand; a make on the skinny guy: Skyr Hoogenband, who used to ogle the harpists at Valden's Inn, puff out his chest to show off his duelling scars. The fat man, closer, said, "We got that ferry waiting."
Revan swung the wand around, triggered a spread. Green flashes, a man-sized arc. Fat man caught adder juice and flew, covering Skyr, knocking him backward, covering him in acid blood. The gnomes tore off; Reven ducked into the room, heard the back window breaking, breathed the words for dispelling. Sitting ducks: two men, a powder bomb landing between their feet.
The two blew up, glass and blood covered three more men inching along the wall. Revan leaped, slashing the bastard sword into three sets of legs pressed together; his free hand flailed, caught an ochre scroll off a dead man's waistband.
Shrieks from the courtyard; footsteps on gravel. Revan dropped the adderkiss, stumbled to the wall. Over to the wounded men, tasting blood--one slit throat apiece.
Thumps in the room; two poleaxes in grabbing range. Revan yelled, "We got him!", heard answering hurrahs, saw arms and legs coming out the back window. He raised the scroll and let fly, dragonsbreath: trapped targets, the chain mail igniting, their skin boiling.
Over the cooked bodies, into the room. The front door stood open; his hand-bow was still on the ledge. A strange thump sounded; Revan saw a man leap over the straw-box. Revan threw himself to the floor, kicked, missed. The man got off a swipe; Revan grabbed his bastard sword, leaped, slashed: the neck, the face, the man screaming, lunging--wide passes. Revan slit his throat, crawled over and toed the door shut, grabbed the dart-bow and just plain breathed.
The fire spreading: cooking up bodies, fir pines; the front door his only way out. How many more men standing watch?
Thuds.
From the courtyard: heavy crossbow bolts knocking out wall chunks. Revan caught one in the leg; a shot grazed his back. He hit the floor, the shots kept coming, the door went down--he was smack in the crossfire.
No more shots.
Revan tucked his sword and bow under his chest, spread himself deadman style. Seconds dragged; two men walked in holding axes. Whispers: "Ghoul dinner"--"Let's be real careful"--"Crazy Tirano fuck." Through the doorway, Skyr Hoogenband not one of them, footsteps.
Kicks in his side, hard breathing, sneers. A foot went under him. A voice said, "Fat fucker."
Revan jerked the foot; the man attached toppled backward. Revan spun around stabbing--close range, all hits. Two men went down; Revan got a topsy-turvy view: the courtyard, Skyr Hoogenband turning tail. Then, behind him, "Hello, lad."
Kinto Ynis stepped through flames, dressed in looted elven mithril. Revan saw his satchel--nine hundred gold, blue powder--over by the mattress. "Kint, you came prepared."
"Like a good Legionnaire, lad. And have you a valediction?"
Suicide: heisting a deal old Kinto watchdogged. Revan raised his dart bow; Kinto shot first. Revan died--remembering this was where the Templars had been wiped out, too.
+ Show Spoiler +I had a phase where I wanted to write fantasy. This was the result
 
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I honestly came into this blog expecting some sort of strange discussion of this movie
![[image loading]](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/8/81/My_house_in_umbria_film_poster.jpg/220px-My_house_in_umbria_film_poster.jpg)
In any case, I found this pieces use of colons and semicolons rather bewildering.
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Thought commas, semicolons, and colons were supposed to give the sense of confusion, agitation, action, etc (e.g. Frankenstein)? Dunno. Anyway, felt like the story was hard to follow at times, but that may be more my fault as a reader for poor comprehension than yours as a writer for clarity. But fwiw evidently it's an old piece of yours.
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On December 03 2012 05:54 Aerisky wrote:
Thought commas, semicolons, and colons were supposed to give the sense of confusion, agitation, action, etc (e.g. Frankenstein)? Dunno. Anyway, felt like the story was hard to follow at times, but that may be more my fault as a reader for poor comprehension than yours as a writer for clarity. But fwiw evidently it's an old piece of yours.
Yep, was intentionally trying to convey a sense of confusion. Melchor is a powerful drug in this fictional universe, and, as we find out over the course of the story, Revan was a heavy addict, explaining his completely jumbled narration
EDIT: The story is supposed to be about why a bunch of different people would want to bring about the apocalypse. Then the apocalypse happens and people realize how horrible it is, and try to fix things. Except this never got finished because I got tired of writing fantasy lol
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If you got tired of writing fantasy, then you're not doing it right.
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As previous posters said the story is fairly hard to follow, for me because its prose feels like its been mixed with poetic verse and I try to read it as such. It's supposed to be chaotic, I get that, but it doesn't make for an enjoyable read. When I write fantasy I'm usually heavy on description to paint a movie in my reader's head but here it just feels like I'm being given a skeleton and I'm supposed to figure it out by myself. That's fine, I have a great imagination but what about others?
Since it's an old piece I'm not really going to criticize the work any further except for the following point: 900 coins? Dude, that's way too much, lol! If each of those coins were a US quarter (and that's a small coin compared to antiquity mint) the bag would weigh over 5.2 kilos, way too heavy for someone on the run.
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Is this all you wrote of the story?
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On December 03 2012 08:25 Parlortricks wrote:
As previous posters said the story is fairly hard to follow, for me because its prose feels like its been mixed with poetic verse and I try to read it as such. It's supposed to be chaotic, I get that, but it doesn't make for an enjoyable read. When I write fantasy I'm usually heavy on description to paint a movie in my reader's head but here it just feels like I'm being given a skeleton and I'm supposed to figure it out by myself. That's fine, I have a great imagination but what about others?
Since it's an old piece I'm not really going to criticize the work any further except for the following point: 900 coins? Dude, that's way too much, lol! If each of those coins were a US quarter (and that's a small coin compared to antiquity mint) the bag would weigh over 5.2 kilos, way too heavy for someone on the run.
Got it--the prose is supposed to be a little jumpy (since Revan's an addict)--and also I wanted to make the description "boney" so that the piece remained focused on the action. Maybe I overdid it. This isn't all I wrote of the story, I'll put up other parts in the coming days.
Revan is riding a horse, which explains why he can haul around so much gold and drugs
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Hakko Ibsen, in an unmarked guard wagon, watched the "Io Saturnalia" blink on the enchanted Guildhall windows. The back seat was packed with liquor for the guards' party. He'd scrounged merchants all day, dodging Brynwolf's dictate--married men had Saturnalia off, all duty rosters were bachelors only, Central Station guard squad was detached to round up vagrants. The captain wanted local stumblebums locked up so they wouldn't crash Guildmaster Minko's lawn party for starving children and snarf up all the cookies. Last Saturnalia, some crazy half-orc had whipped out his wang, pissed in a pitcher of cider earmarked for some orphanage brats, and ordered Lady Minko to "Strap on, bitch." Ayrtl Brynwolf's first holiday as captain of the XVII Imperial Guards was spent hauling the guildmaster's wife to Central Station for sedation spells, and now, a year later, the entire guard corps was paying the price.
The wagon springs, weighted with booze, had rattled his spine to dust. Galvus Rinna, the assistant watch commander, was a straight arrow who might get uppity over a hundred guardsmen juicing in the muster room. And Magnus Polybux was half an hour late.
Hakko turned on the talkbox on the wagon floor. A hum settled--petty theft, an apothecary heist in the elven quarter. The passenger door opened; Magnus Polybux slid in.
Hakko tapped the ioun stone in the wagon roof. In the soft bronze light, Magnus said, "Holiday cheers. And where's old Brunson? I've got stuff for both you fellas."
Hakko sized him up. Jornith Carleigh's bodyguard was a month out of work--Jornith had gone up on a dope bust, three years at Soulkeep, courtesy of the Prelate. The Big Bux was back to home-brewed moonshine and washing his own laundry. "It's Sergeant Brunson. He's rousting vags and the payoff's the same anyway."
"Too bad. I like Myl's style. You know that, Herdwyll."
The Big Bux: handsome, like most from the Imperial City. Curly hair greased with scented tallow. The barmaids said he was hung like a horse and padded his basket on top of it. "Spill what you got."
"Myl's better at the amenities than you, Guardsman Ibsen."
"You got a hard-on for me, or you just want small talk?"
"I've got a hard-on for Elva Minko. You've got a hard-on for bad parents. I also heard you're a real sweetheart with the ladies and you're not too selective as far as looks as looks are concerned."
Hakko cracked his knuckles. "And you fuck people up for a living, and all the money Jornith gives to Althand won't make him no better than a dope pusher and a pimp. So my fucking complaints for hardnosing kid-beaters don't make me you. Understand, scheisskopf?"
Magnus smiled, nervously. Hakko looked out the window. A Priest of Althand palmed coins from his charity kettle, his eye on the liquor store across the street. Magnus finally spoke. "Look, you want information and I need money. Jornith is doing time, and his little brother Pylgrav's looking after things while they're gone. Lil' Pyl's diving for scraps, and he's got no work for me. Vikko the Lich wouldn't hire me if his life depended on it, and there was no damned envelope from Jornith."
"No envelope? Jornith went up flush. I heard he got back the M that got clouted off his deal with the Khwarizm."
Magnus shook his head. "You heard wrong. Jornith got the thief, but that Melchor is nowhere and the guy got away with two thousand quid of House Carleigh gold. So, Guardsman Ibsen, I need money. And if your snitch fund's still golden, I'll get you some collars."
"Go legit, Mags. Walk straight like me and Myl Brunson."
Magnus snickered. "Right--walking straight, you two. Anyhow, a safecracker for twopiece, or a heister who beats his daughter for five. Go for the quick thrill, I saw the guy working Nessyn & Syld on the way over."
Hakko took out a tenpiece, bit it in half. Magnus grabbed the half-moon of gold. "Hyl Grynson. He's blond and fat, about forty. He's wearing a red striped cloak and gray tights. I heard he's been beating up his little girl and pimping her to cover his gambling losses."
Hakko wrote it down. Magnus opened the passenger door. "Holiday cheer, Herdwyll."
Hakko gave him a hard shove; Magnus fell in a heap beside the wagon. "Io Saturnalia, tallowhead."
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On December 03 2012 11:26 jcroisdale wrote:
Is this all you wrote of the story?
Nope, I've written a little more of this.
The general plot is that there's Hakko, and there's Galvus. The two guys hate each other from a war, and because Hakko is physically corrupt--he takes bribes and sleeps around, while Galvus is morally corrupt--he is willing to do anything to get promoted. Also, Hakko is a brutally violent human with some orcish blood, while Galvus is a purebred elf who favors a highly cerebral way of doing things.
Overall though, both guys are willing to fight for justice--but due to their animosity, they fail to stop a conspiracy between the guard captain, the guildmaster, and Vikko the Lich to cause the apocalypse. After the apocalypse, they have to team up with Jornith to put the world back together again.
Yeah, kinda corny
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On December 04 2012 00:01 Shady Sands wrote:Show nested quote +On December 03 2012 11:26 jcroisdale wrote:
Is this all you wrote of the story? Nope, I've written a little more of this. The general plot is that there's Hakko, and there's Galvus. The two guys hate each other from a war, and because Hakko is physically corrupt--he takes bribes and sleeps around, while Galvus is morally corrupt--he is willing to do anything to get promoted. Also, Hakko is a brutally violent human with some orcish blood, while Galvus is a purebred elf who favors a highly cerebral way of doing things. Overall though, both guys are willing to fight for justice--but due to their animosity, they fail to stop a conspiracy between the guard captain, the guildmaster, and Vikko the Lich to cause the apocalypse. After the apocalypse, they have to team up with Jornith to put the world back together again. Yeah, kinda corny
i like it :3
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EPT
