*headdesk*
Aug. 15th, 2007 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kippurbirdIt seems to be my lot in life to come upon cliched writing and bitch about it to people while making excellent points about how to write things. If only I could get paid to do it. Perhaps one day, I will.
What brings this sentiment to mind is one of the latest offerings of my writing group. I have not met this person yet, I shall do so tomorrow, so I can't comment on their personality, etc. However I am eight pages into their story and I'm hitting my head against the wall. It is called Rise of the Maujus; book I of the ..." I do not know what the "..." is. Apparently it's supposed to be mysterious. I imagine that the author doesn't know yet.
The problem that I'm having with the story so far is that it seems to be hitting every cliche in the the fantasy story cliche handbook. Something mysterious is happening with the gods and the old order is about to end. There's a crown prince who's half brother kills their father and then frames him for the deed. The prince is head of the guard and taught them every thing they know. And it just goes on like that. Oh, and the prose is reminiscent of Paolini.
A pulse of irritation passed through Karatk, as his attention was drawn from the valley below him and far off to the east. Thousands of leagues distant, a tear had opened in the material world’s fabric - a temporary portal through which an Icaraii had entered. He sensed it <--- the Icaraii is referred to as 'it' for several paragraphs until suddenly it gains a gender. I'm not sure what the point is on having it an it. I have Nogard which is an it, but it's an it because it is a book and books don't have genders. I also have Eshe, who is also an it, but it is a shifting god of flame and it, like fire, does not have a gender, or at least, it doesn't keep one very long. Anyway, I dirgress. hover for a long moment, seeking out its intended destination, the very crag on which Karatk stood. He knew the God was searching for him, and yet he did nothing to hide his presence, understanding the confrontation to be a necessary evil. Foreshadowing!
Its bearings gained, his brethren It took me a while to understand this but 'his' refers to Karatk, which means that 'it' is his brethren. And not that 'it' has minions being sent out set out, rising further into the blue painted sky, to soar unseen and undetected by those humans scattered beneath. With a God’s speed and how fast does a God fly? What if it's a snail god? it flew west, black-feathered wings riding invisible currentsAren't all currents invisible? up and over the distant Sithtar Peeks. From those snow-clad slopes, it dropped down into the hazy skies of Karmien and in a matter of breaths it had passed those strange cliff-top citadels, to sweep out across the Messian high-plains. Unmindful of the Hiroth watching far below, it crested the cliffs at the high-plain’s edge, and was lifted further by the sea-fed drafts of the Denal Straights, up and over its dark-watered depths. Like a midnight breeze it grew nearer How exactly does that work now?, rushing past the world beneath, slipping silently over the triremes plowing the ocean’s surface, and up into the rock-strewn harbor of New Carmuss. Ignoring the sprawl of cities and farmer’s fields and the forests of pines and leafy-giants, it finally banked into the skies above the very valley in which Karatk now stood.
His veiled eyes turned to observe its approach, a dark and distant spot growing ever larger, its form slowly gaining definition. Birdlike in shape yet distinctly human, it circled once before landing lightly beside him, the ruffle of feathers announcing its arrival. Its presence was massive and muscular, its head, the likeness of an overgrown raven, its form, huge and human-like. As if flaunting, it extended its vast wings to their fullest reach, before folding them around its body like some feathered-cloak. Karatk grimaced inwardly. All Icaraii could appear human if they chose to, but never this one, always preferring its birthed form.
Thick corded arms ran along the inner edge of its wings, disconnected at the elbows and crossed over its broad, feathered chest in a pose both manlike and defiant. It exhaled a deep sigh as its black-feathered hands settled atop its biceps, long sinewy fingers tipped with dagger-like nails. Its feet were similarly taloned, emerging from under the folds of its wings to grip the cliff-face firmly enough to gouge the unforgiving stone. It towered over Karatk, sleek and daunting, large eyes overwhelmingly expressive and human in their shape and intelligence. TL;DR
Without a word, Karatk returned his gaze to the valley, reluctant to acknowledge that his solitude had been interrupted. It lush surface was crisscrossed with arrow-straight highways and ambling country roads - fertile lands by the looks of it. At its center, rose a massive city, perched precariously atop a modest butte, its highest point a seven towered citadel. Three circular walls of dark gray stone surrounded the looming fortress, with the typical mass of humanity spreading out from the city’s center in progressively smaller estates and buildings. Beyond its outer wall, poised precariously between the fortified embattlements and the butte’s degrading edge, was a teeming collection of four posted huts, wooden lean-tos, and hide tents. It was the usual congregation of those less fortunate souls, who seemed ever-unwilling to part with the safety of the city’s shadow. Humans were a pathetic lot. So he's not human? First I heard of it.
And there's some portunous conversation about how Bird Boy thinks that other Guy should join his cause and Other Guy is Really Old and Thinks that Bird Boy is young and full of Folly. And would know better if he was Old like Old Guy. And Old Guy is beyond the petty squabbling of the younger people and Bird Boy says "For Now". Oh and Bird Boy is named Rrixta. Anyone have any idea how to say that?
Then we skip forward to the Rightful Heir Getting Betrayed By His Half Brother scene.
Ramus Kon stopped short of the familiar black-stained doors, taking a final moment to scrutinize his uniform before entering the King’s Chambers. He wore the standard attire of the Watch, an all black accompaniment of chain mail, padded leather armor, serrated greaves and bracers. He glanced down to find that all his seams were well-aligned; the links of his mail flawless and well-fitted, with every decorative metal skull upon his gloves, belt and sword’s pommel polished clean. My first thought? He's evil, right? Even his black boots were absent of scuffs, thanks to a manservant’s willingness to lend his sleeve - a brief stop on his way up to the Citadel’s heights. In a final instant of preparation, he reached up with both hands and adjusted his blood-red cloak, ensuring that it was worn evenly across both shoulders. the Stu description
All things considered, he was pleased with the condition of his attire. Having come directly from the drill-arena, it could have been much worse. The summons delivered by his half-brother’s page - on his father’s behalf - had been unexpected to say the least.<-- that's important. Yet it was one he’d answered gladly, always eager to spend time with his father.
He straightened his posture in preparation for entering, tilting his square jaw slightly upwards, his dark eyes peering out over high cheekbones with an expression of seriousness. And now I'm imagining his eyes have serious little faces as they peer over a fort made of cheekbones His father awaited him on the other side of those doors, and Ramus knew that the King’s gaze missed nothing - always quick to note any buckle out of place or any seams misaligned. Nitpicky The King was a man of greatness, and as with most men of like-caliber, he demanded greatness from those around him.
Ramus, of course, was used to such pressures, having endured the King’s judgmental gaze since childhood. It had been present at every sparring match in which he’d ever competed, during every political dinner he’d ever attended, and in every battle he’d ever fought. His father was ever watchful and though some may have wilted under such scrutiny, Ramus loved him for it. Understanding that behind the King’s stoic, intimidating exterior, there existed love for his son, and perhaps more importantly, respect. Infodumpy
It was for this reason that Ramus strove for flawlessness Stu in each and every one of his endeavors, never wanting to disappoint the man whose expectations were unparalleled. He was confident that this evening would be no exception, as he fixed his gaze on the doors in front of him, taking a moment to grin back at the iconic skulls protruding from the wood’s surface.
And then a frown - he had been too preoccupied with his uniform to realize that something was amiss - the doors leading to the King’s chambers were unguarded. Absent were the Watchmen who usually stood at attention. Usually, he thought with reproach, more like always. Perhaps they were called within. Let us think about this for a moment. Your half brother's page sent you to see your father with an urgent message. Your father's guards, who are, as you say, ALWAYS there are missing... and you think that nothing is wrong? I'm sorry, but all my faith in you as the hero just died.
He lifted a gloved hand to clasp the black-iron rung hanging from the massive door on his right, and pulled it open with a stiff tug. It swung towards him with a loud creak, opening enough for him to slip past its bulk and into the chamber beyond. To his surprise he was greeted only by more shadows, the cavernous room lit by a single sconce burning at its far end. Its flame wavered like a distant star, looking feeble and insufficient in the room’s vastness. He paused, reaching back to close the door behind him. Um... hello? Big Warrior Type Prince Type Person? No bells of alarm going off here? Hello?
“Father?” he called, his deep voice echoing off the flagstones. He waited for a few breaths, but there was no reply. Perhaps he rests in the backroom. ... No. He does not rest in the back room. The dark is not supposed to be there. They are not throwing you a surprise birthday party. It is a TRAP. He left the door’s threshold, stepping deeper into the chamber, eyes glancing left and right, peering through the darkness at the trophies and tapestries lining the high walls. The heads of countless beasts stared down at him from where they were mounted. They were victims of his father’s hunting prowess, their expressions twisted into the fiercest visages the taxidermist could muster. It was one passion of his father’s that Ramus had never understood. Why hunt down a cave sloth – a large but gentle creature - only to kill it, stuff it, and pose it with a look of ferocity that it never mirrored in nature? If anything, there was humor to be found in the practice, yet his father cherished the trophies and thus Ramus had always remained silent on the subject. Um... whut? Random here.
Grinning at the thought, he returned his attention to the far end of the chamber, where under normal circumstances his father would be standing, bent over a map or scroll of some strategic or political importance, illuminated by a host of blazing torch-stands. The King had always hated shadows. Yet on this night the room was filled with them, where aside from the sconce’s solitary flame, there was little to keep them at bay. It was strange that it would be so dark. And yet no alarm bells are going off here? His half-brother’s page had said it was an urgent matter and thus he had responded quickly, though this was certainly not what he had expected.
“Father?” he called again, this time with increased volume. The only answer he received was a soft splash, as his booted-footfall struck an unseen puddle of liquid. Ramus froze in place, his gaze slowly shifting to the floor beneath him, a feeling of dread creeping across his skin like a swarm of dung-roaches. Only now? His heartbeat quickened as his eyes located his boot. Did it wander off? It had landed at the edge of a dark pool of viscous liquid. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of it, his muscles tensing, feeling strangely weak as the first pulses of adrenaline coursed fresh into his veins. Though it was difficult to see in the poorly-lit chamber, he could vaguely make out a prone figure, lying face-up in the pool’s center.
And then brother dearest shows up after he vomits and angsts some.
His morbid reverie was snapped by a familiar sound - the hail of voices and accompanying footfalls, filtering in from the antechamber beyond. As if in answer, the entrance’s threshold was suddenly alight, the glow of torches slipping unhindered through the gaps between wood and stone. Ramus was too numb to react, and thus watched passively as the doors were pulled open, swinging outward to strike the outer-walls with a resounding impact. The light from a host of torches danced quickly into the dimly-lit chamber, chasing away the lurking shadows to bathe Ramus and his father’s body in a warm glow. Stunned and confused, he instinctively raised a hand to guard against the intruding brightness, watching with horror as thick streams of blood fell from his glove in crimson rivulets. Um.... Okay now.
“By the Gods . . .” gasped a nasally voice - one which Ramus knew immediately. Of course the half brother has a nasally voice
His tear-filled eyes peered past the streams of red, and directly into the appalled face of his half-brother, who stood at the fore of a contingent of Watchmen. Bresus . . . by the Gods, help me. “I . . .” started Ramus, though the sentence died in his throat. He is dead, he wanted to scream, our father is dead, yet angst held him silent. Gag
He watched as his brother’s eyes narrowed to thin slits, the dark pupils within slipping from Ramus and down to their father. Ramus waited for the answering tears, expecting Bresus’ stoic expression to melt away to sorrow. It was a moment of wait which seemed to stretch into an eternity. When he did catch his brother’s response, it was not at all what he had expected, a flicker of amusement which danced ever so briefly across his brother’s round façade. And it was then that Ramus understood. I have been betrayed . . . It took you that long to realize it?
“It is just as I have said,” his half-brother hissed, turning to face his personal guards. “He has murdered our King . . . murdered my very own father.” Bresus spun back towards Ramus with a devilish look, his lips straining to contain a deviant smile. “Kill him,” he shrieked. Drama Queen
The guards were visibly rattled by the command, their skeletal helms turning from Ramus to Bresus in unison. “But Bresus . . .” began the soldiers’ captain, his baritone voice muffled by his helm, its red and black horse-hair crest marking his rank.
“But nothing,” interrupted Bresus, his face suddenly flush with anger. “It is just as I
have said, our father, murdered by his own son . . . my very own brother.” Bresus’ hand flew out from beneath the folds of his black cloak, pointing with trembling fingers towards Ramus. “Look at the scene before you,” he snipped, “he is bathed in our father’s blood. Have you no love for your former King?” Isn't that text book dialog here?
Ramus’ eyes slid to the guards, who one and all stared back at him. I First of the Watch, he thought, you must know I am not capable of this. The captain took a step towards him, the move followed quickly by his men, who spread out in a wide arc at his back. they manage to get behind him now?
“I did not kill my father,” grated Ramus, his attention focusing on the captain, who stood now at the center of a half-moon of Watchmen. Do not test me . . . not now. His anguish was slipping to anger. Ramus knelt first, and then rose to his full height - a hand taller than any other man in the chamber. Of course “You would challenge me here?” he muttered to the Captain, his anger now palpable. “Even as I kneel to mourn my father’s passing?” His eyes flicked to Bresus, and then back to the guard. “You would heed his commands? Where is your logic Captain? You choose to cross blades with me? You would cross blades with your First?” The pain of his father’s death was fading behind a rising tide of anger, a tide which he was eager to embrace.
The captain’s eyes darted to his fellow Watchmen and then back to Bresus, before returning to Ramus, his hand flexing nervously upon the hilt of his sword. “I am sworn to him,” he answered tensely, “I am an extension of his will.”
“You are sworn to protect him,” bellowed Ramus, “you are an extension of Carmuss’ will.” You must know this will not end well for you, his thought laced with frustration. “You are an officer of the Watch,” he continued, “your loyalty lies with your brothers-at-arms.” He stared past the soldier’s faceplate and into the man’s eyes, searching for a hint of reason. “I am First of the Watch,” he said firmly, “heir to the throne of Carmuss.”
“You are heir no longer,” corrected Bresus. His beady eyes Of course switched to the captain. “Kill him now, or consider yourselves accessories to the King’s murder. More of my guard will arrive shortly. You will either follow my command or suffer this traitor’s same fate.” Though his words were high-pitched and frantic, they proved sufficient to compel the guards into action. They began taking slow, measured steps towards Ramus, their eyes revealing hesitance. Why are they listening to him and not their commander?
Ramus felt his jaw crack as his teeth set in frustration, watching with disbelief as they moved to encompass him in a half-circle. “You choose to stand against me?” he grunted. Their advance had dispersed his anguish, and replaced it with pure, unbridled anger. “You cannot take me,” he muttered, a humorless smirk spreading across his trembling face - his eyes focused solely on the captain. “You must know that you cannot take me.” His mind was slipping into a familiar state where instinct overrode thought, where emotions were secondary to survival - a focus found in the throws of battle.
“I do not have to,” the Watchman replied. “There are six of us.”
Ramus laughed coldly. “As I said, captain, you cannot take me.”cliched. Stu. His gloved hand grasped his sword’s hilt and freed its midnight blade in a single, fluid motion, its inlaid Runes glittering in the amber torchlight.Stu weapon “I did not kill my father,” he repeated.
“Enough,” screamed Bresus. “End this . . . now.” Cliche
Ramus’ eyes darted to his half-brother, who was staring back at him from behind the advancing guards. “You are a fool, brother,” he muttered, pained by the truth of the words he was about to speak. “Knew you more of me, you would know that you send these men to their deaths.” Bresus recoiled from his level gaze, looking for a moment as if he meant to flee. of course, because all evil half brothers need other men to do their dirty work for them because they're evil... and yes.
Though his eyes were still focused on his brother, Ramus caught the captain’s signal, a
subtle flick of his sword which sent his men into motion. The two guards at the ends of their half-moon formation darted towards him with swords poised to strike. A feint, he thought, even as the scene seemed to freeze around him. To Ramus’ eye, the converging men no longer looked as if they moved at a normal speed; their approaches suddenly appearing unnaturally slow, leaving Ramus to react with unfair quickness. It had always been this way for him in battle, a rather unique gift which served as his only explanation for why he had never been bested. Two sent to distract me while the others throw their short-blades . . . a technique I myself crafted. Fools . . . Um... I so saw that coming.
Yeah. So I've got.. a hundred odd pages of that. Whee!
What brings this sentiment to mind is one of the latest offerings of my writing group. I have not met this person yet, I shall do so tomorrow, so I can't comment on their personality, etc. However I am eight pages into their story and I'm hitting my head against the wall. It is called Rise of the Maujus; book I of the ..." I do not know what the "..." is. Apparently it's supposed to be mysterious. I imagine that the author doesn't know yet.
The problem that I'm having with the story so far is that it seems to be hitting every cliche in the the fantasy story cliche handbook. Something mysterious is happening with the gods and the old order is about to end. There's a crown prince who's half brother kills their father and then frames him for the deed. The prince is head of the guard and taught them every thing they know. And it just goes on like that. Oh, and the prose is reminiscent of Paolini.
A pulse of irritation passed through Karatk, as his attention was drawn from the valley below him and far off to the east. Thousands of leagues distant, a tear had opened in the material world’s fabric - a temporary portal through which an Icaraii had entered. He sensed it <--- the Icaraii is referred to as 'it' for several paragraphs until suddenly it gains a gender. I'm not sure what the point is on having it an it. I have Nogard which is an it, but it's an it because it is a book and books don't have genders. I also have Eshe, who is also an it, but it is a shifting god of flame and it, like fire, does not have a gender, or at least, it doesn't keep one very long. Anyway, I dirgress. hover for a long moment, seeking out its intended destination, the very crag on which Karatk stood. He knew the God was searching for him, and yet he did nothing to hide his presence, understanding the confrontation to be a necessary evil. Foreshadowing!
Its bearings gained, his brethren It took me a while to understand this but 'his' refers to Karatk, which means that 'it' is his brethren. And not that 'it' has minions being sent out set out, rising further into the blue painted sky, to soar unseen and undetected by those humans scattered beneath. With a God’s speed and how fast does a God fly? What if it's a snail god? it flew west, black-feathered wings riding invisible currentsAren't all currents invisible? up and over the distant Sithtar Peeks. From those snow-clad slopes, it dropped down into the hazy skies of Karmien and in a matter of breaths it had passed those strange cliff-top citadels, to sweep out across the Messian high-plains. Unmindful of the Hiroth watching far below, it crested the cliffs at the high-plain’s edge, and was lifted further by the sea-fed drafts of the Denal Straights, up and over its dark-watered depths. Like a midnight breeze it grew nearer How exactly does that work now?, rushing past the world beneath, slipping silently over the triremes plowing the ocean’s surface, and up into the rock-strewn harbor of New Carmuss. Ignoring the sprawl of cities and farmer’s fields and the forests of pines and leafy-giants, it finally banked into the skies above the very valley in which Karatk now stood.
His veiled eyes turned to observe its approach, a dark and distant spot growing ever larger, its form slowly gaining definition. Birdlike in shape yet distinctly human, it circled once before landing lightly beside him, the ruffle of feathers announcing its arrival. Its presence was massive and muscular, its head, the likeness of an overgrown raven, its form, huge and human-like. As if flaunting, it extended its vast wings to their fullest reach, before folding them around its body like some feathered-cloak. Karatk grimaced inwardly. All Icaraii could appear human if they chose to, but never this one, always preferring its birthed form.
Thick corded arms ran along the inner edge of its wings, disconnected at the elbows and crossed over its broad, feathered chest in a pose both manlike and defiant. It exhaled a deep sigh as its black-feathered hands settled atop its biceps, long sinewy fingers tipped with dagger-like nails. Its feet were similarly taloned, emerging from under the folds of its wings to grip the cliff-face firmly enough to gouge the unforgiving stone. It towered over Karatk, sleek and daunting, large eyes overwhelmingly expressive and human in their shape and intelligence. TL;DR
Without a word, Karatk returned his gaze to the valley, reluctant to acknowledge that his solitude had been interrupted. It lush surface was crisscrossed with arrow-straight highways and ambling country roads - fertile lands by the looks of it. At its center, rose a massive city, perched precariously atop a modest butte, its highest point a seven towered citadel. Three circular walls of dark gray stone surrounded the looming fortress, with the typical mass of humanity spreading out from the city’s center in progressively smaller estates and buildings. Beyond its outer wall, poised precariously between the fortified embattlements and the butte’s degrading edge, was a teeming collection of four posted huts, wooden lean-tos, and hide tents. It was the usual congregation of those less fortunate souls, who seemed ever-unwilling to part with the safety of the city’s shadow. Humans were a pathetic lot. So he's not human? First I heard of it.
And there's some portunous conversation about how Bird Boy thinks that other Guy should join his cause and Other Guy is Really Old and Thinks that Bird Boy is young and full of Folly. And would know better if he was Old like Old Guy. And Old Guy is beyond the petty squabbling of the younger people and Bird Boy says "For Now". Oh and Bird Boy is named Rrixta. Anyone have any idea how to say that?
Then we skip forward to the Rightful Heir Getting Betrayed By His Half Brother scene.
Ramus Kon stopped short of the familiar black-stained doors, taking a final moment to scrutinize his uniform before entering the King’s Chambers. He wore the standard attire of the Watch, an all black accompaniment of chain mail, padded leather armor, serrated greaves and bracers. He glanced down to find that all his seams were well-aligned; the links of his mail flawless and well-fitted, with every decorative metal skull upon his gloves, belt and sword’s pommel polished clean. My first thought? He's evil, right? Even his black boots were absent of scuffs, thanks to a manservant’s willingness to lend his sleeve - a brief stop on his way up to the Citadel’s heights. In a final instant of preparation, he reached up with both hands and adjusted his blood-red cloak, ensuring that it was worn evenly across both shoulders. the Stu description
All things considered, he was pleased with the condition of his attire. Having come directly from the drill-arena, it could have been much worse. The summons delivered by his half-brother’s page - on his father’s behalf - had been unexpected to say the least.<-- that's important. Yet it was one he’d answered gladly, always eager to spend time with his father.
He straightened his posture in preparation for entering, tilting his square jaw slightly upwards, his dark eyes peering out over high cheekbones with an expression of seriousness. And now I'm imagining his eyes have serious little faces as they peer over a fort made of cheekbones His father awaited him on the other side of those doors, and Ramus knew that the King’s gaze missed nothing - always quick to note any buckle out of place or any seams misaligned. Nitpicky The King was a man of greatness, and as with most men of like-caliber, he demanded greatness from those around him.
Ramus, of course, was used to such pressures, having endured the King’s judgmental gaze since childhood. It had been present at every sparring match in which he’d ever competed, during every political dinner he’d ever attended, and in every battle he’d ever fought. His father was ever watchful and though some may have wilted under such scrutiny, Ramus loved him for it. Understanding that behind the King’s stoic, intimidating exterior, there existed love for his son, and perhaps more importantly, respect. Infodumpy
It was for this reason that Ramus strove for flawlessness Stu in each and every one of his endeavors, never wanting to disappoint the man whose expectations were unparalleled. He was confident that this evening would be no exception, as he fixed his gaze on the doors in front of him, taking a moment to grin back at the iconic skulls protruding from the wood’s surface.
And then a frown - he had been too preoccupied with his uniform to realize that something was amiss - the doors leading to the King’s chambers were unguarded. Absent were the Watchmen who usually stood at attention. Usually, he thought with reproach, more like always. Perhaps they were called within. Let us think about this for a moment. Your half brother's page sent you to see your father with an urgent message. Your father's guards, who are, as you say, ALWAYS there are missing... and you think that nothing is wrong? I'm sorry, but all my faith in you as the hero just died.
He lifted a gloved hand to clasp the black-iron rung hanging from the massive door on his right, and pulled it open with a stiff tug. It swung towards him with a loud creak, opening enough for him to slip past its bulk and into the chamber beyond. To his surprise he was greeted only by more shadows, the cavernous room lit by a single sconce burning at its far end. Its flame wavered like a distant star, looking feeble and insufficient in the room’s vastness. He paused, reaching back to close the door behind him. Um... hello? Big Warrior Type Prince Type Person? No bells of alarm going off here? Hello?
“Father?” he called, his deep voice echoing off the flagstones. He waited for a few breaths, but there was no reply. Perhaps he rests in the backroom. ... No. He does not rest in the back room. The dark is not supposed to be there. They are not throwing you a surprise birthday party. It is a TRAP. He left the door’s threshold, stepping deeper into the chamber, eyes glancing left and right, peering through the darkness at the trophies and tapestries lining the high walls. The heads of countless beasts stared down at him from where they were mounted. They were victims of his father’s hunting prowess, their expressions twisted into the fiercest visages the taxidermist could muster. It was one passion of his father’s that Ramus had never understood. Why hunt down a cave sloth – a large but gentle creature - only to kill it, stuff it, and pose it with a look of ferocity that it never mirrored in nature? If anything, there was humor to be found in the practice, yet his father cherished the trophies and thus Ramus had always remained silent on the subject. Um... whut? Random here.
Grinning at the thought, he returned his attention to the far end of the chamber, where under normal circumstances his father would be standing, bent over a map or scroll of some strategic or political importance, illuminated by a host of blazing torch-stands. The King had always hated shadows. Yet on this night the room was filled with them, where aside from the sconce’s solitary flame, there was little to keep them at bay. It was strange that it would be so dark. And yet no alarm bells are going off here? His half-brother’s page had said it was an urgent matter and thus he had responded quickly, though this was certainly not what he had expected.
“Father?” he called again, this time with increased volume. The only answer he received was a soft splash, as his booted-footfall struck an unseen puddle of liquid. Ramus froze in place, his gaze slowly shifting to the floor beneath him, a feeling of dread creeping across his skin like a swarm of dung-roaches. Only now? His heartbeat quickened as his eyes located his boot. Did it wander off? It had landed at the edge of a dark pool of viscous liquid. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of it, his muscles tensing, feeling strangely weak as the first pulses of adrenaline coursed fresh into his veins. Though it was difficult to see in the poorly-lit chamber, he could vaguely make out a prone figure, lying face-up in the pool’s center.
And then brother dearest shows up after he vomits and angsts some.
His morbid reverie was snapped by a familiar sound - the hail of voices and accompanying footfalls, filtering in from the antechamber beyond. As if in answer, the entrance’s threshold was suddenly alight, the glow of torches slipping unhindered through the gaps between wood and stone. Ramus was too numb to react, and thus watched passively as the doors were pulled open, swinging outward to strike the outer-walls with a resounding impact. The light from a host of torches danced quickly into the dimly-lit chamber, chasing away the lurking shadows to bathe Ramus and his father’s body in a warm glow. Stunned and confused, he instinctively raised a hand to guard against the intruding brightness, watching with horror as thick streams of blood fell from his glove in crimson rivulets. Um.... Okay now.
“By the Gods . . .” gasped a nasally voice - one which Ramus knew immediately. Of course the half brother has a nasally voice
His tear-filled eyes peered past the streams of red, and directly into the appalled face of his half-brother, who stood at the fore of a contingent of Watchmen. Bresus . . . by the Gods, help me. “I . . .” started Ramus, though the sentence died in his throat. He is dead, he wanted to scream, our father is dead, yet angst held him silent. Gag
He watched as his brother’s eyes narrowed to thin slits, the dark pupils within slipping from Ramus and down to their father. Ramus waited for the answering tears, expecting Bresus’ stoic expression to melt away to sorrow. It was a moment of wait which seemed to stretch into an eternity. When he did catch his brother’s response, it was not at all what he had expected, a flicker of amusement which danced ever so briefly across his brother’s round façade. And it was then that Ramus understood. I have been betrayed . . . It took you that long to realize it?
“It is just as I have said,” his half-brother hissed, turning to face his personal guards. “He has murdered our King . . . murdered my very own father.” Bresus spun back towards Ramus with a devilish look, his lips straining to contain a deviant smile. “Kill him,” he shrieked. Drama Queen
The guards were visibly rattled by the command, their skeletal helms turning from Ramus to Bresus in unison. “But Bresus . . .” began the soldiers’ captain, his baritone voice muffled by his helm, its red and black horse-hair crest marking his rank.
“But nothing,” interrupted Bresus, his face suddenly flush with anger. “It is just as I
have said, our father, murdered by his own son . . . my very own brother.” Bresus’ hand flew out from beneath the folds of his black cloak, pointing with trembling fingers towards Ramus. “Look at the scene before you,” he snipped, “he is bathed in our father’s blood. Have you no love for your former King?” Isn't that text book dialog here?
Ramus’ eyes slid to the guards, who one and all stared back at him. I First of the Watch, he thought, you must know I am not capable of this. The captain took a step towards him, the move followed quickly by his men, who spread out in a wide arc at his back. they manage to get behind him now?
“I did not kill my father,” grated Ramus, his attention focusing on the captain, who stood now at the center of a half-moon of Watchmen. Do not test me . . . not now. His anguish was slipping to anger. Ramus knelt first, and then rose to his full height - a hand taller than any other man in the chamber. Of course “You would challenge me here?” he muttered to the Captain, his anger now palpable. “Even as I kneel to mourn my father’s passing?” His eyes flicked to Bresus, and then back to the guard. “You would heed his commands? Where is your logic Captain? You choose to cross blades with me? You would cross blades with your First?” The pain of his father’s death was fading behind a rising tide of anger, a tide which he was eager to embrace.
The captain’s eyes darted to his fellow Watchmen and then back to Bresus, before returning to Ramus, his hand flexing nervously upon the hilt of his sword. “I am sworn to him,” he answered tensely, “I am an extension of his will.”
“You are sworn to protect him,” bellowed Ramus, “you are an extension of Carmuss’ will.” You must know this will not end well for you, his thought laced with frustration. “You are an officer of the Watch,” he continued, “your loyalty lies with your brothers-at-arms.” He stared past the soldier’s faceplate and into the man’s eyes, searching for a hint of reason. “I am First of the Watch,” he said firmly, “heir to the throne of Carmuss.”
“You are heir no longer,” corrected Bresus. His beady eyes Of course switched to the captain. “Kill him now, or consider yourselves accessories to the King’s murder. More of my guard will arrive shortly. You will either follow my command or suffer this traitor’s same fate.” Though his words were high-pitched and frantic, they proved sufficient to compel the guards into action. They began taking slow, measured steps towards Ramus, their eyes revealing hesitance. Why are they listening to him and not their commander?
Ramus felt his jaw crack as his teeth set in frustration, watching with disbelief as they moved to encompass him in a half-circle. “You choose to stand against me?” he grunted. Their advance had dispersed his anguish, and replaced it with pure, unbridled anger. “You cannot take me,” he muttered, a humorless smirk spreading across his trembling face - his eyes focused solely on the captain. “You must know that you cannot take me.” His mind was slipping into a familiar state where instinct overrode thought, where emotions were secondary to survival - a focus found in the throws of battle.
“I do not have to,” the Watchman replied. “There are six of us.”
Ramus laughed coldly. “As I said, captain, you cannot take me.”cliched. Stu. His gloved hand grasped his sword’s hilt and freed its midnight blade in a single, fluid motion, its inlaid Runes glittering in the amber torchlight.Stu weapon “I did not kill my father,” he repeated.
“Enough,” screamed Bresus. “End this . . . now.” Cliche
Ramus’ eyes darted to his half-brother, who was staring back at him from behind the advancing guards. “You are a fool, brother,” he muttered, pained by the truth of the words he was about to speak. “Knew you more of me, you would know that you send these men to their deaths.” Bresus recoiled from his level gaze, looking for a moment as if he meant to flee. of course, because all evil half brothers need other men to do their dirty work for them because they're evil... and yes.
Though his eyes were still focused on his brother, Ramus caught the captain’s signal, a
subtle flick of his sword which sent his men into motion. The two guards at the ends of their half-moon formation darted towards him with swords poised to strike. A feint, he thought, even as the scene seemed to freeze around him. To Ramus’ eye, the converging men no longer looked as if they moved at a normal speed; their approaches suddenly appearing unnaturally slow, leaving Ramus to react with unfair quickness. It had always been this way for him in battle, a rather unique gift which served as his only explanation for why he had never been bested. Two sent to distract me while the others throw their short-blades . . . a technique I myself crafted. Fools . . . Um... I so saw that coming.
Yeah. So I've got.. a hundred odd pages of that. Whee!
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Date: 2007-08-16 05:07 pm (UTC)Heh. That would be interesting, I think.
Compared to that, the rough draft I'm correcting of my prologue seems ready for publishing. Compared to that, at least. Completely unrelated here, but do you think it's stupid to keep in lots of detail about someone's armor? I'm wondering if I should just take most of it out, since the armor will just disappear till probably the third book manuscript (The character who wears it dies; the 'evil' person was too strong, and the character who is forced to take on her position laughs her ass of when she's told she must find it).
It depends, I think, on the importance of the armor. And even then, I think you should try and write something that captures the...flavor of the armor, what is the most striking bit about it, instead of a detailed description of every chain link.
Have fun with those hundred pages, and do be courteous enough to share any more of you're lovely visuals while reading the prose.
It's how I stay sane, while reading these things. =D
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Date: 2007-08-16 05:31 pm (UTC)I would never describe the bloody chain links. That's... stupid. The armor, well, it and a sword are the birthright to whoever gets chosen to sacrifice their life for a cause every millenia, whether they like it or not.
Lets see what did I put... blahblahblah... floaty shadow cloak ... basically what I have described is that it looks like a wolf, that its white, and I replaced crappy 2-year-old description with swirly strength symbols that my 'evil' guy has scratched up, so that they don't work. Evil's not the best way to describe him, but since he's wearing shadow he's going to be branded as such. Back to the point. It's only five sentences of quick description interspersed with the character getting her ass kicked around.
Maybe I should just ask you to read it. I need to show it to someone who will actually tear it apart when they see it. Nobody seems willing to be mean.
Really? I do it for good books, too. I went as far as to do impersonations of every dark lord I could remember last night, to prove my point that they ALWAYS wait for the protagonist to come get them at some point. Eragon was added in because he is a sociopath.
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Date: 2007-08-16 06:17 pm (UTC)I was using some hyperbole there. =D
Back to the point. It's only five sentences of quick description interspersed with the character getting her ass kicked around.
That works. If you notice here, the description completely holds the story up.
Maybe I should just ask you to read it. I need to show it to someone who will actually tear it apart when they see it. Nobody seems willing to be mean.
I dunno if I'd call it mean...perhaps blunt? Insanely blunt?
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Date: 2007-08-16 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 06:49 pm (UTC)I don't know how old they are. The group is for adults though, So no younger than twenty five I imagine. I shall meet them for the first time tonight.
Yes, that's more descriptive. I used mean, well because that's what everyone says. I give them a red pen and say to be ruthless... they say that that would be mean and instead praise me for writing. People have issues.
Heh. See, I take people at their word. They want ruthless, I give them ruthless. Besides while praise is nice, I like to know what does and doesn't work, etc.
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Date: 2007-08-16 07:06 pm (UTC)Okay, I find it weird that I can write better than this person, then. Especially since I've only had one person say I need an editor, so I've had to learn from myself and the internet what is 'right' and 'wrong'.
Exactly! But I like ruthless, unlike many people. That's why most English teachers are aggravating. They say something is wrong, but then they turn around and don't explain why. They also like to avoid telling you what they want to see in essays, in my experience. The only time I saw that change was in summer school this year. The teacher said right from the start what he would take marks off for. (I fast-tracked, it would be shameful to fail English)
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Date: 2007-08-20 05:06 pm (UTC)Apparently he's in the medical field and so doesn't have the same practice at writing than other people might.
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Date: 2007-08-17 09:19 pm (UTC)...Damn. That would have made the books much better. X(
*sigh* Does it not count if the Dark Lieutenant abandons his post and heads for the hills with his henchmen when the heroes come a-knocking, instead of trying to fight the massive rebellion (literally) at his Dark Castle doorstep? I tried to write a story when I was younger, but due to trying to reconcile all the... inconsistencies, let us say, and timeline issues, I stopped.
..Say, does it not count either if there's no real "Dark Lord" so much as a "Dark Organization"? No real 'boss', per se, but maybe multiple Dark Semi-Lords? A Dark Council? :) Bleh... what if the Dark Lord is the good guy, and has to conquer the lands for a good cause? Haven't seen that one... much. Wait, Golden Sun. Darn...
OK, what if the Dark Lord was the main character? :D The only problem is that there is much opportunity to make him an angsty Gary Stu who complains that he must hide and not have any friends because the 'heroes' would use them against him... I think I'm babbling. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-18 12:41 am (UTC)I've made my 'dark lord' character into a second viewpoint. He's less woeful than my main character, though. He's around 700, and the main character is 14/15 at first, and in the second book she's 18, so he has more experience with death than her. He doesn't angst either, though he does kick everyone around because he's built up strength and is just plain smart (something many villains lack).
Isn't it the heroes job to angst about their friends being in danger of getting used? Or is my bad guy just weird because he strolls around in the open and has a preschool size son that he actually keeps with him? Also, do you think he's weird because he likes blue over black red and purple?
Also, with my impersonations I kept it strictly to Dark Lord figures, though I would say that even if an organization retreats they must be mocked for sticking around so long in the first place. If the dark lord is the good guy... well I'm not the right person to ask that since I like my Dark Lord too much for others' comfort and want to cry about his inevitable demise.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 08:37 pm (UTC)SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS
I cringed both when Nagini died and Hedwig died,
END SPOILERS
so I think I'm far too kind to fictional animals. *rolls eyes* And no, there's nothing wrong with your Dark Lord preferring blue... heck, when I try to do SYMPATHETIC Dark Lords, they end up with blue, yellow, and green as their favorite colors. >_>
SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS
I cringed both when Nagini died and Hedwig died,
END SPOILERS
so I think I'm far too kind to fictional animals. *rolls eyes* And no, there's nothing wrong with your Dark Lord preferring blue... heck, when I try to do SYMPATHETIC Dark Lords, they end up with blue, yellow, and green as their favorite colors. >_> <_< Yes, that is the putrid smell of self-insertion.
And that sounds like a nice Dark Lord... and personally, Dark Lords strolling about in the open make far more sense to me. I'm writing an H.P. fanfiction where the Dark Lord (who isn't Voldemort...) actually holds public rallies for his cause, gives speeches, etc. That's how they usually take power in totalitarian countries, right? Force, yes, but also massive propaganda efforts?
And my attitudes towards Dark Lords vary with the Dark Lord... I have the OMGEVUL!!!11! ones, and the sympathetic ones. >_> Strangely enough, my OMGEVUL!!!1!! one is the one more likely to wander around his castle in a 'perfectionist'
fury, screaming about inefficency, whining about how nobody can possibly equal his greatness, and recommending that everyone go on HIS insane dietary regiment. Much like the "King" in the above story. >_>
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Date: 2007-08-20 12:25 am (UTC)And I guess my book is twisted then, because 70% of the main characters stamped as good guy die, while only 60% of the bad guys die. Maybe thats because it's a bunch of hand chosen geniuses against a bunch of people who insist on following the protagonist around though. either way, its time for the heroes to pay in blood.
Well my dark lord, he actually strolls up to the good guys many times, because he only wears his pretty black clothes and shows off his fiery eyes when pissed off and ready to go on a rampage. They don't always stroll around smiting people, after all. Mine doesn't do perfectionist fury, or insanity, though. Which is surprising since he's been trapped for 500 years.
Its fine to be kind to fictional animals *waves around her character's dragon* I mean, this guy barely gets a scratch on him throughout my entire series. And I think the first death you mentioned was randomly cruel.