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Post by Kaez on May 10, 2015 21:45:06 GMT -5
Paris
March 10th, 1794
“We believe they’re being held in a specific spot in the Catacombs.”
Edward Troy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Some people just didn’t listen.
“Lots of people go missing in the Catacombs, monsieur,” Edward responded. He had his back to his guests; he liked to make them guess at his emotions, though he was sure the frustrated tone in his voice probably told the whole story.
“Yes, but most of those people are not of the Fae.”
Edward raised an eyebrow; he wondered why this fat Jacobin had not led with that. He began to regret the tone of distanced hostility he'd maintained since the busy-body clerk had entered his apartment.
“I can tell by your silence that I now have your interest, monsieur Troy,” his guest continued, “shall I elaborate?”
Edward turned around and looked his guest straight in the eye. Gaspard Etienne, the perspiring, plum-shaped man who overflowed the armrests of his seat, was not merely a rumored member of the Jacobin Club, but believed to have ties to Robespierre himself. Edward walked toward him before seating himself on the chair directly opposite. He leaned back, his gaze still locked on Gaspard, his hands forming into a steeple.
“Continue,” he said, awarding the man his full attention. “What manner of fae are we speaking of? I can assume since you’re willing to pay my fee that it is no mere band of pixies, yes?” Gaspard drew a handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. The summer heat had made its way into the room, but Gaspard's face was extravagantly wet. Edward suspected his nerves were getting the best of him.
“If only it were that small,” he muttered as he finished wiping the beads of sweat away. “No, monsieur Troy, the Fae in question is an Angel.” Edward lowered his hand-steeple and leaned forward, his brow raising. Angels were extraordinarily powerful creatures; the progenitor of all other Fae, feared and awed since the earliest of pagan times.
Edward cleared his throat. “I pray you’ll pardon my skepticism, but that sounds rather... well, impossible,” Parker insisted. “Angels are beyond powerful. They're not held captive by some party of revolutionary vagabonds.”
“No, monsieur, it is all too real. She was young. Inexperienced. A child, almost." Gaspard wiped his forehead again.
Edward's skepticism was not entirely sated. "What was she doing here? The only Angels I’ve ever seen were... well, they were great warriors. Powerful, stoic, peerless in battle when compared to any human.”
Gaspard's bloated cheeks let loose a loud huff. “She was in love," he sighed, his eyes downcast. "With a human. With my son, monsieur." Gaspard swallowed hard. "He's missing as well."
Edward closed his eyes a moment, drawing a deep breath, trying to take it all in. The situation was becoming clearer, and suddenly the weight of its reality fell on him. “So that is why you care,” he said, “that's why you came. Your son.”
Gaspard looked away again, almost as if he was ashamed, before he met Edward’s eyes yet again. “Not all of Robespierre's friends share his hatred of magic and the Fae.” His voice was solemn as he spoke, “in fact I have come to love that girl as if she were my own daughter. The girl's father is like the Angels you're familiar with, a proud warrior, and I believe an Archangel. She doesn't much like to talk about it. If anything happened to her, though, he may be persuaded to call an Angelic Crusade on humanity.” The shame was gone as he said that, replaced by a distressed frown. The surge of anxiety was contagious, Edward attempting to mask his concern with a distanced facade. He was beginning to suspect he was in more than he could handle.
“I know who took them, monsieur Troy,” Gaspard clarified with a stern tone. “A cultish clique who claim solidarity to the Jacobins; they are pretenders, a pack of murderers.” Gaspard dabbed at his forehead again. Edward stood up and walked back to look out his window.
A slow minute of uncomfortable silence passed between them before Edward broke it with a quiet question. “Some would say the same about your little club, monsieur. We all know how your master Robespierre loves the guillotine.”
Gaspard arched his short neck. “Would it surprise you to know that I am not actually a Jacobin?” Given the rumors Edward had repeatedly heard about the man, this seemed like a stretch. He half turned towards Gaspard so he could see him out his right eye, silently giving him leave to continue.
“I only do some of their member’s finances, and so of course I pretend to share their politics. In order to keep my head, you understand. For yes, Master Robespierre does... have a certain fondness for decapitation."
Edward smirked. “A smart enough ploy. There are worse people to make friends with than Robespierre and his lackeys.”
“I manage quite well for myself,” Gaspard's voice came from behind him, “but that is neither here nor there; what is here is that I am in need of your particular skills to save my son and my future-daughter in law.”
Edward considered the proposition. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I may not be the kind of hunter you're hoping for. I know no practical magic.” He turned to Gaspard and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Oh, I'm well award,” Gaspard said, finally straining to his feet. “That is, in fact, what makes you such a good asset in this case; I sent two men into the tunnels beneath a nearby cour de miracles when they were first kidnapped two days ago. Very skilled spellweavers, the both of them, fit, clever, well-learned.” He paused, as if to let that sink in. Edward got the point.
“The cult sent me back their heads along with a message that they now intended to sacrifice the girl during the next full moon at midnight.” Gaspard motioned toward the window, "which is tonight."
Edward grabbed his watch from his jacket pocket and gazed at the face. It was a little past four o’clock in the evening. He scowled; if he was to accept this job, Gaspard may have waited too long to find him.
“I sought you out because I know exactly what it is that you do. You practice enchantments and enhancement magic, other than that you are also, so the rumors say, one of the most skilled duelists in the city.”
Edward puffed his chest out slightly at that last remark. He was proud, in particular, of his dueling successes: one of his few vices. He turned around again and looked out of the window at the setting sun.
“You know my rates, as well, I take it,” he said, not breaking his gaze as the orange and distant sky.
“A number that large is hard to forget.”
Edward smiled. “I’ll accept your contract. I will brave this cult and return your kin to you. But, and I do realize this is on short notice, I will need assistance and quickly. You've not given me much time.”
“I’ve already gathered some men for the tunnels,” Gaspard chirped, a new optimism in his voice. Edward grinned again; he appreciated a client who came so prepared.
“Am I to assume your carriage awaits as well?"
“As a matter of fact, yes," Gaspard said. "But do hurry in your preparations, we haven’t much time.” Edward smirked and nodded curtly in the affirmative. After Gaspard walked out, Edward re-checked his watch. Twenty minutes was all he needed to get ready. With a few deep breaths, he closed the curtains on the window, and turned toward his armory. This was going to call for a lot of equipment.
One hour later.
“Do you have enough weapons, monsieur?”
Edward smiled wickedly in response to the mercenary’s question, tugging his the thick leather greatcoat over his hooded vest. His body, beneath the coast, was covered in tools. Eight pistols in total, two at his hips, two over his backside, two under the shoulder, and two across the chest. These were complemented by a knife in his boot, a sabre at right side near one of his pistols, a hatchet at his left by the other, and completing the set was a polished halberd in his hands, a personal favorite.
“In my experience hunting,” Edward responded, eyeing for the entrance, “it is very wise to be as well armed as possible. No matter if it's demons, werewolves, or just a few ambitious cultists. You never know when you might come across the unexpected.” Edward’s father had first given him that advice, many years ago. Edward himself would one day tell his son that. Two pistols per limb was a bit of a family tradition.
The carriage halted as Edward concluded. "The entrance, monsieur," Gaspard announced. "And your assistants."
Edward admired eight silhouettes of well-armed men standing near an open manhole and lowered himself from the carriage. “Right. I’ll drop down first,” he said positioning himself near the open manhole. One of the assistants opened his mouth, but before any words could escape, Edward had positioned his halberd vertically and dropped in.
He was immediately overwhelmed by the smell. It wasn’t the usual fecal, decaying odor of a sewer. There was something astringent and acidic in the air, like spoiled tomatoes and wine. Goblins.
He took a step away from the open manhole, Gaspard shouting something in the distance as the other eight men slowly descended in a more cautious manner than Edward had.
One of the mercenaries inhaled sharply, then gagged. "Goblin filth. Looks like we've got blood to spill before we take ten paces."
Edward frowned as he looked around the dim sewer channel, before finally setting a pair of yellow eyes and batty ears nestled among a pile of filth. “You’d be surprised, my young friend.”
Edward walked toward the eyes slowly and deliberately, holding his hands up, palms forward. “The surface-dwellers come in peace. They're looking for an Angel taken by some bad men.” The goblin jumped at these last words to Edward’s mild delight, while the mercenaries jerked and startled. Edward couldn't notice that it was a well-dressed goblin. Which, by goblin standards, meant it wasn't nude, but actually draped with a ragged sack of sorts. This particular specimen wasn't much over a meter tall, pale yellow skin and dark yellow eyes, long pointed ears and a characteristically goblin-esque sharp, angled face and a bald head, completed by three clawed toes and three long fingers. The little creature took three steps towards him before hissing and speaking.
“Delbin know bad men!” The goblin cried. “Bad men kill Delbin sire and Delbin clan, yes! Bad men make old words and kill goblin for magic. Delbin hate them, yes!”
Edward smiled and looked back to his men. "You Frenchmen are always looking to spill blood. Why hurt a goblin?"
Delbin shrunk away. "Hurt goblin? Hurt Delbin?"
"No, no, little friend," Edward reassured. He knelt down next to the little goblin and looked him right in the eye. “In fact, could you help me find these bad men that hurt your people. They have friends of ours, too, and wish to hurt them. We want to hurt them first.” Delbin looked at him suspiciously for a minute. Finally the goblin nodded rapidly and motioned for the group to follow.
“Come with Delbin, Delbin show you to not trapped die!”
Edward stood up as the goblin ran forward, but was shalted by a hand grabbing his shoulder. He and a mercenary met eye-to-eye. Edward knew what the mercenary was going to say before he said it.
“We shouldn’t trust the goblin. They’re shifty an-”
“And what?” Edward interrupted, eager to get moving. “Ugly, misshapen? Poor aesthetics? Goblins may be a bit on the stupid side, but they have a deep love for their family and their clan and we're going to use that to our advantage."
“How do you know the goblin is talking about our cultists?" another mercenary asked.
“I don’t know, son, how many groups of people that live in these catacombs perform rituals in dead languages with goblin skulls? Now come on, we're in a hurry, if you didn't know.”
The trip was not a short one, and not made any shorter by Delbin's antics and obsession with sharing poorly-spoken anecdotes. Even Edward began, after an hour of wandering, to wonder if trusting a stray goblin to lead the way was his finest judgment. Slowly, though, they began to reach stretches of catacomb that had been cleaned, that stank less, that bore the marks of torches. The cultists may have been a bunch of murderers, but they weren’t complete savages it seemed.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” one of the mercenaries said.
“Feel bad, yes. Bad men kill good men with magic like bad men kill Delbin clan with magic. Bad and fear, yes!" Delbin chimed in from the front.
“So I’ve heard,” Edward said examining a marking on a wall. “My employer said they killed two very accomplished magic users.”
Delbin snorted in response. “Magic is bad," Delbin explained. “Magic bad like bad men book. Old book is baddest bad."
“Book? What book, Delbin?" Edward asked. The goblin stopped walking and put a hand on his head. Edward knelt down next to him. The mercenaries sighed impatiently.
“Delbin saw book," the goblin whispered. “Very old. Spoke words to Delbin in Delbin head. Made Delbin hurt.”
The goblin shivered uncomfortably and turned to continue walking. "Almost at bad men now."
Edward watched him walk away for a moment before following again. There was no lie in the goblin’s eyes. Why had Edward never heard of some devilish book used by the cultists? Before he had the time to dwell on the thought, they had arrived at an unusually large opening in the catacombs. There were more paths to the right and left of it, but the goblin was focused on looking down into the large, central room. Delbin motioned downward.
Edward took a few quiet steps forward into the room and peered from the ledge beyond. On the floor below, there were dozens of men in robes gathered around a stone table, while others in plain clothes stood more distantly. He could hear quiet chanting and the sound of an odd, distant instrument. On the central stone table was a squirming figure barely visible in the dim lighting, restrained, sobbing loudly. Edward had no trouble discerning that the strapped figure was a young girl -- her whole silhouette glowed. She had an ethereal, otherworldly glimmer to her whole body.
Edward had found his Angel.
It was then that he noticed a second table, smaller, with fewer cultists gathered nearby, at the far side of the room. To his satisfaction it seemed to be a boy. Gaspard's son.
Edward took a few quiet steps backward and spoke in soft tones. “Thank you Delbin,” he said, kneeling down and patting the goblin on the head. The creature was trembling in fear. “I pray that you stay out of this fight, and never have to see the bad men again in all your days.” He looked at the goblin in time to see him nod, and scurry away in a vanish. Edward returned his attention to his eight assistants.
“Less than half of them are armed, maybe twenty in all. Add the twenty-five in robes and the sentries stationed on the mid-level and we have a total of fifty men to potentially fight. I see no demons, and there's no scent of their taint. We can do this. ” He stood up and turned to the men. Nine on fifty. He'd faced worse odds. Four of the mercenaries had the sense to bring rifles with them, and he smiled at them, a plan forming in his mind.
“The four of you with rifles take out any guards on the mid level quietly, including the sentries. The cult is over-confident, as I smell no wards to trigger, so you can safely take positions where the sentries are. Then between the rest of you, two hide by the left entrance way on the ground level, two more by the right. I'll cause a distraction to clear out the non-combatants, and after they clear you'll charge and the riflers will open fire. I'll get our hostages, you just need to keep me alive.” Each man nodded in the affirmative, ready for action. Edward nodded back, and they all moved quietly onto the ledge that overlooked the room before descending either of the staircases that led to the middle and lower floors.
Edward himself stepped toward the ledge and breathed deep, gripping his halberd in hand. He was mustering what he could of his inner power, trying to will what he could on short notice of a magical increase in strength, speed, reflexes. The few deep breaths didn't make him feel like his younger self, not quite, but there was no need to make things too easy; half the point in a good fight was a few moments of doubt and fear. Satisfied his enhancements, he breathed deep and channeled one final spell. His bones needed to be unbreakable, at least for a few seconds.
Then he stepped off the ledge.
The fall was short but sharp and within a few seconds he had slammed hard into the stone floor just inches behind the cultist. So close. He scowled, wishing he would have gotten to see the look on the man's face as he hefted his halberd and drove it into the cultist's skull with a satisfying crunch of a sound and an instantaneous cry of pain. The music faded to a halt and the crowd stopped and turned. The eyes fell on the halberd, the skull, the pool of blood, the intruder armed to the teeth. Edward smiled. That was the expression he was waiting for. Time to go to work. With a dramatic slowness, he dropped the great-coat off of his form, revealing his sword, hatchet, and myriad pistols. Then he methodically raised the hood attached to his vest, and lowered his head. He spoke but one syllable.
“Boo.”
An uproar of screams echoed off of the stone walls. As several armed cultists leaped toward him, he yanked a pistol from his belt and made one careful shot straight to the iron latch that united the straps which pinned the Angel to the table. The riflemen opened fire, and the sound of the guns was followed by the thuds of several bodies falling to the stone floor. The next minute was a resounding cacophony of rifles and falling bodies until the four on the ground floor broke through the door guards and surged in.
Edward locked eyes with the cultist leader as the last of his mercenaries made their way into the room. His mercenaries added pistol fire to the bloody symphony and caught those cultists who sought to escape through the side passages. The leader shouted out to his men something about "containment", and all but five of the hoods surged in. Three surrounded the leader as he moved towards the table. Moving the ritual forward, Edward feared. The remaining two lifted the boy off of his table and started to move him closer. Edward drew a pistol from his hip and fired at one of them and the cultist collapsed to his knees. The boy writhed and shook free of the other captor and bolted toward the far side of the room for cover.
With that finished, Edward dropped the spent pistol and reached behind him, pulling the halberd out of his victim’s skull in time to block a sword swing from his left. Sloppy, he silently berated himself, pushing the man back and spinning the halberd to thrust the point into his chest. His father would have flayed him for a mistake like that. Quietly he whispered a silent apology to the old man’s ghost as he let the halberd go and pulled the other pistol on his hip in time to shoot a man charging recklessly with an axe. He looked towards the dais again. The cult leader was gone and the table was empty. A quick scan of the room revealed two cultists guarding a distant archway leading to another room. Edward made a note of his position before turning to look for Gaspard’s son. He found him hiding behind a table, peering around with surprising curiosity. What was so important to search for at a moment like this?
Edward made a run for him as he dodged another clumsy sword swing from a passing cultist. He flipped the pistol still in his hand around and used its butt as a club, knocking the man out just as a rifle bullet finished the job. Another cultist, this time a hood, rushed him. Edward stopped and braced himself for a sword strike, then swore as he ducked a ball of fire shot from the cultist’s empty hand.
“Bloody magic,” he groaned to himself, as he stood up again. He pulled the hatchet from its spot at his hip and approached the cultist more carefully. He dodged another fireball, the heated air stinging his skin, and only barely avoided a following sword strike that just was no more than an inch from grazing his cheek. Edward managed to plant his hatchet in the magician’s shoulder before the spectacle could continue. He made the split-second decision to catch the sword falling from the hood's limp hand and held it out to Gaspard's son as he approached the table.
“Here,” he said, handing the boy the sword, “Your father sent me, take it.” The boy reached for the sword and weighed it in his hand. Had he been fatter he would have looked exactly like a younger version of his father. Edward couldn’t help but smile at that, as he looked away towards the fighting. Either the men Gaspard had picked were a particularly talented bunch, or all of the plains-clothes cultists that had stayed to fight were as terrible as the ones he had taken down. All that remained were a few hoods now, with the riflemen having joined the melee push toward the far room.
“My name is Arno.”
Edward had been caught in surveying the field and suddenly remembered his young charge, turning back to the boy who was looking at him expectantly.
“Arno,” he said weakly as he leaned to withdraw his hatchet from the cultist's shoulder. “I am here to save your beloved, and in the mean time you must try and stay safe.” The boy stood up at this and jumped into Edward’s face.
“Connerie!” he yelled, brandishing his sword. “I can fight! I won’t stand by and let those bastards corrupt her.” Edward took note of the use of the word "corrupt". He, and Gaspard, had been under the impression that she was to be ritually sacrificed. This changed things.
“Listen to me, Arno,” Edward said, making it a point to meet the boy's eyes directly. “I will save her. You have my word on that.” After a moment's consideration, Edward took the sword from Arno's hands and replaced it with a pistol. Arno’s stance seemed to lose some aggression as he examined the weapon. Edward slapped a hand down on the boy's shoulder. “If you die, she’d be crushed,” he watched as those words sunk in. "Avoid being seen if you can. Use that only if you have to. No need for heroes here."
"Sir," a voice came from behind them. Gaspard's assistants had finished clearing the room and stood at the door to the antechamber beyond.
"There's no handle," another said, examining the strange door which seemed to fit firmly into the stone archway.
Edward smiled. "Of course there's no handle. They wouldn't want just anyone wandering in, would they?" He approached the doorway, examining the strange marks carved into the weathered wooden face, the tip of his leather glove tracing the runic characters. "But we've no time for parlor tricks." With a jerk of his wrist, the symbols burst a bright fiery orange and the door sprung open with a crash.
The antechamber was a small and dimly lit room occupied by just two hoods and the cult leader, the Angel behind them, chained to the far wall, sobbing. The leader, an elderly man with sunken eyes turned to a side profile and motioned his hand. Edward drew his pistol and aimed, but was too late. The bastard had grabbed the girl’s elfin face.
“One more step and I melt her,” He said, “I'll have no trouble waiting to find a new subject for my purification, don't think I won't do it.”
Edward turned his gun sideways and upward. Palm out.
"Drop them," the leader hissed, slowly withdrawing his hand from the Angel's face."
Edward smiled slightly, motioning with his free hand for his men to lower their weapons. With a slight nod, he let his pistol fall.
A blaze of fire and light exploded from Edward's palm and surged forward like a beam of dragonfire straight into the leader's chest. His assistants raised their weapons again, firing at the remaining cultists as Arno rushed forward to undo the girl's chains.
The men, exhausted but thankful, quietly celebrated their victory and Arno and his angelic lover wept in one another's arms. They sat and rested and spoke of the return journey, of the fight they'd endured, of the pains and wounds they'd taken.
Edward knelt, catching his breath. He remembered what he had told Gaspard. He remembered what he told all of his clients. I don't use combative magic. It was his policy, and something he took pride in. He wasn't sure why he had made an exception. He wasn't sure what made this instance different, nor how he felt about his decision. But he admired his assistants, and Arno, the Angel, and he thought of Delbin and the countless others whose lives had been impacted by the cult. And for a moment, he thought not just about the money, the job, his reputation, his pride, but the implications of what was accomplished today.
Arno lifted a large, exotic tome from a table in the antechamber and held it out to Edward. "Their corruption rituals."
Edward held the book in his hands and felt the strange weight it exuded.
"I hate that book," Arno said. "It's pure evil. But it might be of interest to certain people. I thought you should have it, rather than let it sit down here for some cultist scavenger to come pick up once we leave."
With a sigh and a smile, Edward said, "Burn it."
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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on May 11, 2015 1:42:11 GMT -5
The crowd jeered at my entry as I was pulled forth from the ranks of my fellow wretches. Around me the air was thick with insults and baseless accusations. It was only the steely gaze of the Gendarmes that held the people back from tearing me limb from limb, I did my best to smooth my ruined dress coat and pants and put on an emotionless face. Once many moons ago I may have called these people my brothers in arms, my fraternity. Now I was public enemy number one and I stood before the dreaded tribunal of the revolution. Looking up at the sitting jury, I saw them crane their heads down at me like vultures waiting for a dying lamb.
The gavel struck the judges desk with a sharp crack, once, then twice, before the people subsided and let him speak. A bubbling murmur behind me still continued, not even the dreaded anger of Robespierre would quell all the people’s gossip. Staring up at the judge and new leader of France, I felt no anger, or even fear, just lamentation for a time long gone. Once we stood side by side, and now I was to be one more victim to this madman’s crusade.
“Before us stands the vile sorcerer of the once rotten king’s court! A decadent man and traitor known as Jean-Baptise d’Évreux, former comte of Evuerex!” Robespierre’s voice travelled the court room well and invoked a harsh passion that began to stir the people. Before the crowd grew unruly he began to list off my “crimes”.
“You are charged with accounts of invoking dissent against the government, failure to adhere to the revolutionary spirit, conspiracy with royalists and… Necromancy!”
It was the last one that really got the people going. Screaming and shouting filled the court once again, the Gendarmes shouting orders of silence. If they hadn’t wasted all their ammunition outside, they would continue pelting me with rotten food. On his dais, Robespierre sat back with a content smile; he had turned the people against me already. Finally a lull in the uproar spread and Robespierre gestured to me.
“How does the defendant plead?”
I squared my shoulders and brought my chained hands up on to the barrister before me. Staring at Robespierre I answered.
“Not guilty.”
His hand shot up as soon as the uproar threatened to continue, hammering his gavel at the same time. Looking at me, he gestured once more with a lazy wave of his hand.
“We have the written confession of your house staff about how you would go late into the night carrying out grotesque experiments with strange concoctions.”
“They were scientific studies!” I yelled back, voice snapping and my anger finally surfacing. “You know very well I am a chemist, your paranoia is getting the better of you!”
Robespierre glared at me and slammed the gavel down to silence my outburst.
“We found the skull of the former king in a ritual circle in a hidden room of your estate!”
I stared at him, slow to understand what he had just said. I had never come into possession of any of the kings body parts; I certainly did not practise necromancy with any dead body. My talents lay with the sciences, not the perverse. Except of course, I never knew about the skull for the same reason that Robespierre did. What better way to condemn a political opponent than to make them into something that defied the natural order. This was a witch trial, whether I sank or swam, I was doomed to meet my maker at its end.
“When you turned your back on the wretched king, I thought you had joined the cause Jean!” Robespierre was still talking; his voice was fading in my mind however.
I was remembering the day I joined the revolution at the Bastille, when alongside the engineers and fellow revolutionaries, we set the fortress ablaze. I had gone from the head of the Academy of Science, a rank that afforded me all the pleasures of Earth, to a man no better than the commoners beside him. Yet that day made me feel alive. Years of pleasure and academic study couldn’t hold a candle to the raw emotions I felt. It was a day where heart won out against the mind.
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
The words inspired hope and passion. A France that would unite its entire people and create a world that stood free of poverty and war. As a man of science, a philosopher and a Frenchman, I was destined to fall in love with it. Standing in the court room, my present day situation came rushing back like waves against the coast. The ideals of my youth had led to this moment, and yet I could not regret them.
“Jean-Baptise! Has the truth left you stunned? Can you not speak for fear of the Supreme Being?” A murmuring in the crowd was growing; they were waiting for my reply to a question I never heard.
I looked around at their faces, anger, fear and even confusion. The people, my people had been turned against me by a madman. Maximilien Robespierre, once a friend, a confident and fellow revolutionary. Now a man willing to slaughter a nation if it so much as dissented to his madness.
“Your paranoia knows no bounds Maximilien! How much I imagine you sweat and shake at night, in fear of whatever inner demon possesses you to act out these travesties of mock justice!” My anger made my voice shake but still it carried around the building. If I was to die I would do it with my voice heard loud. Robespierre began to slam the gavel to drown me out but I just shouted louder.
“You fear my power! But it will not be some curse or spell that drags you from your royal seat, but the wretched claws of the people you mistreat!”
“Death! Jean-Baptise, for your vile ways I condemn you to death!” His voice screaming now as the gavel broke the wood beneath it. At the verdict my voice was finally lost in the sea of the crowds cries of joy and continued anger. Today they were deaf and blind, but eventually they would awake from the fog of fear and misplaced vengeance Robespierre enthralled them with. As I was dragged back to the galleys, I merely let my mind drift to old days long past.
…
As soon as I was tossed into my cell to await my execution in the morning, I let myself slip off into sleep. My dreams were vivid. At first they were of my childhood, brief flashes of family and friends growing up in Evuerex. One moment I was dreaming of a family outing to Caen and sailing the channel with my elder brother, the next I was in my father’s study as he taught me my numbers and letters. Those dreams did not last long however. My time spent with my family was short, at a young age I was sent to the Academy of Sciences. A second son of a noble family had to be put to use or they would just become troubling, my father believed. So at the age of sixteen I was packing my bags for Paris.
My dreams of those times were confusing. It was a time of discovery, not all of it academically. It was there that I found my talent for chemistry. It was a talent that would change my life from there on out. Soon my dreams were ones of royal courts, military campaigns and luxuries that even my family would have envied. A royal chemist could have any girl in Paris if he asked.
But I still remembered the horrors of those wars. A chemist like myself would be assigned to the artillery batteries. Fire and smoke would meet horrors that could only be imagined by the depraved minds of humanity. I always survived, even if I felt the terror in my dreams, I still survived. The dreams drifted into nightmares fuelled by those battles, sending me into a shivering sweat. The twisting shapes of fiery demons taking on the faces of the jury, the king of them holding a mask shaped in a horrific caricature of Robespierre. I awoke in a death rattling gasp.
“Oh, oh oh! Look Pierre, he awakens!”
The voice was rough and guttural, far removed from the eloquent speech of the courtroom. Looking through the bars of my cell, I saw two of my jailers sitting at a small table, lantern between them as the only light in the dark dungeon. They looked to have been playing cards as they watched me. The man who had just spoken seemed to be winning from the pile of coins on his side.
“Good, maybe he will stop that mewling and chanting!” Pierre, the other man, much skinner then the first, said with a harsh whisper. His eyes glanced at me with a jitter, his body twitching and on edge.
“Don’t be scared, he can’t cast any spells at you! Haha!” The bigger man reassured with a loud laugh. The smaller man didn’t seem satisfied however. The man was right though, a chemist was sorely lacking in any useful arcane abilities. I cursed my mundane talents.
After some time, Pierre seemed to calm down and they refocused on their card game. Eventually, Pierre glanced back to me and then looked at the other man.
“Say, Antoine, how do you think they will execute him?” The questioned was posed quietly, but I still managed to hear it.
“Hah! By guillotine of course, like every other poor soul that is thrown here!” Antoine’s voice was loud and he didn’t seem to care about who heard him unlike Pierre.
Pierre fidgeted before replying.
“But will that work with him? He’s one of those dabblers of dark arts, isn’t he? Shouldn’t we burn him?”
Antoine eyed Pierre before shaking his head.
“No, no, this is a modern nation now; we do not resort to such barbaric ways. We cut off his head and make roll like the king and his whore” Antoine seemed pleased with his “joke” about the former queen.
“But it is tradition to burn the witches! How do we know that his head won’t fly away once removed?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of my head soaring off into the streets of Paris. The two didn’t seem to notice.
“Tradition? Are you looking to be called to stand in one of our glorious leader trials?” Pierre’s face went white at the mention of Robespierre’s show trials.
“I didn’t think so, hah! No there are no traditions of the old kings now; everyone meets the executioner’s blade kneeling before the people, it’s the only civilised way!”
Pierre didn’t seem willing to let Antoine have the last word and he muttered a reply.
“It doesn’t seem right, you can’t know if they are truly dead unless you see them scream.”
Antoine didn’t seem to notice, or he chose to ignore him because he simply started to shuffle the cards. The conversation died and I was left to myself in semi silence, desperately choosing to ignore my quickly approaching final hour. I had rarely thought of death my entire life; I was not going to start now.
I didn’t have to wait long. There was a loud metallic bang and the march of boots on the hard stone floor. Looking up I saw a couple Gendarmes standing at my cell. A rattle of keys and my door swung open, and I was dragged out barely managing to get to my feet. I was in a trance as I was pulled up the dungeon stairs and out in to the courtyard and cold morning.
I took in the golden sun as it crested over the roof tops of Paris, a beautiful sight marred by the large ominous gallows that was constructed in the middle of the square. It was my final destination as the guards pulled me through the crowds. Once again foodstuffs were pelted at me and the jeering filled the air. I found myself deposited at the bottom of the stage, expected to make my own way up.
I staggered to my feet and began to climb the steps. With each one, I drove the thoughts from my mind. There were many clouding me, but I couldn’t let them take hold or I would have fled only to be shot by the guards or torn apart by the crowds. No, I knew if I was to die it was best that I would do it with dignity. In moment I found myself standing before the mechanical contraption that had powered the revolution.
A quick shove from my executioner and my head was forced down on to the block that had seen many prestigious necks before mine. The pillory was snapped down around me and all I could see was the crowd, the sun and Paris. There were no more speeches, no more grandstanding, as I heard the loud crack of the lever being pulled and the singing of falling metal.
“Vive la Revolu-!“
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on May 16, 2015 23:14:58 GMT -5
Team Kaez: I swear that nobody proofreads in this competition. So many little typos in every round; it's disheartening. And so easy to fix, you guys! In this entry, you didn't even run a spell check, and you called characters by the wrong name. I lose so much respect for a story when I see that.
But I digress.
This wasn't really that bad a story, but I've got a lot of bad things to say about it ... sorry.
Number one, too long. You guys have to know when a story is weak; don't then make me read a lot of it as well. Number two, the topic was underutilized in the extreme. Really easy fix here: even a few mentions to how the chaos of the Revolution has made it easier for cults to operate would have been a huge boost. That's almost interesting, the idea that as democracy and brutality flourish in equal measure, the underworld becomes absolutely chock-a-block with evil cultists. Instead we got a few laboured references to Robespierre, followed by reams of Van Helsing fan fiction.
This line is unnecessary. People know angels are a big deal. They're angels.
This logic doesn't track. Just because two spellcasters failed, doesn't inherently mean that a non-spellcaster would be more qualified. At best he's the same.
This list was in no way necessary. None of the items are interesting, and the specifics of his arsenal are never important again. You could have pared it way down and had the same effect.
This is a super bad way to lead a combat team. He didn't even get their names. I can't believe you gave us a detailed description of how many guns he had poised on his butt cheeks, but no insight into who he's adventuring with. This was a chance for some interesting original characters!
I mean ... they found a goblin so fast! Like, it was literally the first thing they found. So the odds of there being another cult or something are probably not terrible.
Because he only heard about the cultists themselves an hour ago?
That is not a thing that people say.
Ha ha! They definitely can't. Fifty cultists!?
What happened to him not doing "practical magic?"
Past the 50 cultists, you mean?
This sounds like Arno is the Angel. Gotta keep an eye open for stuff like that.
Terrible ending. Where's the punch? Where's the resolution?
Team Zovo: There is not a lot of story here, but at least you didn't try to pad it. I feel super bad that I don't have a lot to say (especially since now I feel like I really picked on the first entry) but honestly, again, there just wasn't a lot here for me to sink my teeth into. If you'd done more with the flashbacks, or with fleshing out Robespierre's actions, there could have been something decent here. The writing itself was fine. Just nothing about it turned my crank. Sorry.
The subject in the second line points at the Gendarmes when it should point at the audience.
This seems redundant.
A gallows is for hanging.
Result: Another tough round to call. I had so, so many problems with so many parts of the first story, but of the two, it did in fact come closer to actually telling a full story. Even if it wasn't a particularly good one.
Point - Kaez
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Post by James on May 16, 2015 23:29:44 GMT -5
Team Kaez
Let’s take a second to talk about your third paragraph. I think it somehow sums up most of my thoughts about this story. First, we have some dialogue. It’s okay; it sounds real enough even though it appears maybe a tad too formal. You then have a dialogue tag (Edward responded) which is redundant; we know he’s responded because we just read his response. There is then an excellent bit of characterisation about why he had his back turned, which was undone by the second part of the sentence which both sounded clumsy and told the reader too much, instead of letting them infer it themselves.
My review is essentially an extrapolation of that. There were some good things, but they were somewhat overshadowed by areas which need improvement.
The story was so-so. I got to the end of it and it wasn’t a hassle, but it wasn’t something that smacked me around the head with its awesomeness. There wasn’t something that elevated the story to another level: this was just a rescue mission for characters we didn’t know a lot about. The one thing going for it is an attempt to meld with real history with urban fantasy worldbuilding. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn't near enough, but throwing in Robespierre and Jacobins kind of worked. It provided a grounding for the more fantastical elements within the story. Where the story went more off-key was the involvement of angels and goblins that were never really given any background flavour. They didn’t interest me. You can’t just throw around fantasy tropes and expect them to do the heavy-lifting for you. Get creative with them.
The writing was a bit messy, with some mistakes throughout and often the wording was clumsy. I’d suggest reading aloud just to pick up on bits which sound odd. But at times, you really had a turn of phrase which painted a vivid picture. I’ll use Gaspard as an example of both the above points: “since the busy-body clerk had entered” seemed a tad clumsy; it made the story almost seem like it was meant for a younger audience. However, “plum-shaped man who overflowed the armrests of his seat” painted a really vivid picture of this rotund man which I enjoyed. Nice work.
Dialogue is something I want to talk about. Like I said, on the whole, it was okay but overly formal. I think why you did that was obvious – the time period, but just keep an eye on it. Make sure people feel like people, not actors reading a script. So, it was okay. However, there was a moment where you got too concerned with exposition. That two paragraph deluge of planning the assault could have been handled better. Do I need to have the plan laid out in precise detail? Arguably, I don’t. And if I do, isn’t paraphrasing it better than having it spelt all out in dialogue?
Two final things I want to touch on:
A) Don’t get too silly. I felt like you weren’t exactly sure what tone you were going for. It definitely meant to have a bit of light humour and that’s perfect. But at times you went further into the realms of farce. Saying “boo”? Having an over the top amount of guns? It took away my suspension of disbelief.
B) Impact. Consequences. These are things I did not feel. Edward made a big fuss about not using combative magic. He used combative magic. He made a big fuss that he had used combative magic. And then… nothing. So I was left sitting there wondering what all the fuss was about.
Oh. Oh. Also, please don’t use “one hour later”. You’re the second person to handle a time shift like that and it just doesn’t look good. Have a break if you like (***) or incorporate the time shift in the dialogue (after an hour of Paris’s cobbled streets misaligning Edward’s spine) but don’t write out “ONE HOUR LATER”. It’s lazy.
So, don’t be disheartened. There was some nice stuff in this story but you have a lot of room to improve.
Team Zovo
This story left me puzzled. I think the story was demanding it to be one thing (a critique of the French Revolution on the deathbed of one of its revolutionaries) and you chose to make it something else (a jack of all trades, bit of a critique, bit of comedy, bit of dark magic to spice things up). My best example I suppose is Team Kaez’s story for Match 3. If they had gone for the approach you went with here, the story would have slightly less heart and would have been slightly more concerned with some people cracking jokes about “old crazy Joe who can’t remember where he put his teeth”.
The start was actually pretty decent. There’s instantly a sense of atmosphere. There’s a sense of urgency. And “vultures waiting for a dying lamb” is a great line. The first sign of trouble is here: “It was the last one that really got the people going”. I’m really thrown out of the story and the time period by the expression “really got the people going”. It just sounds so casual and modern. And from there, we never quite get back to the standard the first few paragraphs started.
The whole necromancy bit just felt misplaced. I actually went off to Google to check if you were basing this off some real execution because it just felt so forced. The best moments of this story were when Jean was thinking of the Revolution, of why he was fighting. It would have been more interesting to see the twisted ideals in contrast with his own being the cause of his execution, not some dodgy skull.
The bit that really let the piece down was the bizarre dialogue between the guards at the end. It felt so out of place. If this had been a Pratchett-esque story from the start, you know what? I possibly would have liked the conversation. If I’m reading the dialogue in isolation, it’s amusing enough and it has a point. I’d like it. But it’s not in isolation. It’s a part of a wider story and it seems wholly different to it. It’s like you built a car and then threw a motorbike engine under the hood.
So what I’d say here is: think about what story you want to tell? Because you could have told a very real, hard-hitting story about the French Revolution and that would have been great. You also could have told a black comedy satire about the Terror and that would have been amazing. Instead, you kind of did both and achieved neither. It wasn’t a bad story; the writing was good. But yeah, this was a story that was confused about its identity.
Result
This was the story I was undecided about going into the process of writing up my reviews. Neither story was bad, but they also weren’t great either. I think if Team Zovo’s story had picked one identity and ran with it; it would have won this match with some distance to spare. In the light of its identity crisis, I’m going to give the point to the messy but consistent and ambitious story of Team Kaez.
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