(3 - Bravo) Zovo v. Silver

[Kaez]

Comedy. While the other group is stuck with the scary stuff, I'm pretty sure for at least a few of you, that's just about the scariest word with which I could have begun this paragraph. There's nothing else like it. It stands in a field of its own, tricky, fickle, easy to fail at and devilishly tricky to master. Laughter, though – whether dark or absurd, clever or slapstick – is one of the most powerful responses that language can generate. The joy and sheer fun brought on by comedy attaches the reader to the story they're reading, inclines them toward the author, and urges them to read on.

Worldbuilding can sometimes seem rather serious. Let's do something about that.

Since this particular genre restriction is particularly out of your elements, I'm leaving the contents and style of the stories entirely up to you. No further restrictions whatsoever.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Calien Tremere passed stacks upon stacks of ancient manuscripts, leather-bound tomes, data-scrolls and slate-tomes. She had been given specific orders by Knight-Superior Benoit to find a slate-tome concerning the Avenging Son. She sighed, brushing fingers through her blonde hair, setting a tiny diamond earring in the shape of a sword to swinging. She had been inundated with texts concerning the Avenging Son and how amazing a saint he was.

Nonetheless, she followed the instructions of her master – pausing at the proper aisle and wandering down until she found the proper slate-tome. Taking it from its spot on the shelf, she wandered from the aisle to find a dust-coated table and a creaky chair to sit in. Booting up the slate-tome the picture of the Avenging Son appeared – light blonde-brown hair, jade eyes, a square jaw and a smile that showed nothing but confidence.

Calien smiled a bit, girlish crush returning before being quickly suppressed. She tapped another button, letting the slate-tome read itself. Needless to say, she was more than a little surprised.

~~

If you’re reading this then you are either an Acolyte-Squire of the Chevaliers de la Lame de la Nuit, or in the commoner’s vernacular ‘Chevaliers of the Night Blade’, or as I prefer ‘The pompous arseholes who made my life a living hell’, or someone who was clever enough to break into their extensive library. Either way, sit back and relax – since if you have broken into their archives they already know who you are and can find you anywhere within Arcturas’ Sword.

Now, with that out of the way, let’s get to the real meat of why you’re reading this: you want the total and unabridged truth of Adolphus Hadrian Armstrong – the Avenging Son, the Saint of the Frozen Blade, the Golden Child, the Frostbound Phoenix, the blah blah blah blah blah. Honestly, all those titles did for me was get me into deeper shit than I had planned for my life. Sure, the life of a soldat paysan, isn’t the most glamorous life – when I’m not being used as fodder for some ugly, inbred noble to steal the glory I’m a dirt farmer for some ugly, inbred noble's dinner table - but it is, at least, safer.

Then I learned, much to my dread, that there was more to life than my dirt and Baron d’Unborn-siamese-twin. I learned that I was not born in some wide world – or rather, not as most would think of it. You see, I was unlucky enough to be drafted into the 576th Arcturan Rifles. Dragged from a lumpy, ice cold bed, dragged through frozen mud and forced to stand – sobbing and scared – in a room full of other men and women in the same situation.

With some pride I can safely say that I did not piss myself in fear.

So here I stood – roughspun clothes, smeared with dirt and shit (also not mine), and wondering at the metal walls surrounding us and stretching off into darkness above. As a door – hidden flush with the wall – opened I definitely was glad for the women present, as no one looked at me when multiple girlish screams went into the air (one of them was mine).

Put quite simply, to a man used to doors either opening on hinges and being made of wood – watching a door slide into a wall was borderline dark magic. This didn’t even touch on the simple fact that the person that entered looked like nothing any of us had seen before. First, he was clean – even the nobles where I came from were grimy. Second, he was in an odd outfit – because it actually fit him perfectly for one, and for two the cloth wasn’t roughspun but looked like it was soft and warm.

What I wouldn’t give to be warm.

The man glowered at us, lips twisted to cause the snowy mustache to twist to one side. He doffed a cap with a shiny crescent jutting from it and smoothed hair coloured an iron grey. With hard eyes he barked out in a thick brogue, “Now, all o’ ye are probably wond’ring where in th’ burning hells are ye and who the bloody hell am I. T’the second I’m Colonel Angus Pierce, and I’m yer new commanding officer – yer laird as some of ye are inclined t’think. T’the first – yer in the assembly hall of the 576th Arcturan Rifles, I know none o’ ye know what tha’ is – but ye’ll learn soon enough.” Colonel Armstrong’s spiel ended as a hesitant hand was raised by a malnourished figure, “Aye?”

“S-Sire,” the voice was thin and feminine, “Does… do we get to go home at all?”

Colonel Armstrong paused, the iron-hard features softening, “No and yes, lass. This be yer new home now. The lads and lassies around ye are yer new family. An’ no callin’ me ‘sire’. It’s jus’ sir, clear?” Despite a softer tone new sobs broke out, I looked around seeing people having collapsed to their knees a complete wreck while others of a seemingly sturdier emotional state comforted them.

As for myself – not knowing what a ‘rifle’ could possibly be – I was excited! Here I was, a new life, no dirt to farm, and the new man I was indentured to seemed to be somewhat compassionate and without the complexion and extra digits of inbreeding.

I was wishing for all of that after three days.

It took three days, you see, because the first day after the news was broken we were given new clothes – uniforms, as the ‘Colonel’ called them – and I was amazed at being warm and comfortable for the first time in what seemed to be forever. Then the meals – there was actual meat there, as well as potatoes and vegetables and bread. It was so delicious, and the oddest thing was that after eating our first meal many of us found ourselves… larger. Not much, but the scrawny thing that spoke up the night before looked like a woman.

But, that is for a different set of memoirs.

That night we slept in beds so comfortable it felt like I was sleeping on air. For three days we had the rest and relaxation we thought was only achievable by lords and kings. The food they fed us – I now know it was laced with so many chemicals, stimulants, hormones, etc. – made us grow miraculously. We were as fit and muscular as the house guards of the nobility. Then we were presented with our namesake.

Now, I’m not sure how far in the future whoever stumbled across this is, but I want to make a point of note in that the Arcturas-pattern rifle – the 'stormer' – is one of the most fearsome tools humanity has crafted. Now, most rifles are either using solid slugs, or laser technology. The Arcturas-pattern rifle is different, firing a concentrated blast of fulgurite. It is both terrifying and exhilarating to let loose bolts of thunder into your enemies.

We were, of course, given unloaded weapons. Otherwise I’m quite sure a dozen of us would be missing heads from self-mutilation, and two-hundred twenty-nine would be dead from me panning with the rifle and going ‘ptew ptew ptew’. The day was spent with Colonel Pierce demonstrating the use of the rifles, the recharge or reload of canisters, maintenance… it was all rather boring.

But then we were brought to a firing range aboard the ship and had the chance to test out our new weapons. I then knew what the gods must feel like. Here I stood, the power of a storm in my hands. Life was amazing!

~~

Calien was enraptured as she learned the truth of Arcturas’ Chosen. Listening to his many stories – sordid or otherwise – and marveling at his life. Twenty years before he became the Avenging Son and up until she learned the truth of that moment.

~~

Life is shit.

Well, that’s not fair. Shit doesn’t deserve to be so demonized.

Here I am, standing on the surface of an alien planet. Breathing alien air and getting pissed on by alien clouds. And before me is an alien horde of techno-savages hurling themselves into the teeth of our guns. My rifle cracks in my hands as it unleashes solid slugs. The atmospherics of the storm, crafted by the xenos astromancers, fouled our stormers to the point we had lost nearly three dozen in the first moments of the storm, canisters bursting and destroying huge swathes of our regiment.

But this wasn’t the worst part.

No, that came from the bastards sitting on flame belching mechanical nightmares. The glorious Chevaliers. The fuckin’ assholes in tin cans. There they sat – maybe around two-hundred of them – waiting and watching as we carved apart the roaring hordes. They were perfectly fine with the, now diminished, 576th and its sister regiments being completely obliterated before deigning to grace our corpses with their presence.

If you haven’t gathered, I’m not a fan of knights.

So there I stood, thankful for the rain hiding me pissing all over myself in fear, firing into creatures wielding weapons that were a frightful combination of mining equipment and mutilating blades, knowing I was going to die… and watching it all be burned away in a wash of flame.

Most would count this as a stroke of luck. The storms that fouled our most potent weapons were gone. A ravening horde that all the automatic fire of ten regiments couldn’t wipe out was turned into so much ash. I even like to recall that my clothes had been flash-dried by the heat wash.

But we had no weapon like that in our arsenal. Of the Seven, none had a weapon like that. There was only one force we knew that could call such power into existence, and I proudly choked back a sob as angelic beings strode into our line of vision. The Star Children. They were visions of perfection, beauty given shape, light given form.

They were arrogant arseholes who wanted to wipe out all life that wasn’t perfect like them.

They were walking right toward us.

We fired. We fired, prayed, and watched the bullets melt into so much slag.

The Star Children responded in kind – flaming bullets slashed into our ranks, incinerating at a touch. To my left and right I lost two chances at life in a second. Morbidly thankful that the Children only ever fired one salvo, I stood – rooted by fear – to meet the charge.

Rough hands hauled me backward, and paralyzing fear allowed me to fall. Fresh troops to the front, firing with stormers into the ranks. I sat, numb, watching lightning bolts carve into onrushing bodies. I didn’t realize I had lost my rifle until a gloriously golden figure stood above me – a fiery sword burning off the last vestiges of blood from the flash-incinerated corpse in front of me.

Eyes the colour of a newborn star looked at me, and a beatific smile of serene murder spread across the face of the Child. “Ah, a Mistake frightened of purity. Sit still, Young One, it will end shortly.”

Now, my brain is normally permanently slotted into the ‘flight’ selection. But, with fear paralyzing everything below my waist, I found the switch jammed hard into ‘fight’. As impotent as this would be, my hands fumbled – gripping a shattered gun barrel and hauling it into place to guard against the descending blade.

The Sol Weapons of the Star Children can burn through most anything. I fully expected the sword to carve through the gun, myself, the ground, and flash-incinerate everything in a five-foot radius.

I did not expect the gun to be limned in throbbing violet light, nor for it to deflect the blade away and dissipate the heat surrounding it.

I don’t think the Child expected it either. I’m quite sure that the expression of utter shock and horror on its face was mirrored on my own.

So with that arguably cheerful thought in mind, I lashed out with the gun barrel like a club. The glow limning it carved through the flesh of the Child. It’s morbidly spectacular watching a Star Child die. Their body glows white-hot before burning out and leaving a husk behind. It’s beautiful for all of three seconds.

Ah, memories…

Not knowing how I survived, not caring, I stood with my odd weapon. Clutching it like a blade I stood my ground before slowly beginning to edge toward a retreat. The Children were amongst us and reaping a bloody tally… all twenty of them.

Sometimes, I think the galaxy is rather unfair to us humans.

Then I heard the thunder of mechanical hooves, saw flame-belching mechanical nightmares with Chevalier armoured in white plates and wielding weapons with a similar glow to mine, come charging down. Sure, they chewed into our ranks. Sure, they killed as many of us as they sought out the Children.

But it was about bloody time.

Another Child, seeing the death I caused, came toward me with an angered snarl. Once more, it was the quick pass of a swordsman and a flailing, piss-soaked (yes, it happened again), peasant until the thing was gutted on the edge of my… gun.

It makes more sense visually.

With the charge of the Chevalier, the Children were mopped up by the warriors – who claimed now it was only the timely intervention by the Will of Arcturas that staved off destruction.

The gall! I had thought, them taking credit for… then I had realized the one who had announced it was looking toward me. With my glowing gun barrel. With a smile.

With.

Ah, yes, worship.

Fuck.

You see, I displayed a power that not even the Chevalier hold with their psychic-weapons. I was able to kill the two Children with only a single cut. Something even a Void Weapon would struggle to do.

I had stood out. I had become unique. Awe-inspiring.

I had become a huge fucking target.

I basked in their adoration while silently screaming inside.

~~

Calien turned off the slate-tome. There was more to listen to but it was late. She looked at the slim rectangular history of an idol, a living saint, and barely stifled a snort. Their bold and selfless Saint was a coward more concerned with his life and safety than anything. The man who stood side-by-side with the Chevalier as a symbol of Arcturas’ blessing of unity despised the knights who he rode alongside as glory hogging butchers.

Now she realized why Knight-Superior Benoit had told her to contemplate the mysteries of faith by listening to this account.

For, as far as she was concerned, the most condescending of cowards could be the next Saint.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Redacted

[Matteo ((Taed))]

Zovo:

I still think they're gonna throw him in the damn volcano. If the story had ended here, I was going to say that the start of part 2, where you state that his interpretation of marrying Helei was wrong, was a mistake. We already learn that information on our own fairly soon. However, since there's obviously more story to go, I think it actually works. Rather than ruining the surprise, it's more that you're planting the seed of doubt. Very effective, I think.

Ummm ... yeah. What else to say. Still good writing. Still a good, slow-paced, understated story. I think there may have been more typos in this part relative to its length, but that's really all I have to say. Everything feels very natural and logical, and therefore easy to believe. It's activating my daydream reflex, where it's very easy to start imagining myself in the same situation, and how I would behave.

If it was me writing it, there would have to be another mystery. Another custom or object whose meaning isn't clear; something for the reader to ponder about in addition to the fate of Mauwale (a mystery that, while intriguing, has for me been relatively static since I deduced ahead of time that he wouldn't be marrying Helei). I don't think that way is necessarily "right" or "better," I'm just offering my own perspective. I think a big part of the interest in this type of story comes from, like I said, assembling a puzzle. Your puzzle is very much "what happens next?" Which is a good puzzle, and I like it, but there may have been room for more. Even if you had written it, say, so that Mauwale started doing the torch job in part 1 with no explanation, and it only later becomes clear that the villagers have given him the task of warding off his evil spirit "children." That would have got my motor running.

It wasn't at all a comedy, though. Part one had some jokes; this one really didn't.


Silver:

If you're reading this then you are either an Acolyte-Squire of the Chevaliers de la Lame de la Nuit, or in the commoner's vernacular 'Chevaliers of the Night Blade', or as I prefer 'The pompous arseholes who made my life a living hell', or someone who was clever enough to break into their extensive library.

The repeated use of 'or' is no good. You use it both to connect the first idea to the second idea, and as a way of recharacterizing the first idea multiple times. It's all wonky.

Baron d'Unborn

That is a Star Wars level shitty name. Duke Nastyman.


Do you know what would have been really cool? And I'm not penalizing you for it, but dang, it would have been cool. Would be if you had built up the legend of the Avenging Son in your first two stories. That would have made the reversal much more interesting.

Anyway, premise was pretty neat. I got kind of an Old Man's War vibe from the spacefaring humans using primitive castes as infantry chattel. The writing was serviceable, only a bit formulaic. I seem to remember the last time I read some of your stuff there were a few more atypical names and idioms to distinguish it. This was very rote and to the point; maybe intentional, given the character's humble origins, but I rarely buy that excuse.

The framing device went to waste, I think. The comedic potential here would have come from juxtapositions of the Avenging Son's legend against his reality, but as it is the segments with Calien were too bare-bones to achieve it. All I got out of her bit was the weird unanswered question of why her teacher sent her to find this text specifically. He must have known what it contained, why did he want her reading anti-Chevaliers propaganda? I'm sure there's potentially an interesting answer to that question, but you didn't answer it, so again, it went to waste.

The ending was wonky too. What allowed the Avenging Son to do the purple haze murder thing? It didn't look like it was some fluke or accident, it looked like he was genuinely gifted or favoured by Arcturus. If that's the case, it kind of undermines your whole premise. Yeah, at the start of his story he wasn't the heroic figure people were led to believe, but obviously there was something exceptional about him. It's hard to play up his ignominy for laughs when it turns out he actually is space Jesus.


Winner: Silver