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Post by James on Mar 12, 2015 19:33:18 GMT -5
Shattered Trastamara was a ghost city by the Gilden Lake, dank and empty. Its glory days were still history, not mythology, and Irvig knew people who had once lived there, who had managed to flee before the darkness settled over homes and shops alike. No matter how hard the Dwarf looked, he couldn't see the city that people had waxed lyrically about. There was no beauty, only desolation. Overlooking the city from their spot on the tor, Irvig could see the streets laid out like a map. No doubt there were empty crates and cheap fabrics, bodies and skeletons, hopes and fears strewn throughout Trastamara, an echo of a city once ripe for picking. Others bandits and explorers had ravaged it earlier. The place was not their target.
The Shatterock Company had come to Trastamara for the shanty town that hid in the shadows of the city proper. While no one still lived in the flimsy wooden structures, they had not yet toppled into in the black lake nearby. The shanty was like an elderly relative, refusing to die despite all clocks suggesting the moment had already arrived. Irvig twisted the end of his long black beard as he looked down at the tiny village. He wished he could convince the others it wasn't a good hit, hoping they wouldn’t trust the shadows of the buildings, the stillness of the lake. Everyone was set, though, on raiding the place that nobody else had pillaged before. It was small, dirty and destitute. Bandits asked what value could possibly be found there and decided the answer was none. The Shatterock Company had something others did not. They had intelligence. The fish-man had told them of treasure buried in the shanty town, waiting to be claimed.
Things used to be different. At its formation, a drunken show of bravado in a small tavern, the Company would have trusted Irvig's instinct. The Dwarf had a nose for trouble; he was their bloodhound, their canary in the mine. No one was left from that first night, no one but Irvig. Their cleric had drifted away after one near-death experience too many, choosing a life of solitude. Gwent, a strong lad with a sword, married and settled down in a city like Trastamara in its prime. Annaline the Halfling, who was Irvig's shadow, checking every target before each strike, had been killed by goblins in a mine. Now the Company was a clan of strangers, with no bond or ties beyond the lust for wealth. Humans, elves, gnomes, dragonborne and even a Sepek made up the once famed Shatterock Company.
Someone, no doubt in a tavern, had once posed a riddle to Irvig. If you took a knife and replaced the hilt, then later changed the blade, and did this twenty times over, was it still the same knife as before. Of course it wasn't, Irvig grunted, and he now realised he was all that stopped the same process occurring to the Company. The hilt and the blade had been replaced over and over, yet there was a fake jewel encrusted on the handle of the knife and with each swap, the jewel was moved to the new weapon. Perhaps that was enough to keep the Company the same, Irvig thought. It probably wasn’t. Regardless, it made him feel old and sometimes he wondered what would happen if the jewel got lost, slipping away from the stranger’s knife. He thought above leaving, but he had nowhere else to go.
The rains came once the sun dipped behind the mountains, cold and hard, like tiny pebbles attacking the skin. The others moved back, sheltering within the bosom of the rocky outcrop and only Irvig stood against the storm, his leathers growing wet and his tanned bronze skin cold. Only Irvig and the fish-man who stared empty-eyed at his former home. Dwarves had little to do with the Merfolk in general, but it was hard not to regard them with careful glances when no one else was looking. The fish-man sat on the edge of the tor, his long legs dangling off the side. The pale green skin was visible through the rags he wore, his gills barely present now, the openings closing together in the dryness of a flash storm. He hadn’t said a word since he sat down. They had captured him in the swamp and Irvig wanted nothing to do with him, but once he mentioned treasure, the Company decided to keep him chained to them. Shatterock of years gone by wouldn’t have.
“Hardy folk, Merfolk and Dwarves,” a voice said from the shadows, Alssia coming up the mountain trail. Irvig grunted. He preferred Annaline over the new Elven scout they recruited. “The shanty town sleeps, untouched like a Sepek maiden. Trastamara does not have such modesty left. Bandits inhabit most of the streets.”
“We’ll go down tomorrow,” Irvig said.
A shadow detached itself from the labouring mass huddled beneath the outcrop, walking over to the makeshift committee. He was an old man who still knew how to use a blade. Irvig respected him, a warrior running the marathon of regaining past glories, but never felt comfortable around a man who refused to share his name. The others called him the Barbarian, but it was more in jest than truth. The man was efficient with a sword, slicing and stabbing, never swinging. The Dwarf suspected he was ex-military, though who really knew in a world like this.
“We can’t stay up here all night,” the Barbarian said. The rain made a pleasant sound against his armour, water dripping onto a tin roof. “They’ll freeze.”
Alssia seconded the motion and grumbles from the shadows agreed. Irvig turned, looking down at the shanty beneath them. “I don’t like it.”
“The Elf said the town was empty,” a guttural voice said, the fish-man still sitting on the tor. His voice sounded wrong, like a door hinge in need of oiling. “And the roofs are still strong. You’ll find shelter there.”
At his words, the Company began to pack up its supplies and readied themselves for the wet journey down to the shanty. Irvig gripped his hammer tighter. It didn’t feel right to take travel advice from the being they had chained for miles at a time. Any complaint was lost on the wind, though, and within minutes the Company was working their way down to the shanty town, the fish-man’s wrists chained to the belt of the Barbarian. The prisoner followed without complaint, staring off into the darkened sky.
Rotting fish pervaded the air, the stench barrelling out of the doors and windows of every building. It took Irvig several moments to realise the culprits weren’t necessarily decaying salmon. The others covered their mouths with pieces of cloth, but the Dwarf drank in the air, trying to pinpoint what irked him. The night was too dark to see inside the tiny hovels littered by the lake, imagination left to do the heavy lifting of what stomach churning horrors were hidden inside the shacks. Walking within a stone-throw of the lake, Irvig could see the inky blackness was tarred with a brown-green slurry, like decomposing leaves clogging a drain. Treasure or not, he wanted to leave the town as quickly as possible.
Alssia called them to a halt, standing outside the grandest of the buildings within the shanty. Grand meant it had a pointed roof and a door. “This one doesn’t smell so badly. It will do for the night.”
No one disagreed, the rain beating down even harder, forming a shroud around them. Trastamara was lost in the mist. The building didn’t look like it would crumble in on itself, the wood unyielding against the whipping wind. The Company stepped inside and was greeted by a dry dustiness that wasn’t unpleasant, even the rotting smell of the town diluted within the four wall of the long, narrow building. Looking at the stretching chairs and the raised pulpit at the back of the building, Irvig wondered if they had ventured inside some pale imitation of a church. The fish-man left his question unanswered, taking a seat on one of the makeshift pews and staring sightlessly at the wall beyond.
“Hold up,” Irvig grunted, dropping his pack in the corner. Others were already setting up bedding on the long chairs, rubbing their hands together at the prospect of some warmth beneath woollen blankets. “We need a watch.”
“Please,” mumbled a voice. Irvig supposed it came from the Sepek he hardly knew. He hardly knew anyone. “No one’s going to bother coming here.”
“Irvig’s right,” said the Barbarian, unshackling himself from the fish-man. The latter didn’t move from his pew. “I’ll take first watch and you can join me.”
Without another word, the Barbarian straightened his scabbard and walked out into the rain. The Sepek followed, looking as glum as a jackal-headed being could. Others readied themselves for bed and Irvig found himself a spot of dry floor by the pulpit, threw down his bedding and laid with eyes open in the darkness of the Merfolk’s church. In a matter of minutes, snores filled the room. Irvig stayed awake. He wasn’t sure if it was the rain, the wind, the rotting smell of fish or just the sixth sense that they should not be there, but he couldn’t sleep. His eyes stayed stubbornly open, devouring the darkened view of the roof above. The graining of the wooden beams distracted him, his head following the strange directions they seemed to flow out into, seeing how patterns emerged with regularity. Tired gears slowly ground into life and the Dwarf realised he was looking at carvings.
Standing up, Irvig glanced around the room. Everyone was asleep except the fish-man, unmoving, unseeing in the pew with the chains still around his wrist. He didn’t react as the Dwarf began to circle the room, treading with far more care than anyone would expect from a stout, full frame. His fingers ran along the walls of the church, tracing the figures carved into the wood. Lessons from his father came back to him, slowly, like a trickle, about great mines and long gruelling digs. He tried to read the story, for his father would insist there must be one, within the carvings. It was almost incoherent. Figures walked back and forth, meeting at a circle upon the roof before returning back, apparently to their death. The last figure of each journey was drawn as collapsing where the floor and wall met. Irvig was surprised to see a Dwarf among the procession, along with Merfolk, humans, and all other assorted races of the world. Even a goblin was depicted walking to the great melting pot upon the roof. Irvig wondered if this was a simple monument to the passing of time.
“You should be asleep.”
The Barbarian stood behind him, in the darkness appearing more like a shadow than a man. Water dripped from his greying hair, trickling down his skin. “Where’s…” Irvig began, searching for the Sepek’s name.
“Reliving himself against some building, he has a Halfling-sized bladder and the thirst of an ogre,” the Barbarian said, offering a rare smile. “Now sleep.”
“I can take next watch.”
“If you take the next watch, you’ll stand out there all night and we’ll find a frozen statute by morning. Sleep, you can take the morning shift. Others can go.”
Before Irvig could reply, the Barbarian had already tapped Alssia on her shoulder, waking her from her light Elvish rest. Tasting camaraderie he hadn’t felt for years, Irvig found himself settling back on the floor, grateful for a moment of if not friendship, kindness. It reminded him of something Gwent would do and with memories of the old Company in his mind, the Dwarf felt sleep slowly enveloped him. The air still smelt of rotting fish and the rain still pelted down from above, but Irvig felt a little better than he had done for years.
Dreams drifted out of reach, slipping in between outstretched fingers as Irvig floated through darkness. Nothing ever quite formed within his mind and by the time his eyes flickered open, the Dwarf felt he had only been asleep for minutes. The room was still dark and the chorus of snores had vanished. No one had shaken him awake. Sitting bolt upright, Irvig's eyed scanned the room, his chest beginning to rise and fall with increasing speed. The pews were empty, the church devoid of life except from the fish-man who still sat in his spot, staring at the wall. Irvig felt his stomach drop as he tried not to think about where everyone had gone.
It took only seconds to reach for his hammer, the weight a comfort in his hand as he rose and stepped to the door of the building. Rain still fell with such force that most of the town was lost, the church a bubble within the storm. Cold droplets attacked his face as soon as he stepped out, his long undergarments instantly soaked. Heaving the hammer over his shoulder, Irvig tread the path set out between buildings, trying to spy into the darkness for a set of eyes or the flash of a dagger. Hidden in the roaring of the wind, for just a second, he thought he heard a thud and a grunt of pain.
“Who's there?” he called out into the storm.
Compared to what Alssia would have no doubt seen, Irvig's eyes were poor. The night was so strong, if he was to look down he could hardly see the end of his beard. Walking blindly forward, the Dwarf nearly stumbled over the bodies strewn across the street: the Barbarian and Nial, some dragonborne hunter, slumped upon the ground. Dropping his hammer, Irvig knelt beside them. His fingers pressed at their necks. His own heart pumped harder, almost willing his companions' pulses into existence. Something faint stirred in both of them.
Thanking every deity he knew of, Irvig grunted and lifted the Barbarian to his feet. He was a dead weight, slumping over the Dwarf's shoulder, pressing him into the muddied ground. As much as it made his stomach turn, Irvig couldn't carry both his fallen comrades, one had to stay until he brought the other back to the church. Drawing on every ounce of mountain strength that his people were made with, Irvig dragged and carried the Barbarian through the soaked streets of the shanty. He wondered who had attacked them and why everyone had stumbled out into the rain without waking him. Despite the cold, by the time they reached the threshold of their makeshift home, the Dwarf was red-faced and slick with sweat. He gently dropped the man by the door, ready to turn straight back into the rain, when he saw the fish-man still sitting on his pew.
“You,” Irvig said, glowering, stamping over to the sickly figure in front of him. “What have you done? You brought us here, this is on you.”
The fish-man said nothing. He didn't even flinch. Staring at the wall, a light film coating his eyes, he hardly seemed alive. Then a voice broke the silence. The syllables were not buried in his guttural tone, nor did the voice come from the fish-man’s mouth. The sound came from behind, close to Irvig's ear, two words burying themselves deep inside his brain before something hard came down on the Dwarf's head and darkness reigned.
“Ilko kammu.”
***
Water lapped at his face. It was black and laced with green, slipping up his nostrils and trickling into his mouth, slowly choking him. Irvig awoke with a start, his eyes flying wide open. His limbs flailed against their restraints. What was once the Gilden Lake stared back at him, stretching out to the horizon as the Dwarf lay upon the shoreline, the water slowly claiming his face. His arms and legs were tied tightly, locking him in position, but Irvig had enough freedom left to crane his neck and look to his left, where the rest of the Shatterock Company laid on the shore, unmoving. They were tied in the same way he thought he must have been, legs together, arms behind their back. Only the Barbarian was free, standing over them, a knife in his hand.
“The fish-man,” Irvig said, his words slurred, still caught in the snare of a hangover of violence.
The Barbarian shrugged, moving to kneel beside Alssia. “A prop from my master. Nothing more than an empty puppet that I could control. I knew you would be suspicious if any of us came with the idea of going to Trastamara, I had to provide a decent bait to draw the others in.”
“Who are you?” Irvig ignored the hole in his stomach, where the comfort of a friendly smile had been ripped free.
“A servant,” the Barbarian said, the knife still in his hand by Alssia’s throat. Irvig noticed how it hadn’t moved since the conversation began, the words holding the blade still. It wasn’t hope, but it was desperation and that was something. If he kept the man talking, perhaps Irvig could keep the Company alive.
“Even servants have names, Barbarian.”
“Ladrin, I used to go by Ladrin,” the man said, appearing almost bemused at Irvig’s questioning. He rose and moved down the line of slumped bodies, coming to kneel beside the Dwarf. “But Inspector Ladrin no longer exists.”
Irvig’s neck was beginning to ache from lifting his head up and away from the water, his heart beating faster as Ladrin placed a hand in the muddy ground beside him. The knife was inching closer to his skin. “Why?” Irvig said, the word garbled and rushed. The knife paused.
“The blood of the Merfolk allowed my master a special connection with them. They eventually fled from it, though I did my best to make them repent. Then when he tasted man blood, the connection grew to another race. He hungers now; he wants all the people of the world within his reach. Where better than to find the widest sample of wines than an adventuring band of misfits?”
The knife moved forward. Irvig’s mouth opened for another question, to slow the inevitable, and found that he hadn’t anything else to say. The Dwarf noticed a jewel upon the hilt and wondered if it had always been there. As he felt the blade on his skin, he wished that the jewel fell off long ago. |
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Post by Injin on Mar 16, 2015 0:21:55 GMT -5
January 24th, 2014
Dearest Lord Abernathy,
My apologies for not responding to your correspondence sooner, the one dated to November 30th, but I am afraid that I was out of the City at that time and did not return until December 18th. It is getting increasingly difficult to find the right sort of parchment for our letters, as the Pen & Quill on Shaftesbury closed down. Beeswax parchment is a rare commodity, it seems. Still, I am ready to report to you my most recent findings on my short expedition to France to secure another of the proper Hives. Although the Order of the Honeyed Eye in France is no longer royally sanctioned, given the lack of a proper monarch in that country, it was difficult to track down one of its members, but I was able to after a short hunt. They generally do not go far from places where forests lie, and forests have grown ever thicker in Europa these days.
The Sextet Hive at his disposal was, at first, dangerous, and given its lack of protection by competent forces I had little choice but to secure it. While the older gentleman who held it was by no means a threat, he currently is in jail, and will be released in a fortnight. The Hive is currently on its way to the Study in Warwick so that it may be properly analyzed for its contents. On the first delve alone in solitary study, I was able to secure a rather odd artefact that had been hidden away. It’s not every trip that allows us to secure a Lantern, is it? Still, the defenses of the Hive are still active and I implore you to be careful. The defenses that are set up mean that it is one of the older ones. You don’t exactly expect a ball and chain to explode out the top being carried by primordial bees, now do you? Anyways, I should arrive in Warwick at the turn of the month, do be careful now.
Sincerely,
Lord Bernard Besancon, Beekeeper General of London-Upminster
January 30th, 2014
No apologies are necessary, Bernard, we all lose track of time, especially given our current duties. Why, it still feels like yesterday when I was with my brothers in Aberdeen, learning how to be a Beekeeper as I am now. Those were the days, weren’t they? Yes, those days were the days we first met, brother. We’ve gotten quite old, haven’t we? Mum is upstairs as she always is, the Queen has us little bees keeping everything in check. The symbolism the Queen Mum, you know, our actual Queen, made when she created our organization following the Second Great War. Of course, if I were to go on about that this would be a history lesson, and I do believe that you never really had the stomach for lectures, so I’ll desist. We can talk more in person, on the 1st. Odd day for you to be arriving, but we all have our normal expectations somewhat dragged down when Sextet Hives are involved. Speaking of it, we’ve brought it into the Great Apiary at the Study, between the Sextet Hive from Bath and the one from Cork. Had to remove the one from Derby, but that one is…well, we have a situation, Bernard. I’ll tell you about it in person.
My apologies for the short correspondence, but any further explanation cannot be done justice by a simple letter. I will see you soon.
Sincerely,
Lord Ingram Abernathy III, Chair of the Secretariat of Her Majesty’s Order of the Six Hives
February 1st, 2014
Today was the day. If there had been more time, Bernard sighed, he’d have waited until the sixth to arrive, but given his other commitments, that was not a possibility. Driving up the up the road, he slowly rolled down the roof of the vehicle, the air rushing through what little remained of his hair. Slumping somewhat as his visage loosened up a tad, he stopped clenching his teeth and straightened up. He couldn’t exactly arrive looking like he was a recruit, now could he? Licking his lips, he slowly pulled into the lot, on the left, as he arrived to a curious sight.
Well, site.
The Study was…significantly darker looking than he remembered. It had been two years since he’d last been called, or have reason to come here, as this was one of the more isolated English outposts of the Order, but it seemed different. Perhaps it was the way that the air seemed to darken the moment he pulled in, or the relative lack of other cars in his way as the car park seemed to be devoid of his countrymen.
Getting out of the car, he slammed the door shut, much to the echoing chagrin of the empty lot surrounding him. Walking straight towards the building in the center of the lot for a few moments, he stopped as he looked back to his car. Still there. Good. Walking back to it, he opened the door and grabbed a chunk of Honeycomb, snapping a piece of it off and gnawing on it as he looked towards the building. Spitting out the now used up piece, he could tell now that there was a faint magical glow, an unfamiliar one, emanating from the building.
Curious.
Grabbing a few more of his things, he hoisted the bag they were in over his shoulder as he once more approached the building before him, the darkness looming above and inside of it giving off a faint hue of green as he got closer and closer. Arriving at the entryway, he looked inside to find the door barred with honeycomb.
“Strange” he mentioned to himself, “the color’s wrong. Seems to be giving off a distinctly different odor than it should”
Gnawing on another piece of honey comb, snapped off in well-oiled precision, he spat out a few words that he’d said so many time previous and spat out the bits, punching the door as hard as he could. With a noise that could only be equated as punching through cardboard, the door, as well as the honeycomb blocking it, flew back into the lobby, where the echo of its landing remaining as the only noise that Bernard could hear.
Empty.
It wasn’t that the room was truly empty, to the contrary, the room was filled the normal lobby room furnishings, except it was strewn all about with not a person to be found. Unusually, especially given that it was a Saturday, one of the busier days. Most of the employees at the Study had “day” jobs that excluded weekends so they could work here without any issue. If he was back in London, he’d sigh in relief if there was hardly a soul in the lobby, but here, at one of the larger outposts, this was just peculiar.
As his hands, and eyes, eventually stopped rippling with magical energies, he continued to eye the room, seeing, nor sensing, even with his powers fading, anyone nearby. Walking slowly through the empty room, into the hall beyond it, he continued his march, undisturbed by any further blocks in his way. If this was a trap then he couldn’t wait until it sprung. It made him feel so-
Youthful.
Back in his youth, during the Cold War, he could remember so many missions. So many Sextet Hives beyond enemy lines, given to the Russian Czars and their families as gifts, ones that signified fertility and marriage. He’s been everywhere from Vladivostok to Moscow itself, just trying to fetch what the Reds knew so little about. How could they understand, what lay beyond the realms of man? An organization without God, the Queen, or something that wasn’t only connected to the State could not possibly combat the Seen or the Unseen creatures in their domain. Their ancestors served the more powerful creatures, such as Rod or Dazbog, who commanded legions of followers. The Slaves of the Gods indeed.
Still, it was an improvement over what the Communists created. So fervently anti-religion that magic, even in its weakened and easily understandable form, was denounced as false and impossible. So many relics of the Old Age, the time before the Magical Ice Age, had been lost. Svarog’s Hammer, the Portal to Veles’ Realm, a Fae realm perhaps, and more, all gone, deep underground in some classified Soviet bunker. Those were items that had to be stored in hives such as the ones here at the Study. As if this Age ends and they are free to exhibit their influence on mankind again, it might be difficult to stop.
Ancients.
Here he was. Arriving at the end of the hallway, he opened the doors to the Great Apiary, in the furthest depths that could be managed, given what was beneath the earth here. Nothing here seemed to be disturbed, save for the obvious boot marks in the soil. Sniffing the air, he looked around at the Hives inquisitorially. Nothing seemed amiss, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t. Grabbing the Honeycomb again, he chomped down on the substance, snapping off a much larger piece with his mouth than before, chewing it quickly as his eyes and hands began to glow once more.
Shoving the piece of Hive back into his satchel, he began to scan the various Hives in front of him, finding nothing out of place. Walking down the storied pathway down the middle, he took a right turn into a particular alcove that was more recently traversed. Another blockage. A flick of the wrists and a familiar sound and down went the wall in front of him. The older he got, the more familiar it felt. It was invigorating, to be sure.
There.
Still chewing the piece of honeycomb, he spat out what was left and continued forwards, the waxy substance spent of all of its magical energy. It had been a while since he’d been so wasteful, but given the circumstances he could not afford to act swiftly. This was far more serious than he expected. Normally, the Gardeners of the Apiary would be here to greet him, the large apes imported from the Rift Valley Rainforests near King Solomon’s Mines, or rather what was left of it, but there was simply silence. Solomon the Silverback was nowhere to be seen, his troupe missing just like everyone else. This was starting to get rather-
Lonely.
Wait. What was that?
Peering forward still, something of a shadow seemed to hover over one of the Hives, a great oily film in the midst of the air. This wasn’t Fae territory, so there was no reason to expect any of them here, but it was similar. His eyes could see what the Unseen truly was, but it still remained a stain on the copse of air surrounding a particular hive. Blinking a few times, the oil slick of air seemed approach each time he moved his eyelids, staying in place just in front of him now.
The whispers emanating from the creature were loud, raucous, and deranged, the noises erupting as if from all over the room. However, Bernard saw through its attempts.
“I don’t know who or what you are, but I believe the gentleman in me is telling me the following: Allow it to explain itself, and then get rid of it. So, ghast, ghoul, Gengar, whatever you are, tell me your purpose here.”
“My name” it began, the words concentrated, boring straight into the Beekeeper’s skull, “is André. All forms are mine. Your form is mine. The Bees are mine. Nadja is mine”
“Who is Nadja?” the Lordly Beekeeper mused wryly, staring straight through the apparition.
“NADJA
IS
MINE.”
As if on cue by some maddened director, the creature burst into a cacophony of buzzing bees, surrounding Bernard as he shook himself of the mad creature’s parts. As the bees began to sting the Beekeeper, the light in his eyes began to burn brighter, as if trying to figure out still what this creature was. Hands still glowing as well, Bernard swung wildly, smiting the bees with burning white energy, the smell of phosphorous filling the room as he struck down each and every bee within striking distance. Some paces away, the creature reformed, a smile hanging in the noose of its being, a hole that emptied into nothing.
Grimacing at the seemingly flat being, Bernard looked straight into its gaping maw, “If you can take all forms, why don’t I make a request? You wouldn’t happen to be able to turn into Johnny Williams at his prime, could you? I always wanted to take a shot at fighting him when I was a lad.”
Smirking at the challenge, the creature seemed to morph from a 2D outline to a once more fully realized pugilist. However, as soon as that happened, Bernard surged forward, bucking left and then striking up and right, clocking the apparition in its now physical chin and sending it back into the air. Landing a few yards away, it struggled to get up, shaking itself off as its hair faintly started to gray. Getting up, the ghostly figure put up its fists, approaching Bernard slowly. Bringing up his fists as well, Bernard licked his lips, removing some of the hardened honeycomb that had attached itself to his teeth as he gave himself a slight boost.
Surging forward, the Beekeeper struck with his left, then his right, in a quick barrage of fists as the specter blocked each and every attack, the powered up fists of Bernard not seeming to do much. A short glint flashed in Bernard’s eyes as he suddenly kicked the ghostly boxer between the legs, causing it to flinch just enough for a square punch to hit home into the now rapidly aging noggin of the ghost in front of him.
Falling to the ground, in apparent agony, the ghost began to be visibly aging as Bernard stared it down, “Getting old, aren’t you? It took me a bit of time to figure out what you are, but you are quite simply a Forgotten Shade. The quote from that particular novella told me that much. You know only the forms that your victims are aware of. Why not attack me with tsetse flies, or flying piranhas? Of course, I wasn’t entirely sure until you started aging. I don’t suppose you have any last, cliché words to tell me before I smite you back to the oblivion you spawned from?”
“Nadja is-“
“No, not letting you say that again” Bernard sighed out, smashing the ghost into literal paste as his fist surged through it, the white phosphorous smell from before returning as the ghost seemed to literally burn and disintegrate.
Now that had been quite pressing, wasn’t it, Bernard thought, looking into the paste and scanning it for any further activity. This was wrong. This was very wrong. Forgotten Shades were vestiges of a time before modern English, if it had been from either the Derby Hive or the newest French one, then it would’ve started with either old English for the first few sentences or a dialect of French. This one was recent, to say the least. And references to a Surrealist novel from the early 20th century? Absurd.
“Still trying to figure it out, old friend?” an elderly voice crones, coming out from behind one of the taller hives.
“Ingram Abernathy, you old scoundrel, what are you doing back there? I’m only a year younger than you, don’t tell me you are suffering Alzheimer’s already and left your office without your honeycomb again. Where’s the Mum?” Bernard said, visibly softening as he pulled his fist out of the ground.
“Gone, I’m afraid. She left with most of the maintenance crew a few hours ago. Not of her own will, unfortunately. I wish I could’ve warned you, but they were already here by the time that we had our outer defenses up” Lord Abernathy said, leaning with a sag against one of the Hives, “but I am glad that I got to see you again. One last time, you know.”
Tensing up again, Bernard straightened up, backing up slightly, “You. You didn’t betray us, did you?”
“Of course not, old friend, I did not have the chance or want to do so. Our organization is apparently infested, however, and by the time I realized it, things had already escalated” Ingram spoke, moving forward as a large smear of red scraped its way across the hive next to him, “they took everything with them. The hives are mostly empty now. Save for the one you found in Dijon, anyways. By the time it arrived, the majority of them were already absent from this place and it was seen as too burdensome”
“Who. Who did this, Ingram?” Bernard questioned, his hand on the honeycomb he’d brought in as he snapped off another piece and brought it to his mouth, still backing away slowly.
“I believe, dear, dear, Bernard, you know who it might be. The Druids interfered in our work so many times in the past, but now they’ve organized. They’ve gotten bolder” he coughed out, blood squirting out of Ingram’s neck as his neck seemed to snap, his speech hardly bothered, “They found the Portal to Veles’ Realm, Bernard. The legends” he said, his voice slowly warping, “did not match reality very well. It doesn’t lead to the Fae realm, it leads somewhere quite a bit. Darker.”
Gulping down as much of the honeycomb as he could manage without choking, Bernard hardly chew it, the solid energy bursting out much more thoroughly through his body as he was suddenly ensconced by dark grey armor, hanging off his person like one would imagine one’s full extent of feeling just beyond the body.
“I don’t wish to hurt you, Bernard, but I must say I have little in the matter of a choice anymore. You see, they took something from me and now I just can’t help but-” he said, wrenching himself from the side of the Hive, a giant bloody arm erupting from where his normal arm would be found, if it had been there at all. With a short snap, Ingram’s spine seemed to snap as he stood at a near 180 degree angle from his legs, “to hurt you” he finished, surging forward with an almost pained groan.
Jumping to the side just in time, Ingram slammed into the hive right next to where Bernard had been standing moments prior, toppling it over the hive as a puff of honeyed dust seemed to lazily drain out of it. Getting off of the Hive he’d landed next to and then had slumped on, Bernard’s hands began to glow white once more, the burning smell already at work as he surged forward.
“Overdosing, Bernard? How careless” the ghoul chided, snapping back up as one of its legs had remained standing while the rest of the body cracked and gashed out some blood as the creature that had formerly been his friend stood at its full stature. As it did so, the cracks in the skin engorged, blood seeming to pump out of nowhere to make the monstrosity bigger and bigger, until its fleshy visage could hardly contain itself, “By the time you manage to finish me off, Bernard, you might not have hands anymore. I really have to hand it to you, you did better than Solomon. The poor ape was my meal yesterday, after I ate his children in front of him. The druids do so hate domesticated animals, after all, and I am –was- so very hungry”
Choking right as the creature charged again, as it slammed through a few empty hives, Bernard made a break for it, going towards the only remaining receptacle of manage he might be able to make use of, if only to stop this sooner without having to use his fists.
“Bernie” it called out slowly, smashing nullified Hives left and right of it as it approached the Beekeeper, “Bernie, why haven’t you killed me already? Getting sentimental on me? Remember when we watched the stars as they passed us by in Aberdeen, Bernie? Sentimental enough for you?” it teased, charging again as Bernard rolled to the side, bumping into the French Hive.
“Enough! You aren’t Ingram, you are just his memories attached to a monstrosity!” Bernard screamed out, breathing raggedly, tears starting to well up in his eyes as he opened up the hive and pointed its top towards the monster. As he did so, several morningstars erupted from the top, the trap to keep out potential thieves slamming into the torso, skull, arms, and legs of the creature. Crumbling slowly to the ground, the creature seemed to try to get up, but its bones, or what was left of them, seemed to not respond.
“What are these? They can’t be just normal weapons” the creature whined, the crackling sounding far more painful and pronounced than before, “I can’t get up. Are you just going to leave me here, Bernie, and not call for help?”
“Don’t taunt me, creature. I left out in the letter what other findings I uncovered in the Sextet Hive I found in Dijon. Undead creatures do not enjoy what is inscribed on those weapons, nor do abominations or abberants such as yourself. They’ll keep you down while I take out what was worth trumping up charges on an old Frenchman”
Reaching his hand into the Hive while his hand still glowed, he pulled out a large sword, pointing it at the ghoul, “I believe the Druids will be kicking themselves for leaving this Hive alone, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is that a child of Caliburn itself?” the creature that was formerly Ingram asked, its eyes bulging incredulously as Bernard slowly approached it.
“Not quite, but close enough for the purposes of what I am about to do” Bernard said coldly, gulping as he loomed over the trapped monster, “Good night Ingram, wherever you may be” he muttered, cutting the creature’s head clean off in one swoop of the sword. Slowly putting the sword across his back, a sheath formed itself to guard the sword, as the body of what was formerly Lord Ingram Abernathy III slowly dissolved in a white phosphorous mist. Stepping away as he approached the Sextet Hive once more, he pressed two of the sigils in its side and hoisted it onto his back, behind the sword, as he moved further into the Great Apiary.
Half a kilometer into the room further than he’d been before, he limping all the way as he felt every year of his age. Breathing harshly as he entered the room at the center, he flipped a few switches and sent out a beacon, an alert to all of the other “Hives” of the Order.
“Lords and Ladies of the Order. I must be the bearer of bad news this day. The Study has been compromised, its Hives robbed of all of its riches, personnel, and all of its glory. Lord Secretary Abernathy did his best to defend the Queen Mum here, as he always has done, but was unable to stop them. I’m afraid that the Order of the Silver Druids has resurfaced, and they’ve gotten their hands on the Portal to Veles’ Realm. Lord Secretary Abernathy passed that on to me before he passed. Brothers, Sisters, we are at a crossroads. We must rearm, as we now face a threat of such was only equated at the height of the Cold War. Back then, at least the Soviets had only a few, curious scientists, but if this threat is as serious and mounting as it seems, we have little recourse but to fight harder for our future, the world’s future, than ever before. I ask that we convene the Council of the Six Hives, and report our findings to the Queen. If I am not subdued by the Sixth of March, I will meet you all to report to the Queen.”
“I will rally the other Orders and Organizations that I can to fight this threat in the meantime, so I urge you, be aware, be careful, and God Save the Queen.”
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Mar 17, 2015 16:39:25 GMT -5
James: This story didn't really impress me, but it was probably the most well-rounded of all the semifinal entries. The story wasn't super memorable, and the writing itself was workmanlike, but it was clear, and it had a definite beginning/middle/end, so it was easy to follow, at least. Probably the most interesting idea on display was Irvig's position as the last holdout within the Shatterock Company "franchise," although you could have done more with it than you did. As it stands, the only significant thing that comes out of the idea is Irvig's regret at sticking around while he is being murdered. Off the top of my head, it would have been interesting to see something dealing with the idea that Irvig is perpetual follower: he's lasted through every iteration of the adventuring party, but it doesn't look like he leads it, and following orders is eventually what gets him killed. Alternatively, given that the threat in Trastamara has been established as affecting memory, there was definitely room to contrast the Inspector's loss of identity with that of the Shatterocks.
I did like that you decided to build on (what I consider) Injin's strongest story of the competition. That was honestly something I was expecting to see happen a lot more, and only a few contestants really took advantage. Having said that, the thing that made the first Trastamara story interesting was, like I said, the horror theme of dealing with a loss of self. You really only paid lip service to that idea, with the reveal that Inspector Ladrin has been wholly taken over by whatever force attacked the city.
Injin: Well, first off, your story should have started after the letters. They didn't serve an actual purpose except for some clumsy backloading of character history. In particular, things like this:
and this:
are ridiculous. Nobody has ever talked like that, especially to someone who they know this well. Both of these characters know this information, and no reader is going to mistake the dialogue for anything other than an attempt to spoon feed them details.
You're also still really hung up on timing, by which I mean, trying to controller the exact pace at which the reader reads your words. This is something I totally understand, because I do it too, especially when writing jokes where timing is so important, but it really just isn't acceptable to use ellipses in prose the way you do. It looks really hacky. There was only one point where it kind of worked:
and even there, you can only really get away with it once. You use the same trick again later on, and it's cheesy as a result. My advice would be to stop trying to be so arch; the dramatic pauses are way too pronounced to be effective. Make do with commas like everyone else.
There were a handful of awkward phrases, images, and subject-verb disagreements scattered throughout the text. In particular, you sometimes have a bit of a thesaurus vibe, where word choice doesn't seem to gel. For example:
"Puff" and "lazily drain" do not fit together. Puff is light and animated, drain is slow and liquid. That's an easy fix, though, you just need to work through the logic of your imagery better.
I liked the initial idea of a secret order with a beehive theme; it was a good example of building on James' setting while still blazing your own trail. However, beyond that initial concept it was all a bit nonsensical. If the origin or true function of the hives was ever adequately explained, I certainly didn't pick up on it. Likewise, the bee symbolism, while neat, was tacked on. "Why bees?" is basically my question.
Likewise, the plot's conflict didn't make a ton of sense. You never painted a very clear picture of The Study, so in my head everything was just sort of happening in this boring, nebulous room, making Bernard's meandering actions seem even more surreal. His response to finding a top secret secure site utterly deserted seemed very underplayed. When Ingram said “Still trying to figure it out, old friend?” my first thought was that the only mystery on display was "what is the mystery?" You should have laid down some clues, or just some general, unexplained description. Anything to make me actually wonder what was going on.
Sorry if I sounded harsh. I get frustrated to see cool, creative ideas squandered or put to poor use. Your writing benefits so much from the steady hand of an editor.
Incidentally, this line here was very, very good:
Winner: James
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Post by James on Mar 17, 2015 17:32:06 GMT -5
So, Injin.
Like I said, I really loved the beehive idea. I actually thought you could have used it a little better because it is such a great idea. I wasn't entirely taken with the idea of hives being used as storage for ancient relics. What I thought you might have gone with is a far quieter, down to earth story, about beekeepers who have found a way to nurture bees and honey with magical properties. You kind of get there with the honeycomb, but not quite. You went for bombastic over subtly. I'd like to see you try and rein things, tone it down a little, and write smaller stories. The action here was fun, like I said, but a quieter story could have been great.
I have to second the things Taed said about timing and the realism of dialogue/letters. I also have to second what Taed said several rounds earlier that it might be cool to see you tackle a story without dialogue. I'm not going to lie, it's a weak spot of yours, but your prose can be really strong at times and I think that's an area you should exploit. Beyond that, all I can say is read stuff and listen to people. Read how other writers write dialogue and listen to how real people talk.
Finally, I want to discuss something Taed didn't bring up. It's quite specific but I think it's universal and you can expand the lesson to all your writing. You tried to make this British without pausing to think actually what that means. You threw a lot of grand titles out there, ways I can only assume you think British people speak, big estates, royalty, and so on, but you didn't get that British vibe of cynical humour, repressiveness, stiff upper lip, wordplay, passing of times, and so on. You built a big British house, but the walls were made of plastic and you forgot to do anything inside it.
Now, this is all very specific, which isn't helpful for you. But just take a minute to pause and think. Don't go for the obvious or the cliched. Think about what's under the exterior and why that is. So, you go "I'm writing a fantasy story about beekeeping and I want it to be British, what do I do?" Don't answer with silly names, posh talking and big castles. Think about the literature from there, think about the undercurrent. These beekeepers come from a long history, they're good at what they do, but they're becoming redundant, and they're not quick enough to change, and they're going to die out, but they're taking it all in good humour and a quiet sense of resignation. That story is so much more -British- than Lord Wotwot and the Earl of Bulldoggington.
I'd like you to take that lesson through to all your writing. "I'm writing about a battle", don't answer: guns, explosions, swearing! Answer: what are the soldiers thinking? They're scared, they're not sure if they're doing the right thing, etc. "I'm writing about a tomb robber", don't answer: spiders, tombs and darkness! Answer: passing of time, what happens if you disturb the history, how does the past reflect on the characters now.
You think big at the moment, and it makes your stories smaller. Think smaller, get into the nitty-gritty and don't build an empty grand house, but rather a beautiful small one.
Please feel free to quiz me here, because I'm not sure this is coming off particularly clear.
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