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Post by Kaez on Sept 3, 2016 4:05:11 GMT -5
Constraint: The following must be the beginning to your story, verbatim: We slogged through the marshes, boots soaked with mud and brine, our necks craning to peer through the mists. Waiting. Waiting for the archers. Waiting for the slung stones and spears. We heard rustles in the thickets, saw faint lights that faded and shone again, and we waited. Commander Beylon said they might be drawing us into a trap. Driving us deep into the bog and encircling us. The local boy was quiet. The commander shook him in frustration and barked orders to reroute us, but he trembled. I saw fear in his eyes. Like he saw what was waiting for us. Like he knew about those things that came out in the dark in the deepest entrails of the marshes.
The commander ordered Brenly and Aster to scout ahead. The look they had – the fear. That same fear.
We camped that night, but dawn never seemed to come. The men awoke, but the sun never rose. No overcast, no stormclouds – stars, but no moon.
The night lingered on. And the dark got darker.
The night fell to pitch black until even the stars faded from the sky. And then the quiet came, the unearthly silence, like I had fallen to the bottom of a well. Nothing to see, nothing to hear – I called out into the dark, but no voices came in return, and I slept, and awoke, and slept again. And the days became nights, and my dreams became visions, and I thought perhaps I had died, killed in that first night, and this was the fate that awaited me, lost in the void, bogwater and shadows and darkness forever, unable to return.
And then the dawn came. A true dawn, of golden and red hues like I’ve never seen before or since. And the commander was gone. And our horses. And our spears, and the arrows and strings of our bows. Of the twenty of us, only three remained. |
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Post by Injin on Sept 7, 2016 18:14:25 GMT -5
We slogged through the marshes, boots soaked with mud and brine, our necks craning to peer through the mists. Waiting. Waiting for the archers. Waiting for the slung stones and spears. We heard rustles in the thickets, saw faint lights that faded and shone again, and we waited. Commander Beylon said they might be drawing us into a trap. Driving us deep into the bog and encircling us. The local boy was quiet. The commander shook him in frustration and barked orders to reroute us, but he trembled. I saw fear in his eyes. Like he saw what was waiting for us. Like he knew about those things that came out in the dark in the deepest entrails of the marshes.
The commander ordered Brenly and Aster to scout ahead. The look they had – the fear. That same fear.
We camped that night, but dawn never seemed to come. The men awoke, but the sun never rose. No overcast, no stormclouds – stars, but no moon.
The night lingered on. And the dark got darker.
The night fell to pitch black until even the stars faded from the sky. And then the quiet came, the unearthly silence, like I had fallen to the bottom of a well. Nothing to see, nothing to hear – I called out into the dark, but no voices came in return, and I slept, and awoke, and slept again. And the days became nights, and my dreams became visions, and I thought perhaps I had died, killed in that first night, and this was the fate that awaited me, lost in the void, bogwater and shadows and darkness forever, unable to return.
And then the dawn came. A true dawn, of golden and red hues like I’ve never seen before or since. And the commander was gone. And our horses. And our spears, and the arrows and strings of our bows. Of the twenty of us, only three remained.
I hardly remembered leaving the forest. The feeling of emptiness, of hunger seemed to malinger inside of we who remained until we were within sight of the outpost we’d trekked from. That golden hue that seemed to awaken us before was gone. We were still here. I thought, after everything, that seeing that wooden palisade before me would bring that same light I felt when we finally awoke from the forest’s dream back to me. Us.
I nearly dropped dead the moment we got through the gate.
The barber-surgeon who woke me up later said that I had suffered from some sort of wasting disease, but one of the inquisitors had managed to purge it from my body.
Dreams haven’t come since. It was like my time in the forest, the swallowing darkness within that ashen copse of trees, took it from me. I don’t think any of the others who survived can dream anymore either, but you’d have to ask them to find out.
End of Report
- Private Gerhard S. Ashby, Baron of Almaen
Year of our Lord, Luftreiner, 303 DY
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“Do you recognize this report, Private?” a voice asked, shaking me out of my reverie. Right. A thin, almost pamphlet sized piece of paper waved in front of me.
Here, I was in this odd room. I’d seen the outside of it once, when we’d caught some sort of fish-man who had been caught hunting in the marshlands alone. Normally I’d be afraid, but right now the only thing I felt was the cold clasp of the questioner’s hand.
“Yes, sir. Wrote that a few days after, well, the three of us who survived the expedition”
Buzzing. A sort of dark numbness dragged along the ridges of my brain. My breathing hitched and the air seemed, for a moment, to darken before the Inquisitor snapped his fingers again.
“Private, I’m asking you to answer a simple question. The purpose of the expedition, for the record. Why were you in the Maelbog?”
That damned marsh. Whatever possessed our Commander to think that this mission was a good idea?
“Our orders, sir were to“
“Inquisitor. Inquisitor Baylock. Continue.”
Ass.
“Our orders, Inquisitor Baylock, were to scout the Maelbog and destroy the tribe of non-humans that resided there. As you likely know, raids from the Maelbog have been a problem for this region for a while. We already have enough trouble with the Evengrove elves who”
“Keep on the subject matter, Private.”
“Alright, Inquisitor. Our other order was top secret. Only ones who knew were Commander Beylon and Corporal Aerethon.”
Corporal Aerethon. Or as he always seemed to demand we call him when he was drunk, Count Aldus Aerethon the 3rd, Lord of Ashreach Castle and Fifteenth of his line to be Stewards of the Ashreach. Or he would be once his father died. Like it had been for all first-born sons of nobility, in order to inherit they had to do a tour in the military.
“Corporal Aerethon is part of the reason I am here, so it is nice of you to volunteer that information.”
A wry sort of look emerged from the inquisitor’s face. What did Aldus have to do with that look on his face? A shiver shook its way down my spine as the Inquisitor seemed to take his time to elaborate further. The air grew sharp for a moment before I couldn’t take the silence anymore. Not again.
“What does he have anything to do with why you are here, Inquisitor?”
“For the record, Scribe, let it be known that Private Ashby insisted that I answer that question.”
The Scribe nodded quickly and jotted something down. The Scribes were a neutral organization, thankfully, but I couldn’t exactly see what she was writing.
“Scribe Perkins, what have you written?” the Inquisitor barked, getting up to peer over and do the obvious.
“What I have written is for the record, Inquisitor. Which you may review later. May I add that you have the right to ask for expungement later. Or should I repeat the article of the Scribe Code to you that ascribes me the power to act as a non-partisan party in this interrogation?”
Interrogation?
I was being interrogated? For what? Sure, normally the Inquisition didn’t get involved unless something had gone awry, but in my years of training and my military experience, failed expeditions didn’t generally get interrogations attached to it unless something went drastically wrong. Was it something I did? How?
“Very well, Scribe. Let us continue on, then, shall we?”
“I don’t have a say in that. Continue as you will, Inquisitor Baylock.”
The Inquisitor seemed to bristle at that. A sort of lack of sensation filled me for a moment as he did, feelings retreating into the core of my body as he seemed to emanate a general dread.
That same feeling from the marsh. Sheer terror in darkness, the light in the room dampening as the Inquisitor seemed to suck the very life out of it into himself. The wooden ceiling decayed as it began to loom heavily on me. The darkness and shadows sunk further down and down and down and down and down and
The torches were lit again.
“Private Ashby, are you with us?”
The Inquisitor.
“I’m here. If you would please repeat the question?”
Baylock was silent.
“What is your relationship with Corporal Aerethon? I have a note here that states that the Barony of Almaen is within what is traditionally known as the Stewardry of the Ashreach. You and the Corporal. Tell me about the two of you.”
Technically I was from the Ashreach. Almaen was by no means a major barony, but it was significant in that it used to lay at the far east of Ashreach, near Lake Gilden. A hundred years ago, I would’ve had to treat Aldus as my boss, but with my grandfather’s inheritance and the series of skirmishes afterwards, Almaen was separated from the rest of the Count’s lands. Annexation by Luftia in my father’s time kept the arrangement as is. I had a feeling that wasn’t what the Inquisitor was asking, though. Not really.
“I grew up at the King’s Court in Trastamara and we were forced to share the same room. We’ve been friends since we were ten, or eleven. I think it was eleven, actually. We are also, by descent, distant cousins. Of course, my line has nowhere near the prestige that his does, but I’m a little confused why this matters”
His eyes…The look on Inquisitor Baylock’s otherwise thin visage told me that he was going to tell me exactly why this matters.
“Tell me more about your relationship with Corporal Aerethon, Private. Saying you are friends isn’t exactly a good description”
Or not?
“During our hellion days we used to go out drinking, cavort around the capital, go see the newest imported play from Thespus Magna in the redlight district, what else do you want to know? I can’t tell you what I don’t know you are asking.”
Strike two.
Baylock stared a hole in me and the lights flickered out again. The walls shook much like waves on Lake Gilden, shuddering and shaking as the marsh-gloom filled the room again. Sounds of rapids filled my ears as the room filled up with a cacophony of noise and din, the water rising, rising higher into me and
“Private Ashby!” the Inquisitor shouted, the sting of a flat hand burning into my face. My head was cocked to the side at the weight of the impact, my eyes circling around to my hands, now covered in splinters.
Why was this happening to me? It was like I was back in the Maelbog, but it felt distinctly more threatening. I looked around the room and everything was as bright as when they had brought me in. The Inquisitor, his face formerly hard, seemed concerned. His lips were pursed as he scanned my upper body, and it was only when I noticed that my teeth were gnashing together did I stop to respond.
“Sorry Inquisitor, since I went to the Maelbog, things have been difficult to manage.”
How I managed to say all of that, even as generic as it was, I didn’t know. The pain was, well. My skin was alight with the sensation of pins dug into my flesh.
“For the record, we are going to pause for now. I’m getting Cla” what was he saying? My mind was buzzing as he seemed to explain something in detail before I could actually understand what he was saying again “look at your health. We’ll resume when you are actually mentally competent, Gerhard”
No, I could do this. My fingers, especially, burned with the rushing of blood throughout. I tried to rise, but I didn’t move an inch. A feeling of paralysis followed where not even my eyes felt like they could see beyond what was before me.
Perhaps the Inquisitor was right.
Time passed. I hardly could focus in this time, but at least it wasn’t due to encircling nothingness. I awoke from this lack of sensation later. Much later, apparently, as I was no longer in the interrogation room and instead was back on my cot.
“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you what that was all about, Private” a voice said just beyond my periphery. I could move my head again, so it was a trivial matter to look to my right. It was Clarice. The same priestess who managed to cure me of what ailed me from the marsh. Well. What she could.
“And?”
“And that’s it. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s half my job. Corporal Aerethon hung himself a few days ago after showing similar symptoms as you did. The other survivor, Private Ulsey, has gone missing and is presumed dead.”
The world fluttered around me as she spoke, the room spinning ‘round as my eyes lost focus. Aldus was dead. Forever. Aldus had not been an adherent of the faith as he was. As most in Luftia were. His family hadn’t known, but I did. And now he was gone. Why had she told me this, when I can hardly respond with any realness to her?
The next time I could tell what was going on, the Inquisitor was standing next to me, looming over the bed with a needle in his hand.
“should do it. Private, are you feeling competent to speak?”
“Affirmative,” I said, the feeling of a night spent tavern-knocking flooding my head, “What did you inject into me?” I couldn’t feel my hands, but at least I could think again. Even if it hurt.
“I’m surprised you could even tell I’m holding anything in your condition.”
Sidestepping the question or did he just not feel like answering? “Inquisitor, I asked”
“and I have more important things to talk to you about than needles. Right now you are actually lucid and I would like to finish my talk with you about the Corporal.”
“About his death?”
There was that look on his face again. The Inquisitor’s face contorted a bit at that and then molded itself into a more concerned look. Odd.
“Where did you hear that Corporal Aerethon was dead? He’s” the Inquisitor began, his mouth opening for a moment before shutting it again. He’s what? In that moment I wanted to shake him. Ask. What did you mean by that? But he finished his own statement with some degree of finality “not your concern at the moment”. I knew that intonation clearly. No more pressing questions.
“Alright, sir. What other questions do you have for me?”
“First, let us reestablish the record. Scribe Perkins?” the Inquisitor said, turning his head towards the female Scribe. “I believe now is a good time to resume. I think it might be better to continue here where he’s restrained and not liable to break his right hand again.”
My hand was broken? When?
“Very well. We will begin the fifth attempt to interrogate Private Ashby as to the matter to be dealt with. Proceed, Inquisitor Baylock.”
Wait. Fifth? I could remember the first time, but what else had I missed? Things right now were clearer for me, but my memories were blurred over between now and my brief awareness while I was talking to Clarice.
“Are you listening, Private?”
The Inquisitor again. Right. If I lose myself too much again, he’ll get impatient with me.
“Affirmative, as I said before. What do you want to know?”
“Good to see you lucid. Now, I’ll repeat the last question I asked you. When did Commander Beylon go missing? Which night?”
That wasn’t the last question he asked me, was it?
“Well, sir, Inquisitor, I’m not sure. Night there wasn’t really something you could call a night” it was more like a bad dream you couldn’t escape “more like an awakening. I think I saw a hair of him after the third ‘night’, but I don’t remember seeing him after that. “
“Interesting. Scribe, are you getting that?”
“Yes, Inquisitor Baylock” she said, the Scribe scraping the parchment fiercely, “No need to ask me. I write down everything”
“Sir” I asked, feeling something warm well up in my chest, “what is this about? I wrote everything that needed to be said in the report. I don’t understand why I am being questioned and I think I would be able to give you more accurate answers if I did.”
I wasn’t sure where this oddly rebellious statement came from, but it felt related to whatever he’d injected in me. My breath hitched for a moment before the edges of my vision became grey, shortly before my sight reverted to normal again.
“I told you before, but perhaps it would be more prudent to tell you now that you’ve injected yourself with Nightmarsh Venom, soldier” How could I have done that with my hands bound? “which seems to temporarily reverse whatever’s happened to your mind. Your report leaves out something quite important. You seem” he says, quiet for a moment before gritting his teeth “to have succeeded in your objective”
I wondered how that could be. Clearly, we had met no opposition once we’d been baited into the deepest part of the marshes. We definitely had not completed the tertiary goal, so how
“The entire tribe of non-humans was dead when the secondary scout team entered the Maelbog and returned with the news a full week before your company returned.”
How
“There was no sign of any of you in the wilderness aside from abandoned weapons and tents. We feared the worst until you and your fellow soldiers made it back to the outpost, Private Ashby.”
HOW
Darkness erupts from my vision and overtakes the room, the fire burning out of my chest to consume the rest of me. Air becomes daggers in my mouth, throat, and chest as I wheeze and gasp for something to keep me conscious.
Hours pass, this time I am sure. A burning feeling continues throughout as on occasion I feel pricks in my arm, the back of my skull, and elsewhere as I feel myself causing the air above me to burst with my spittle.
Then suddenly, calm.
The air feels smooth against my face, a new sensation against my skin after all the feelings of being fed on by some kind of shadowy abyss.
I hear a voice.
“Private, are you with me?”
Baylock.
“Private, I will ask you again. Did the Venom work this time?”
“Yes. Inquisitor” I say, lifting my hands from the bed.
Nothing. Still nothing.
“No feelings of warmth in your chest, nothing hurting you at all?”
“Bed’s stiff, Sir. Inquisitor Baylock. I feel sore, but there’s nothing else to report.”
“How about your eyes?”
“Can’t see or feel them, Inquisitor”
Nothing’s on my eyelids. I try to move my eyes to gauge if maybe there’s something blocking my vision more closely, but I can’t feel them either.
“That’s for the best. We figured out what the issue was with your mind, Private. How you survived, we’re not sure, but we’ll sort that out after you recover and receive your promotion.”
Promoted?
“Sir?”
“Sleep now. Clarice will explain everything once she returns from her duties in Gil.”
I wanted to thank him, but my body didn’t let me. The gentler darkness of unconsciousness took that decision away from me as I slipped into the most benign sleep I have since had.
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Post by The Counter Cultist(Sawyer) on Sept 9, 2016 0:35:49 GMT -5
We slogged through the marshes, boots soaked with mud and brine, our necks craning to peer through the mists. Waiting. Waiting for the archers. Waiting for the slung stones and spears. We heard rustles in the thickets, saw faint lights that faded and shone again, and we waited. Commander Beylon said they might be drawing us into a trap. Driving us deep into the bog and encircling us. The local boy was quiet. The commander shook him in frustration and barked orders to reroute us, but he trembled. I saw fear in his eyes. Like he saw what was waiting for us. Like he knew about those things that came out in the dark in the deepest entrails of the marshes.
The commander ordered Brenly and Aster to scout ahead. The look they had – the fear. That same fear.
We camped that night, but dawn never seemed to come. The men awoke, but the sun never rose. No overcast, no stormclouds – stars, but no moon.
The night lingered on. And the dark got darker.
The night fell to pitch black until even the stars faded from the sky. And then the quiet came, the unearthly silence, like I had fallen to the bottom of a well. Nothing to see, nothing to hear – I called out into the dark, but no voices came in return, and I slept, and awoke, and slept again. And the days became nights, and my dreams became visions, and I thought perhaps I had died, killed in that first night, and this was the fate that awaited me, lost in the void, bogwater and shadows and darkness forever, unable to return.
And then the dawn came. A true dawn, of golden and red hues like I’ve never seen before or since. And the commander was gone. And our horses. And our spears, and the arrows and strings of our bows. Of the twenty of us, only three remained. We did the only thing we could think of. We turned around and went home. The marshmen had won. They got to keep their treasure.
Or so we thought.
A half a day of trudging through the bog, and we came upon another dry clearing with a large building surrounded by a small village. The marshmen’s village, most likely. We approached cautiously. Despite being unarmed, I was still a wizard, and we all were skilled in advanced forms of martial arts. The marshmen only used slingshots and simple spears in combat. We could potentially overpower them. But there was no one at the village. In fact it looked like this village hadn’t been lived in for years. We walked through cautiously, expecting an ambush. No such ambush came however.
Eventually we reached the building, where one of the marsh savages await us. He was old, face covered in tattoos. I knew the marshmen’s custom of tattoos that told the story of their life. Judging from the tattoos that covered his face, and the ones I could see on the hands gripping his staff, this savage was quite old.
“You should go back,” the savage said as we approached. It was the first time I had met a marshman with even a grasp of our tongue. The savages weren’t know for their willingness to learn about us or interact, mostly they just kept to themselves, threatening anyone who came near their marsh. Legends told that they guarded a great magical treasure that would grant immortal life. That had been why the king had ordered Commander Beylon to take us out into the Nightmarsh. To take this treasure for him.
“I will not stop you, but know this;” I paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the grand structure and gazed at the old savage. He opened his eyes and looked at me. They were almost pure white.
“There is a reason we protect this marsh with such fervor, and its not for the reason you think.” The old man glanced back up at the building entrance, and I followed his gaze.
“We’re not protecting some grand treasure inside this temple from you. We’re protecting you from it.” I glanced back at the old man, and considered my options. The sensible part of me was telling me to heed the savage’s warning. There was something about this building that put me off. But there was something about it beckoning me. Like a voice calling me to look inside.
“Ostan, Loras, watch this savage, I’m going to investigate inside.” On the off chance this savage was telling the truth, I would at least not get my remaining comrades killed. “If I don’t return by sundown, or you see his friends coming back, get the hell out of here and back to the capital. Then come back and burn this accursed bog to the ground.”
Without another word I ascended the steps up to the building. It reminded me a lot of an ancient temple of sorts. Who knew the savages were capable of such stonework, especially considering their village was made of cloth and wood teepees. Upon reaching the top I cautiously opened the door and stepped in. The dark inside reminded me very much of the darkness we had experienced last night. In that it swallowed me as I stepped inside.
“Ahh, a visitor.” I jumped and instinctively dropped my hand to my waist. Then I mentally swore as I realized my dagger had disappeared with my spear. I jumped again as the door slammed closed behind me, coating me entirely in darkness yet again.
“It’s been so long since I’ve had contact with other sentient beings. Last night was the first thrill I had gotten in a long while. Void bless the young marshmen who had gotten curious and peeked inside, I feasted for the first time in nearly century.”
“Who are you?” I shouted, as more questions filled my mind. Whatever this voice was it was coming from seemingly everywhere. And it felt, familiar. Like an old friend I hadn’t seen in some time
“Ohhhhh that question. You know the marshmen asked me that when I first appeared before them a hundred years ago? Then they sealed me inside a jar for a century. What an experience that was.”
A light appeared before me and I gazed towards it. In that light I saw Aster. Just standing there.
“This young gentlemen asked me the same question.” ‘Aster’ said, though it wasn’t his voice. It was the same disembodied voice from before. “He and his companion Brenly. I thought about inhabiting them, but they wouldn’t quite do it for me. I’d maybe get a year or two out of them. Then I found the rest of their little gang. Including you.”
Aster started to move closer and I, once again acting on instinct, moved back until I was pressed against the door. As Aster got closer his face changed, to that of Commander Beylon, then a marshmen, then finally back to Aster. My heart began to race, as things finally began to come together. The seemingly endless night hadn’t been savage magic. It had been this, thing, whatever it was standing before me. Aster’s face put on a wicked smile.
“The only one of them besides that old sage outside with any sort of connection to her. And what a connection.” Aster moved until he was right in front of me, and once again his appearance changed to the commander. “I bet I could get a few centuries out of you. More than enough to turn this world into the paradise I’ve turned the other worlds I’ve been too.” The thing took its hand and traced it seductively down my cheek.
“You don’t know how long its taken, yes they sealed me away, but I could still influence. Enough to get people to spread rumors about immortality and endless youth. Enough to get whatever king had to be nearby to come in here. Enough to get that poor young man to break my jar and let me out long enough to feed and recharge enough to possess someone. I didn’t expect to find such an excellent host so quickly, but it just means I can get back on schedule.”
Tears rolled down my eyes as I looked into the creatures own. Whatever magic it possessed was enough to make me understand and see what it had left in its wake. And what its intentions for myself was.
“Please no, you can have our king, just let me be me.” The thing smiled wickedly with Beylon’s lips and laughed.
“That’s the beauty of it. You will be you.”
The blackness returned.
I awoke almost immediately after. And looked behind me. The temple had opened again, and I could see the setting sun outside. I didn’t feel any different, and looking down at myself I didn’t look any different. But I felt different. I remembered things I shouldn’t. But they all felt right. Like I had been there, but it hadn’t been me. Then there was the power. By the gods the power. I had been a skilled wizard before. Right now it felt like I could burn the entire bog around me.
I was kicked with the reminder of why I was here. The king’s command. Obviously there was no immortality granting artifact. Or, rather, there was, but it had decided it wanted me. Still it posed a problem. And I so hated loose ends.
…did I? Or did the other? New bodies were always hard to get a handle on for the first decade or so. Thankfully that was like a second blowing by for me. Besides its not like I wanted to go quickly. I enjoyed the slow process of corrupting a world and wreathing it into the void. But the king’s command was a loose end that needed to be tied up.
Or perhaps, instead it was the two other fools I hadn't killed. Or the other hadn't killed? Igniting a ball of fire in my hand, I smiled, I’d get it eventually. With a brief whistle I tossed it at towards the bottom of the steps, and chuckled as I heard the two loyal idiots start screaming. I stepped outside and looked down at the burning now corpses. And the sage. Ohhhhh the sage.
“Hello old friend. Let’s have a chat shall we.”
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Post by Kaez on Sept 12, 2016 23:30:48 GMT -5
InjinThis was interesting, Alex. I thought you did a fairly decent job of continuing the tone of the beginning, though cutting it off as a report and then carrying on in an entirely different tone does, at least a little bit, cheat the purpose of the prompt. You essentially put ending quotes on something that never had beginning ones. Some critiques I've got: You have a tendency throughout to not end your quotations with any sort of punctuation. Not sure why that is, but, y'know, quotes always end with punctuation even when they don't end the sentence. Then you've got some phrases like, "seemed to awaken us", "almost pamphlet sized", "Inquisitor seemed to take his time", "a sort of lack of sensation filled me," etc. This is something I think I've pointed out to you in the past. You write from yourself. Your characters tend to all kind of have your voice and your personality in different flavors, but you're always there. And it's there in the narrative too. The narrative can be a little self-doubting at times. But narrative should never doubt itself. Things shouldn't "seem to" happen. It shouldn't be "almost like" it happened. Things -happen- in stories. It woke you. It was a pamphlet. The inquisitor took his time. You went numb. Make definitive statements about what happens and it actually contributes to the legitimacy and immersion of the story. Otherwise, we can -see you-. We're supposed to fall into the story, and with things like "seemed to", we can see that it's just a story. We can see the author through the language. Make the story definitive. Make it something that -happened-. State it. Describe it. Paint it. Don't allude to it. Can I share a thing with you? I want to share a thing with you. www.youtube.com/watch?v=dp9Hb8LAgqsOther things: You wrote this story in that kind of character-talking-to-the-reader first person style. Which is fine. That can work. But this is an example of it not working. The character outright telling us his expectation for something and then it being defied is infinitely less interesting than you -showing- us the defiance of the Inquisitor by having him completely refuse to tell him. Show us the disappointment of our protagonist. Show not tell. This is another example, just to clarify that it's not a one-off thing. "Felt distinctly more threatening" and "felt related to whatever he'd injected in me" could've been -shown- to us instead of told, and it would've been far more interesting. Okay. So. Beyond those critiques, what do we have? We actually have something fairly ambitious. A story which tries to depict someone in a very unusual and difficult state of mind. Someone whose reality is bending around them. That's hard to do. And while you didn't sell it 100%, I definitely fully understood what you were going for. And that alone is about half the battle with these kinds of things. The disorientation was there and it wasn't abrasive, so you get good marks for that. You also had three distinct characters that felt like they each served a role in the story. The Inquisitor embodied menace and confusion and oppression. The Scribe was kind of an anchor of reassurance that there was something real happening, something objective. I would've liked if the protagonist had kind of clung onto her. If she had been more important to him. If she had really played the role that she could have in the story and wasn't just there to show off a guild. So I thought, while there was some missed potential, and while you made some narrative errors, it was overall pretty good. You've definitely improved over the years, but I think you're a little rusty. I don't think enough consideration went into your writing here. Put more thought into the sentences you choose to write and what purpose each of them serves and you'll be producing great stuff by the end of this comp. *** SawyerThat's a great way to start a campy comedy, but not a great way to start anything else. I dislike the word 'however'. It's one of my least favorite words. This is an example of why. Go back and read that little paragraph and just remove the word 'however' from this sentence and feel the -punch- this sentence gets. Feel the weight it takes. 'However' detracts from the thing you're trying to convey like 90% of the time. I recommend against it. You say the marshmen never speak Common, and yet he speaks it -eloquently-. And this isn't questioned. Okay. So here's where our story is going to really begin. He enters the temple. Our Hero has begun his Quest. And yet, at this point... we don't -know- our hero. We don't get a feeling for who he is. Step 1 in any story, especially first person stories, is to make us give a single shit about our protagonist. It can be only one shit, but it must not be zero shits. But you've not given us any sense of who he is. He isn't speaking. He isn't sharing his thoughts with us. He's just observing and interacting with the world. And he's not making the kinds of actions that allow us to just infer. We're so far away from him. We should be, by this point, right by his side walking in. This is an example of telling instead of showing. Every sentence you write, you should have a tiny little checkbox in your brain that asks, [Are you showing, not telling?] and it should be checked far, far, far more often than it's not. Imagine if this sentence was, instead, "My hand moved of its own volition, clasping at my belt for my dagger, and felt only empty leather. The weight of the spear on my back had vanished. Fuck." And that's what we get for the rest of the story, really. It stroked his cheek. Why didn't he feel its cold, unnatural flesh? Smell pungent incense? Why doesn't the spoopy voice -converse- with him instead of simply... well, -telling- us the story. Because this is your story. This is the bulk of your narrative. A character -telling- us things. Not us -seeing- them. There was so much potential here for an awesome story about a character we really cared about who went into this place and just got spiritually inhaled by this thing. But instead he walks in and it just kind of tells him what it's going to do then pretty casually does it. You've got to pack emotion in and you've got to -describe- the story, not hand it to us. That's your homework for the next story. Do those two things and your next one will be solid. I will say, though, just so this isn't pure critique, that what you do at the very end there is awesome. I completely love the first person transitioning from the protagonist to the body's new owner. That's great. Really cool, executed smoothly. And if we had cared about our protagonist, and sympathized with him... watching him, the deep-down first person him, just vanish before our eyes? That would've been amazing. That could've been a 10/10 ending. But you needed to put us in there first. *** So this is a tough call. I thought both stories, honestly, had more faults than strengths. But we're at the start of a competition, everyone's a little rusty, Arena beginnings are fairly hard, and I'm picky. So. No hard feelings - you both have every bit of potential to write great stories this competition and I fully believe that you will. Just, y'know, please do really take this advice to heart. Go back and read the critique when you're editing your round 2 story. Please. But I do have to pick a winner. And I think I'm going to give this one to Injin. You both kind of pulled off one good gimmick: for Sawyer, it was the ending. For Injin, it was the delirium. And Injin's delirium was done on a larger scale. It was throughout the whole story, rather than just a treat at the end, and that just made it a little more enjoyable to read overall.
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