View Full Version : The Oath Of Van Lawrence (Closed)
The Oath Of Van Mandelo (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJT0jiySm3M&feature=related)
2451
Closed To Knave
We of the City, the rich do swan
From the nobles descended, secure what we can
While we wait sealed up inside our manors made of stone
Recording riches, after riches, in vast black tomes.
We of the City, the servant to the wealth
Creep through our domain, seeking out that wealth
The wealth we are denied, from taxation by those above
Stealth is our guide, darkness our love.
Naartjie
Once, Blank would not have been able to find the words to speak his mind. He had been bound by magic for so long he had lost the will to work it out. He had been alone and trapped in the darkness, silent and pensive. Now he struggled to encapsulate his thoughts. He felt alone, even in such pleasurable company as this.
The upstairs chamber of the tavern used by the Thieves’ Guild of Scara Brae was warm and stuff. The council used it as a meeting place often, and it's court was in session once more. Its stony croft overlooked the waterways of the market district almost bastion like, standing tall against the city guard and the enemies that tried to topple the guild’s waning power. The fireplace on the supporting wall burnt bright, and the two tall chairs which rested in its glow were both occupied with the two most important individuals in the guild’s hierarchy. Blank admired the prospective new Van with a self-satisfied nod of approval. He used this flattery to buy himself some more time to put his offer into simpler terms.
Not all that long ago the two men in the room had fought. It had been a bloody, gut-wrenching set of confrontations on an ocean of blood and a torrent of wise witted exchanges. He had made his mind up there and then, and the guild had returned back to the blade and heart of Blank’s command when he had produced Ace Mandelo as the new guild leader. They had resisted his own resignation at first, thinking his title as the silent swordsman was a powerful weapon of deterrence to set against the guild’s enemies. When he had revealed his role within The Scourge, they had quickly resented any notion of rebellion or coercion.
The logs in the flickering flames cracked and buckled as they gave way under the heat, and the sparks drew Blank’s gaze for a moment. The heady smell of pine and cloves, set in the fire by the early evening house keeper relaxed him. Eventually, he turned to Ace and smiled. “There is no use I guess prolonging the inevitable.” His tone became more dark and serious as the last of the evening light faded. The pleasantries went down with the sun’s last light over the dockland horizon. Scara Brae came to life outside, even as silence and business came to a close within.
They had talked for almost an hour over the many maps and charts and scrolls which were open over the feasting table behind them. It had served as the first of many introductions to the history of the guild and the factions which opposed it. If Ace accepted the offer firmly then the next stage of initiation could begin. “You have seen what you would be up against, and who will oppose you. You are now more familiar with the guild and all the hardships that operating it will bring. I can’t say it will be easy,” he flicked his hair behind his ears and set the tips of his fingers together in an inquisitive pose. “Will you take The Oath, Ace Mandelo. Will you take what was offered to you on that crimson ship what seems like many moons ago?” In earnest Blank swallowed a lump in his throat and hoped that all his trust had not been misplaced.
Shining teeth occasionally playing across the coin caught the fire places lights in a display of ivory and gold as Ace managed to recline in what was most assuredly an uncomfortable chair. It demanded he recline, but told him to lay down; that was the beauty of the place, it settled the bones.
The room was decorated in warm reds, and gold embroidery, vases with ornate designs held flowers freshly picked though far removed from their season; it was the posh finery of a life made lucrative through dishonest work, and it laughed at all lifestyles derived from more. On every wall hung proud portraits—great glaring faces caught in the throes of emotion and, often enough, sex—, and the casual heat that made up Ace’s experience was of the easy decadence that would make a man quite happy to abandon himself in vigorous indolence.
When Ace had first arrived, he had been greeted by a string of liaisons who either new each other too well, or not all, but the directions had soon brought him to a district where men in fine dress were seen in the same building with beggars, and the bulge on every man’s leg was quite clearly a knife—it was also quite clear that no one was glad to see anyone, but Ace’s expressions shifted without moving, his grin becoming more intense, and his stories more entertaining. He had arrived with each arm over a shoulder, and paid each ear its mirthful and intimate due.
Blank…Arden, that was his real name, had met him with few words, which had been surprising and even troubling on a level Lawrence could never show. To find him reserved, where a grim passion should have been, was to experience a…”friend” depleted.
In memory, some few days prior, they had suffered each other’s company in a duel of words, the swords had been mere props, and their abilities, though strange and deadly, mere parlor tricks. That day...it had been a day to celebrate, and a date now sorely missed.
In his secret heart, that dark rugged thing that called itself Lawrence found in Arden the same silver tongue which had made him a wizard. Of course, rhetoric was a tool for the many, and between the two, where neither spectator nor pride were at stake; there was only the deal.
For whatever reason, in two successive duels, battles where discourse had its place, interest had moved Arden Janelle’s heart to find Ace a place in his organization…he kept calling Ace his dog. Ace shrugged at that easily, and let his new title roll off his shoulders; the term was derogatory, but the meaning was respectful, and the tone fond. Terms of endearment are rarely pretty.
The shape-shifter supposed that fascination was, as usual, as expected, as engineered: a marginal product of “Ace”’s fame. Ace being what the lesser evil called himself at the citadel, and, now more than ever, daily life. He had made a killing, a living, and a wonderful identity out of lies, and so long as truth was an expensive and rare luxury, he would not be indulging in it at any time soon. So while the fire sparked, and enjoyed its short life, Ace did the same.
“Inevitable?” Engaged again, Ace’s heart quaked in his chest, and in the light of the flames, he slumped and swelled from the depths of his chair to edge of his seat. Rather than rustle the fabric sighed. “You really must not use words like that, whatever happens, there are always choices, reasons to hold back or burn new trails.” The coin shifted against his back molars, its scratched surface playing notes of discord under every word.
“And I say that even if it might cost me.” Ace said, addressing Arden and his question with a pensive gaze and furrowing brow. “But the best rewards always come with risks.”
Both arms bare to the shoulder of his black vest—to show that he was unarmed, though that was never true—he raised his hands to demonstrate just how he weighed his options. “Here,” he hefted left his hand as if it were under some moderate strain and sinking, “we have everything that cares to live under the sun set against me." The very prospect registered as laughter and unwholesome joy.
"And in the other case,” he turned to his other hand, passion replace which though empty shook under a wealth of leads wealth of lead, “I get to be your lead dog…”
He paused, shifting the scales of his hands as the case for each built. “I can’t think of a reason not to.” He said, raising his triumphant hand, and gazing forward gripped the future.
His fist, though still calm, trembled as it clutched hold of a frenzy that would fulfill one among an endless series of wicked functions. Then, as if to cover that slight mistake, Ace settled that hand on his knee and raised the other to ask the question, beckoning and ea “Where do I start?”
The crackle of the fire served as a momentary break in the conversation whilst Arden considered how best to respond. Conversation was not his strong point. Even before his curse, for many years he had spoken only with a lash of a whip and a pirouette of his blade. The art of speech-craft was very unlike killing. It had much more difficult consequences to predict.
"Begin? Ace my good man you have already begun. Our first drawing of swords serves as the start to your tale. This is a mere formality of acceptance and accordance with the traditions you will have to learn if you are to remain... successful as Van". His slow lingering joy over the word suggested that to be fortunate in this role, it required a lot of guile and stead fast appreciation of the Guild and it's ancient ways. Both those assets came often in the shape of a dagger to the back.
He placed his fingers together, and harder still into their counterparts, until they bowed slightly.
"There have been three ways a Guild can acquire a new Van in Scara Brae.The first is through election, following the death of a previous Van by natural means," he paused to reconsider. "Or indeed the abdication of a previous tenant due to dishonourable conduct. The second is through conquering the previous Van and taking it by force," his memory of his brother flashed before his eyes and he paused to smile. He had done just that and taken the title himself only a year ago.
"The third," he released his finger bridge and rested his arms on the tall backed chair's regal arms. With a subtle kick of his left leg he rested it over his right knee and adjusted himself to be comfortable. "Well, the third is a little more complex. It is a right of ascendency whereby the current Van," he tapped himself on the chest, "passes the title to another. This can either be permanent or as a means to temporary delegate the responsibilities of the Guild to another."
Blank smiled stronger this time, his teeth flashing in the dancing light of the fire. His face was half cut by the red and gold glow, giving the impression of an operatic devil. "The ritual that goes with this is the order of business for us this night. Such a ritual requires blood work, an oath, and the exchanging of a fragment of what little souls we both possess."
Blank rose from his seat and moved closer to the fireplace. From the mantelpiece, which was blackened by years of neglect and soot from the open hearth he pulled a small wooden box. His lithe body turned to show Ace it's contents as he clicked the lock to one side and folded back the lid. "No cigars I am afraid. One will bind us and one will set you free upon the city as the Van of the Thieves' Guild. Both will make you a trusted ally. They will reforge Arden Janelle anew as The Hound of the Scourge and Ace as Van."
The two daggers in the case glimmered in the limelight. Each was ornately decorated and poised with a dual-pronged blade, like viper's teeth and twice as deadly when envenomed. The vermilion silk which lined the box accented the congealed blood on one of the blade's with a sinister air.
"What you must do," he tried to forgive himself for talking so much, "is pledge an Oath to uphold the position. That oath binds you to not break the tenets of the Guild. These are quite simple: steal not from those with everything to lose. Kill not in plain sight, and abide by the conduct of the council for they are your concious. You answer to them as much as they answer to you." There were countless other rules, traditions and intricacies that Ace would have to learn in time, but the crack of logs in the fire and the heady smell of possibility in the air gave little room for lectures on the semantics of leadership.
"Swear this Oath and we can draw blood together as brothers. With that oath, let the lineage of the Van pass into your body and accept all the power that comes with it." His eyes shone for a moment with mischief before he held his breath in anticipation. He had felt that spark of life in Ace the very first moment they had met and knew, even then, that this was the man to gift to the world as his successor.
Opulence, clearly Arden had it, and Ace’s teeth cut the coin as a hunger rumbled deep in Ace’s soul. Though his existence was one of vain glorious grandeur, Lawrence existed as the pauper in princely apparel, it was almost monkish and some part of him still human enough for pride wanted more and better. There was a wringing of hands, an envious look, the heavy sigh of want, gestures he guarded against with the best of his power. So while Arden chose his words, Lawrence chose his actions.
Arden’s increasing anticipation seemed to rise in the air about him, and lift his spirits to lead him to the best of what he could say. Secrecy seemed so distant for the moment, and Arden now free of its shroud drew Lawrence’s attention and placed Ace on the edge of his plush, satin seat. “Tell me more,” He said, beckoning with his open hand, “and save the risk for the more dangerous unknowns.” He finished his sentence, but continued his thought, a cold, echoing, aberration in his heart. ‘It would be a shame to lose such a treasure on a less becoming venture. Or at least end the plot before the show.’
He followed as Arden listed the ways of succession and Lawrence noted whether each one was either comfortably in his control or set against him enough to make the shadows deep with eyes and enemies.
Ace’s expression remained focused as Lawrence grew wistful wondering what wild foes he would find, those vengeful, creeping lusty, things watching and waiting for him, biding their time. He imagined skeletal and grim faces starved of sweet fortune, and their bitter expressions already plotting to surmount the obstacle; for his own entertainment, he intended to assess, and, should none appear, set against himself enemies he could admire. With some strange fascination, Lawrence welcomed Ace’s misfortune as an author or historian, detached, might some savage battle. A glorious one!
He regarded Jarden’s rise, and from his box the discovery and production of two blades to seal a deal spoken of words with blood. With an innocence clearly born yesterday, Ace’s expression widened and he said nothing of wonder at that position which Blank would soon depart to, it was an expression without reservation and so too were his words. “An oath?--Some blood?--A bit of soul?”—he rose, trembling beneath his composure—“you’ll have all you need, and a friend when you need one most!”
Ace took up the blade by the blade between thumb and forefinger, rolling it across the back of his hand to snatch it up by the handle. He brought up his right hand, which bore a piecing scar through its center. The scar itself was a memory which reminded Lawrence of a brother as good as dead, it was fitting, he was reluctant, but without a third thought Ace opened a trench across his palm.
The back of his hand was the only thing for Blank to see; its fingers flexed with the reality of pain, and Lawrence looked at his bloodless wound, white bone a welcome reminder of where he had come from. For how long… Shaking off worry, he relaxed his own constricting veins, allowing blood to well in a wasteless display of red and ever darkening blood. With his heart beating in his words, he swore by all that mattered:
I swear it, on my name, on my honor,
that the guild is my asset and home.
Those who lack in all but life,
shall never lose at my hand.
And all life that falls before me
Will never see the light,
But fall unseen and unremembered.
The council’s will shall be my own,
and every act I play shall be at their call.
To speak those words was to welcome hell: to bring about justice's wrath and enmity; to welcome the wrath of wealth in peril, and poverty in all its terrible desperation! And Ace did so with a reservation that he would never fail to find these things where they lived and bear them on his shoulders. With that, he offered Blank the crimson seal of a binding contract.
May he never break it.
A deal to an honest man was a deal indeed.
Blank took the dagger with a grateful nod of the head from Ace’s shaking hand and that deal became a reality. There were few things more simple and elegant the silent swordsman believed, than the oath between men that bound beast to liar and cradled new beginnings in the old ways of a crumbling city. He had not chosen recklessly. He firmly believed that, and as the new Van’s words spun lyrical pirouettes in his mind he swooned. He slumped backwards into his seat with a satisfying thud and a rush of air. He felt lighter somehow, as if a great burden had been lifted from him.
“I do not think you shall ever fall Van Mandelo. If you do, such legends I will sing in the shadows of history,” he smiled wearily. He held the bloodied dagger with its tip upright and pinched deftly between fore finger and thumb. His cold eyes scrutinised the blood flow like a fine glass of wine raised in a toast.
Though one man’s oath was pledged, his red ink spilled, another’s remained unfulfilled.
Blank settled the dagger onto his left palm and sat upright, adjusting his slouch so that he rested firmly on his buttocks. Though somewhat resilient to pain, toughened up on the mean streets and in the Citadel, Orichalos and Gerhard cut more than just flesh from a man’s skeleton.
“No venture lost, no fragility gained, no wonders unseen no lies remain,” he said.
He gasped slightly as he drew the point across his bronze skin. He clenched his buttocks and his jaw to recoil in horror at his own self-mutilation. It did not take long for the Oni that coiled around the aorta and chambers of his devout heart to stir, to enflame the man’s soul and kindle greed in his eyes. He relished the moment after and drew the dagger away slowly, as if he meant to cut that last inch of reddened flesh deeper and deeper.
“Together we mingle in the underworld. We are immortal, unending, eternal,” though his words sounded mythical, tinged with promises dark and dire he meant every word. Arden Janelle looked up into Van Mandelo’s eyes and promised something else. Something much more potent than he had offered before. He bayed a last prayer and gift to his new companion.
For a while the smoke spiralled up from the dying embers of the pine logs. They burnt into nothing in the hearth, black dust to catch upwards in the wind. The soft scent of winter oranges and port spiralled with them, the faggots set in the grate hours ago still creating a satisfied ambiance in the heady atmosphere of the meeting chamber. Even with it's meagre trinkets and adornments bar their immediate seating, the gold hue of the flames and the grand incense gave it the impression of a luxurious manor house. One day, Blank mused, perhaps he will make it so.
“A promise and an oath I keep in return for your pledge, Ace.”
He let the suspense kindle flames of its own before continuing. He pulled the vial from the hilt of his dagger. Their blood had combined into the small glass ventricle and mingled in ambrosia of togetherness. For centuries, unbeknownst to the officials of Scara Brae the criminal elements had relied on blood magic older than the foundations of the royal palace itself to keep their ties strong and their deeds stronger. It was with the bloody hand of unfaltering loyalty that they had become so strong; the bloody hand that still pilfered pockets beneath the scowling gaze of the Knights Provost, Dragoon Guard and the Regent of Trade himself.
“If you wish it, this dagger, this blood, it can be so much more than the simple trinket and memory you see before your eyes.” He held it softly into the light of the fire and turned it in his fingers. It possessed an inner light of its own, so bright it threatened to ignite.
He let the still bleeding dagger rest on the arm of the wing-back chair and crossed his left leg over his right.
“Such an offer of course comes with a price it. When you die, if something remains of you,” and there will be, if what I have seen in The Citadel is but half of the truth, “you shall return to walk as Van. I offer you an unchallenged, unrivalled, clad in a golden mask of terror. The price is just a journey into hell and back, but I wager that will be a trifle trite for you my friend.”
He sat back into his chair and waited for acceptance.
The deal was done before any reciprocation had been made, but Ace sensed saw the eager tremor of hand and heard the same in Arden’s increasing breathing. Blood continued to flow, and Lawrence let crimson life bead and fall to waste on the red shag of carpet. There was a romanticism in his heart, though, that quietly settled—no need for action and fire where just a bit of warmth and a smile would do. Of course, while some things would do, Lawrence would not forget himself and allow complacency to dull his mind.
“Don’t speak such things as that.” Ace replied with a shake of his head and shrug of sleeveless shoulders. With knife still clasped in his left hand he pressed his fist against his chest. “Legends are wonderful epitaphs, but let life dictate that; should I fall, should I live the way I wish, should all my friends and foes be just as good to me as you are then the ashes and wreck I leave behind will be the best testament that I lived…and every step after today will tell that I knew you.” In his life, there would never be anyone Lawrence might confide in, but with a different name, history, and faith he had found something inimitable, and intoxicating: worthwhile trust. He could get used to that, no matter how one sided.
With the last words said in conversation, Arden Janelle sealed their pact with a letting of his own blood. Ace quirked an eyebrow, but resisted the urge to lean in and listen to what his ears could easily register. In the face of pain, tales often told of men who used mantra to escape pain, the grimace was disappointing. But…but with those words the dagger in Ace’s hand, by its very handle, bit him. Surprised even while ever on his guard, Ace’s eyes widened, and resisting the urge to drop the blade he found that he could not as his fingers failed to open for even curious examination.
By whatever teeth, the dagger he later be acquainted with as Gerhard, had secured itself and in doing so spread some taint not unlike venom into aces veins; it was invasive, and cold, as it thrust itself beneath Ace’s skin and raced with his own heart up his arm. Progressive without measure, fiendishly demanding, it laid claim to Ace’s soul without knowing the slightest of what it was. And, like a host within his own body, that chill which had twisted Ace’s own face into a look of shock and terror settled…and still present, like some invasive host, welcome Ace’ to be comfortable in his body as the spirit took to sleep.
The incantation soon passed from Van Janelle’s lips, but in their passing they still remained in the world, reverberating, eluding history’s grasp for their time was not yet done. Ace’s skin prickled with the knowledge that he was not alone. It was unlike the Citadel’s numerous unseen eyes, and Ace new now the scrutiny of something more, a magic familiar to this deviant place. Soon though, that too was done, and cold ache of sudden possession and subsequent occupation was a reality…a certain one. A primal fire in the corroding wastes of his soul.
“If words could kill.” Ace mused, breathing a sigh of apprehension that trembled and caught in his throat. A lot of things had yet to be rekindled, such as humor, and though he made no threatening gesture, when he looked up from his open palm and the handle it still held, his expression was blank with a fading menace, brown eyes still dilating from pin pricks of fright and murder. It was the looking of something severe. But! with a sigh, those fading signs vanished beneath the surface. What was left was an amiable and wry annoyance as Ace tilted and bent his body to the left to follow with a demand for explanation. “After that display though—and all that came with it—I think I deserve more.” Of course, it was neither in composition or intent a question.
The vial that Blank produced from his blade’s handle smelled familiar, but the words that followed it, drunk with ambiguity as they might be, were distracting in their portentous nature. “I may rise in your employ,” Ace said as Lawrence paid all his attention, a rising mirth sparking in his eyes, “for your price, you’ve given me the best of boons! But, no more surprises else I won’t be able to contain myself!" He laughed, as if that were no threat at all.
“Now,” He turned from Blank, pacing forward to dispel the tension which would have soon made his legs stiff, he rattled off his words in swift succession—his burning ambitions and secret designs saw all the future labeled with letter that read ‘mine’—“The journey has started, my blood has been turned, taken, stolen at least once, and every word tells me that there is more to come and my life has been ensured so that I may shed more!” Man on fire, man alive! “Here I am ready to run my life like water, and here you are offering me an unlimited supply!” Here Ace was playing swiftly into someone else’s hand, here was Lawrence plotting a thousand battles while employing bitter suspicion to divine from his own fears the truth of Blank’s abilities and intentions.
Excitement moved through Ace, the dagger danced between his hands as he turned it over, and forgot to stop bleeding. “Seeing as the future comes when we call it, shall we hurl ourselves to the task?” He wheeled on his heels, “Or shall we eat and drink and recount the history of this wonderful world you’ve invited me into?” And with that, he thrust forward his slick, and dripping hand, rivulets of crimson markings webs from fingers to elbow. He offered it to end their deal; he offered it to help Arden from his chair. “Either way, let’s not witness such a fine evening sitting down.”
The hand shake instigated the rise of both men from their wing-back chairs. They walked side by side to the table at the centre of the meeting chamber. The smoky, encumbering warmth of the fire faded, replaced instead with a twilight heat tempered by the open windows leading out onto a silent balcony. The heavy stone and beams overhead drew in the night, and drew tighter still the immensity of the occasion. The letters and maps and ancient codex strewn over the heavy mahogany surface looked inviting and intimidating at the same time.Blank remembered back to the first time he had set eyes on the history and annul of the Thieves’ Guild.
“I think drinking from a more cordial glass would be an appropriate toast for our engagement,” he said softly. He gestured to the larger piece of paper on the table with one hand, and picked up a silver decanter from it's pewter tray with the other. Neither were elaborate affairs, but both were built sturdily and served their purpose. “You may also wish to tend to your cut whilst you read the agenda for the coming meeting,” he poured two glugs of bourbon, imported from Fallien’s Outsider’s Quarter especially for the evening and prodded a sweaty finger at the pile of rags to Ace’s left. There were other things asides paper too, ink wells, quills, daggers embedded in the wood to pin the maps down against the wild gusts that broke over the city rooftops.
A menagerie of tools for dark devices.
He flexed his own palm and traced the outline of the blood smear onto the cloth. The creases in his skin reddened and paled as the crimson stain on his tanned flesh was wiped away. Ace was the Guild’s responsibility now and he was free, so what was a little pain and suffering amongst friends? What was pain amongst the liberated men of the island’s underworld? Blank smiled at his friend and extended a glass to him. The deep amber liquor sloshed with the motion, it's tint setting the glass ablaze in the prismatic glow of the distant firelight. His certainty was ratified by the enigmatic man’s acceptance of his drink and the calm way in which he conducted himself.
“I don’t expect the offer of eternal life to be taken lightly but when the time comes, the opportunity is there,” he took a sip from his own glass and moved about the table to take in Ace’s scent and the strange aroma of cinnamon from the logs still crackling in the rustic hearth. He took a moment, setting himself at ease in the strange environment where so much of late had happened that he had not counted on. His brother had been robbed of the Van feet away, the very daggers which had settled the oath between the two men in the room had nearly pierced his sibling’s eyeball. Only a guttural guilt had saved him from the memory of having to do so. “However,” he prodded a finger at the addendum, “there are things to be discussed with the council – there is no time to rest on your laurels,” he smiled, “nor will there be.”
He let the possibility of his statement’s meaning rattle Ace’s cage and sipped from his glass again to reinforce the warming embrace of the bourbon on his parched tongue. He then set his index finger on the first issue Ace would have to address. “The appointment of a new Van often comes with upheaval, so the council will immediately call upon you to resolve any issues they have amongst themselves. Expect bitching, pettiness and ombudsman duties like this throughout your hopefully long tenure.” He tapped the paper and then stepped away. “The other two issues will be easy enough, but I must ask – have you given your plans if you have any much thought?”
He turned to stare out of the large gable window that stood to the left of the balcony doors. The grey of the night sky and the heat on the left side of his face oxymoron but steeling on his senses. His mind, like his hair and the blood down his shaking finger tips ran red and auburn with the pulsating beat of life. His heart pounded out a rhythm of anticipation. Arden Janelle was free but he had to see what his freedom had cost him, and indeed, what it would cost Scara Brae.
Bodily sensation, spiritual awareness, Lawrence could care less about the nature of his understanding, right now all he wanted was to know what the nature of his possessor was.
The spirit nested within him, inactive though very much alive if its rolling heat was any sign at all. It was then again, content to sleep until invocation, and the contentment that registered in Lawrence’s mind as a soft embrace filled him with nervous fear. Ace’s hand clutched to his chest. It was only natural; all his worry filled him with a vibrant animation.
Ace missed two beats in fair exchange for something so invasive that portions of his mind turned in on themselves so violently that—that it was none of Ace’s business. The new van was at Arden’s side, scoffing at the slim, shapely form of his cup. “After all that build up, don’t tell me that my induction will be met with games of refinement and restraint.” He chuckled; taking up the glass he held it like a weapon even as he pressed the rim to his lips. “All things should be celebrated in with a modicum of sin,” Ace raised the glass high, bourbon riding high as it sloshed short of the rim, “honor with pride, love found with lust experienced, victory demands the envy of others; we’ll be having a celebration on your terms or mine.” He cleaned his glass, he cleaned his arm.
>8E (O@O) K=D
A master to his mind, Lawrence paid little time to his actions and thoughts of Ace, retreating to what had been, and usually was, his last and only bastion. He often suspected it was crumbling.
‘Shit!’ He had never thought this possible, and he had thought of many things! So many things! Like the nearest exits and watch patrols, the fastest horse to steal, the best prostitutes to buy for all manner of reasons. All things in the name of prudence! There was a reason maps told of dragons beyond every border, a reason that made men fight harder when they thought of all the things wrong that might befall them. It was a vain attempt, a brave one, to strain the eyes looking around every corner, to strain the ears to hear even the grass whispering as by legion they grew.
Yet here he was being pulled into situations unknown.
Here he was, wandering the corridors of his own mind—a lightless hell of brief flickers of smiles and laughter accompanied by odd sounds and smells— Lawrence knew the facts of his life, it was a story poorly told though; jumping here too quickly, crying there for awful lengths; most times he could not put faces or pictures to anything at all when even the most casual of memory was in use.
He thought of Her when he feared for himself. ‘What will happen She sees my soul? She could never miss—not with the eyes she turned on me—what she did not unmake. Curiosity,—I deal by the day with murderers, hateful and greedy— why is it my fate now to fear the curiosity of a child.’ Spiritually, Lawrence Spades had never taken to changing his core self—to buy his own lies, and in his mind install them—but now he scrambled and fought with something so indifferent while unconscious as to be both a slab of immobile iron and binding chain.
Rarely did he have reason to look without eyes upon others, but turning inward he saw the cracked ruins of something immortal, so terribly tied now to life that oblivion...oblivion…oblivion looked sweet.
>8E (O@O) K=D
Ace’s hand had ceased to bleed minutes ago, and was closing gently all on its own. Earnest in his thirst, Ace poured himself another drink, the pain that should have been so sharp simply dull, the heady scent of something familiar in the air, it smelled like something Ace missed dearly—he had forgotten that he could not taste the port.
Caught in that nostalgia, the prizefighter smiled and drank deep, never minding Arden’s increasingly friendly proximity. Ace’s presence was imperceptibly intoxicating, and demanded a high tolerance resist. “Besides, such fine liqueurs can’t be diminished when they’re abused.” But Blank was more interested in the passing on of rules, the manager’s chains, to his new servant.
Sadly, Ace’s new lord was a man of regulation, and Ace wondered how much order and ran through the thieves’ guild in his hands. “While the council has my loyalty, I hope you aren’t expecting prudence from me. Even if I’m not in the picture, I live for phenomenon and spectacle.” Ace turned, resting against the edge of the table, drinking liberally with a fondness and smile he might share with kin. Arden ran through the most likely of Ace’s duties, outlining the day to day affairs as the unwholesome combination of parent, clerk, and red headed step child.
“Sounds like fun, though.” He said, grinning with a wicked intent to be an upstanding bastard in all those respects. Distracted, the full brunt of Lawrence’s scrutiny elsewhere, self-control diminished, delusions and fantasy free, Ace was allowed to be himself.
>8E (O@O) K=D
In the immaterial world, thought, everything existed as a picture or a sound or in vague abstractions of understanding. The vividness of those spoke volumes on their importance. Some of them are born from the material world, others springing from the immaterial of imagination or spirit.
Aware for the first time in years of him, Lawrence saw the broken wreckage of a man hanging in the air. He was powerless but radiant in his powerlessness, golden haloed though he had never been so pure in life. Like meat and bone haphazardly stuffed back into skin his limbs were bent in all wrong directions as they floated and they hung. The man still bore the deep trenches he had suffered when his body had been broken. There, once such light might have been blinding, this form only had a yellowing illumination to its state of capture. Of course this was laughable, bitterly laughable.
Like flesh, the soul only degrades with time. Here lies Man: crucified by an evil fate.
Lawrence trained his perception away from the form of that which he had come from, and looked to the beast. It reminded him of the Makai he had fought some months ago: threatening and alien and huge.
For now, it was something akin to a bat in the torso and wings it pressed and wrapped around the broken bits of a human being, but it grew more fur and legs about its body than any bat, its body winding beneath and petering into insect like legs, the tips little more than a pointed claws. Gray, red, black, it was a breathing, living thing treating a corpse like a bed. And its head lay atop that man’s, its ears drawn back and its snout narrow—until it snarled to flash a monolithic wall of needles. Perhaps dreaming, its immense eyes remained closed and its teeth vanished from view.
“What the fuck…is this…” Astonishment, pure emotional astonishment ran through Lawrence’s being as he heard the familiar sound of his own voice, and saw the glorified image of the man he had been prove itself still conscious. “What did you do?” The thoughts were labored, and heavy with weariness. The golden figure, Lawrence Spades, lifted his head to look down at his demon incarnation, the shadowy hodge podge cobbled together from bits and pieces of psyche.
There was no understanding or compassion in that awareness, the Lawrence that still lived in the world was vilified in his own mind everywhere; this was the only part that cared.
As a rule, no matter how lonely his existence, Lawrence before and after his conversion did not speak to himself. No matter how comforting, nothing new could come from it, and while he could befriend this person like no other, such a relationship would only hurt them terribly. He ignored himself, ignored the smeared canvas and broken features of a face forgotten, he ignored that too, he ignored the facts and questions most personal. Such as when had he forgotten his true face—no, truth never changed, truth never existed. There was only the present, to escape, and the future, to dominate in service and self-defense.
The only thing of interest here was the spiritual insect sleeping on private property.
>8E (O@O) K=D
“Plans?” Now that was something Ace had done in excess, whole worlds built by imagination and fact singing predictions and painting pictures that made Ace’s fingers drag and clutch at the mahogany.
“My life’s work is a bit far off, but I can tell you it’s nothing uncommon.” He was candid in his lies, hardly aware of which facts were realities. “I’m going to stand at the age of a new era; see the world,” Ace’s breathing increased, the words rising up from somewhere deep within adding new definition to his words, “shape it, break it, and rise above it.” Ace trembled, something rabid and waiting looking through Ace’s widening eyes, something some predator pressing its teeth through Ace’s mouth, for a moment Ace’s expression was one of unfathomable, inhuman joy, before settling back into excitement.
“You and I are similar enough, so I’ll tell you as I would tell a brother: we live to overcome.” Ace turned, and pulled from the array of maps to draw forth the familiar landscape of Raadasanth. “I’ll start here.” He set his hand at the country’s center, fingers lying across cities and mountains. “A spark, mind you; you’ve placed in me a trust, and given me a wonderful weapon, I’ll expand the thieves guild like a business…or an animal. I’ll feed it money, people; all things too backward-minded to recognize the future.” And to comfort his lord, he rested a hand on his shoulder while telling him this, “Decades may go by, but they’ll be decades well spent.”
He looked back to the map fondly.
“But that’s, all too vague. I’ll start soon enough by two steps in opposite directions.” He swept a finger to the sea, “An island like this can only do so much with bandits in the hills and thieves in the street, the waters here are safe enough for men to play at shark and kraken.” He returned his finger to land, “And here! Look! War! It’s everywhere, and to me that sounds of an empire falling, and if we can help it stand, we can do what we please.
Alliance or not, Rebels or Empire, I want to prolong this chaos.” Capitalizing ruthlessly on everything around him, that was his plan.
In their last meeting, their last battle, Ace had asked why he should bother becoming or recognizing something greater than himself? Now that attitude ran its course, Ace had not joined the thieves’ guild; the thieves’ guild had joined Ace.
Oh… he had plans. He’d penetrate this city to core; show her man alive and man dying, and throttle her to her limits.
>8E (O@O) K=D
There was nothing he could do.
Lawrence the latter stared at the creature, with imperceptible limbs; he had employed his will and gripped it. Torn and scathed its fur with all his power. Having prospered and grown in mind and body, daily life a Sisyphean ordeal, in mind Lawrence the latter was strong, so to find some act of mind impossible was astonishing. ‘So we are that different…’ He thought, noting the creature’s mystical root as the likely reason it resisted him effortlessly.
Whatever it was, it was neither malevolent nor benign, he could sense that much, and see it also in the fact that six rows of teeth, which glinted while it snored, were not set at Lawrence’s core.
‘No point now,’ he reserved himself to himself to whatever God or Goddess might bring, ‘the best I can do is to have him explain’
“Of course you couldn’t move it. You haven’t even got the strength to choose when to die.” His prior life hissed, in Fallien, when they had had been he, and he had lived without mistresses or gods, Lawrence had been a ball of insecurities violently self-destructing. If anything had been equally divided between the two, prisoner and puppet, it was that.
‘At least I get to see the sun.’ Was the barbed reply at last, and Lawrence the former sneered with at the shallow victory of eliciting some response.
“And it does nothing for you.” The counter struck deep, and as Lawrence returned to his proper existence…the different pieces were glad to be apart.
>8E (O@O) K=D
“We’ll start with a ward of the last generation, the Golden Sun, Midas Mazda.” The man had proven himself the hero of epics, in the Citadel and abroad, and to that credit he had gained glory and gold. More so, he had kept the nation’s attention in newspapers as something new and unheard of: Spouting prophecies, guiding men of status into greater wealth. He called himself an economic mystic.
More than that though, he paraded his wealth, and having lived a life of adventure to return alive, forever young he clothed himself in jewels and precious metals the likes of which would have bought mansions, and crushed lesser men beneath their weight. His domain was a small village, his home a castle, and everyone who lived there was in his employ. He mocked thieves, and lit himself up like a beacon; and not for poor reason, those who died in the attempt were lucky, those who lived, were sold overseas as eunuchs. “We’ll strip the sun of his halo, and send that despot lord away with nothing.”
Ace paused for a moment, the lights dimming with a sudden self-awareness, “Of course, that’s only to level the earth a bit more, and send people panicking when the best of them begin to fall like flies. The first matter on hand though is,” Ace seemed for the first time hesitant, he spoke thusly, “I can’t use this face for something as clandestine as all this, I trust you can vouch for me when I appear in disguise?” Another face, another name, Lawrence had so many.
“And the means of this immortality, such things are rare; you’ve got to tell me the history of it.”
Arden heard many sweet truths and sweet promises in Ace’s grandiose speech.
He relished them all in equal measure.
He had come to expect one thing from a Van of the thieves’ guild, or indeed, from any of the Van of Scara Brae. That thing was ambition, the cruellest of gifts and the strongest of drives a man could possess. It was the greatest paradox of all existence, at least in the silent swordsman’s one good eye. He assimilated Ace’s words like a succulent cut of meat, still raw and dripping with the blood of sacrifice. Smacking his lips without visible reason would have stricken him with an odd behaviour, so he settled with a wry smile to show his contention and satisfaction with the words he was hearing.
The world still shone blue as the after taste of his own ambitions lingered in his bridling muscles.
“You have many concerns,” he spoke with soft, trusting voice. It was tinged with possible regret but laced with an ambition of its own. “The providence of the Van is two-fold, which is true of any of the guilds on our fair island. Firstly he holds title and sway over the running of the guild. He is a god for its future as much as he is a peon to its past.” He turned to lean his buttocks, firm and tight against the edge of the heavy mahogany table. He set his emptied glass down before lounging against its rigidity. His palms clenched the edge and his head rolled with the sort of gentility that came with a moment in the heat of the summer sun.
Arden allowed the cold night air to drift through the open windows of the tavern for a few languishing moments before continuing his responses. He had few words to say to the many questions posed to him by his new master. “The second is a sort of homeopathic resonance, a life-force, a witnessed declaration that the members of a guild will know instinctively.” He cocked his head, uncertain about how to describe it. He looked Ace over and smiled again, nervously this time. The smell of burnt logs and blood mingled in his nostrils with a sort of half-hearted exuberance. “It’s the same colour as the whiskey, or perhaps a dull firebrand in the setting sun’s light. A glow, faint and lingering, but brimming with energy unseen.”
He wondered why he was bothering to re-assure the Van at all. He was leader now; his dominion over the Guild would be absolute.
Oh, by all means the council would kick up a fuss and perhaps attempt a subtle assassination should chaos become carnal and without direction, but they would listen. From what Arden had seen of Van Mandelo up until now…they would listen well. “Do as you wish with this glow, this incandescence. It is your world to shape and your ground to mould. We are your peons to call to order when the rites of passage require them to ascend to manhood. I will remain a part of the guild, as a member of the council when the opportunity arises for me to attend such odorous meetings.” He did not mean to slate Mandelo, but he knew the council well enough to attest to the awkwardness of any encounter with them.
A second passed between words whilst Arden tried to string together a sentence to summarise an answer to Van Mandelo’s final question. In truth it felt more like a demand. Arden’s subservient nature called to order the need to obey a command without question. He bit his lip and savoured the taste of dry, cracked skin whilst he thought. He would answer the last question before suggesting a few methods of sanctifying their arrangement with the so called ‘succulent sin’ of excess Mandelo seemed so fond of. He had no qualms about telling his superior the brief and succinct nature of his unique gift.
“Blood Magic,” he rasped, his voice losing all the nicety and keenness of their engagement. “It is a part of Akashima’s lore; it’s ancient, venerable history. I am immortal, not because of this talent but through a connection beyond your comprehension.” In itself, this was not a lie but he said it with such sternness it perhaps would come across as an insult. “The Spirit Warder tribe of my namesake, the Janelle used their own life-force to fight the Oni in the Great Spirit War.” A flashback, as virulent and schizophrenic as any delusion tore Arden’s calm and serene expression in two. “Though they bolstered their strength with their own sacrifices and were victorious in the conflict, they became exiles in their own land. They were hunted and persecuted for pursuing a swiftly forbidden path.”
Countless Janelle had been killed in the ensuing blood feud between the noble erudite Kazumi and their brothers the Janelle. Though a small holding still remained in Akashima’s wild north, in the heart of the Comb Mountains near the Crane Oni’s Shrine, they were all but eradicated centuries ago. They have never truly recovered from the persecution they suffered in the light of their efforts to save Akashima from ruin. Still now war wages between the Spirit Warders, putting a halt in any hope of the people of Akashima staving off the efforts of the Great Oni to sunder the kingdom. “My talent to give you immortality comes from sharing the same lifeblood that runs in my veins. In effect, I am channelling the Thayne Tantalus into your heart. It is his providence and Akashima's that will give you eternity.”
Only as long as I am alive to keep you in this world... he thought with wry contention.
Though Immortal, the process of resurrection came with the heavy price of amnesia. It might be centuries before Arden regained his memories after a death. That was far too long to be by Ace’s side when he eventually fell. Naturally, part of playing the game of thrones in Scara Brae’s virulent Guilds-man Circle was to keep one card hidden in your hand. Van Mandelo’s much needed requirement to keep Arden alive, on the scene, and in his thoughts late at night was Blank’s last and excellent gambit.
“I really wish there was more I could say about it but it is a complicated, ancient ritual that embellishes only the hearts and hopes of the people of Akashima.” Culture was a difficult thing to transcribe in a moment of passion such as this. “Less of that, now.” He pushed away from the table and turned to point at one of the man street maps pinned to the heavy wooden table top with rusted daggers and bent pins.
“You speak of celebrating with sin, debauchery and the ravishment of the night’s finery.” A wave of excitement washed over the silent swordsman as the diplomacy of their meeting fell away like rusted armour plates. It was replaced instead with a new and sudden lightness on the shoulders. “I know of just the place, a business in the Numarr Slums which is a front for the entrance to the Scourge’s headquarters.” He felt no threat from Mandelo to have told him his greatest secret. No doubt he would take the man himself into the Golden Hall below the cobbles of Scara Brae to meet the Master of the Hand himself.
“Though a front,” he stared at Mandelo with a devilish grin, hand bloodied, heart racing and pointed to the window, “there is a rather fine and debaucher den of sin we can access through a skylight on the roof of the building next to it.” He walked to the window and knocked aside the heavy velvet curtains, dusted and grimy with many long years of wood smoke and cigars. The stagnation would soon seem like a distant memory compared to the livery of the midnight hour, which had been and gone and turned to twilight in the long conversation. “I assume,” he glanced over his shoulder at his blood brother, “that I needn’t ask you if you fancy it?”
He darted out of sight and with a great heave, leapt over the parapet of the viewing balcony and flew out into the cold air. With a delicate landing he stood upright and looked upwards from the dark alleyway which ran alongside the tavern. From his nest of crates, broken planks and leaping drunkards he hoped to see Van Mandelo ascend high into the moonlit sky. He hoped his brother would join him for the beginning of a new and prosperous adventure.
Even though the Oath of Van Mandelo was spoken, Arden was intent to break one of his own before the sun rose. Such an oath was called Sally, who had excellent references.
The coin’s edge, gleaming ridged and wet, appeared in the grip of Ace’s teeth, shown triumphal; its unseen face obliterated and made smooth from endless worrying. “Not so many that they can’t be solved with a story.” He intoned these words, leaning closer to Arden with something other than the primal charge, perhaps it was because his interest was real, or perhaps it was because he was watching his employer more than he was watching himself.
Ace slid over, narrowing the distance between himself and Arden from a few feet, to only so many inches. The glass was full, burgundy ichor sweet to the taste tipping back to roll powerlessly over his and a mind that regarded it in the same way as breathing: a social necessity. In Ace’s eyes there was interest, he leaned his body, and felt swam in the moment; ever ready.
‘As the lord of the future, will the past always linger at my back and side?’ Lawrence’s thoughts were wearier and wearier with the passing of time and reconsideration and the balking weight of hesitance. ‘I could do without the past—then—now—how long until all the masters are dead…and this slave free?’ The time to flee had passed, and recklessness would be the end of him, no matter how pleasant such fantasies could be. There was nothing left but to learn and listen and watch…
Arden’s face was lean, all the angles and the strength of the cheeks drawn from the eyes to the chin; and his crimson eyes…they had never narrowed in suspicion. The words were open, a language of tones conveying nothing but acceptance. The former Van took no breath for granted; no hitch in the swell of his breast to be seen as he languished in the moment, thinking without pretense or deception. How Lawrence envied him…for all he could see of Arden was a man in earnest, open to a stranger he called friend, a stranger more strange than he could know.
And the shape-shifter beside him? That thing whose own hands, right and left, wrapped around glass and table respectively, clenching on the edges of control on the verge of honest visibility…reigned himself, away from desire, away from small actions that would confirm that he was still part of the world. Away from clumsy instincts he shrugged—from inkling hot blood Lawrence found himself cold again. Sensationless in body, sensation projected in mind.
Perhaps it was some memory of Fallien fable, rife with inborn ignorance, that it seemed right that the Akashiman would bring forth more sorcery in their endeavors. Of course, who else, elves aside, could do-
And there! On Arden’s face was rage! Even watered down by the most basic of human civility, Lawrence was still in awe of it, scrambling to shut down the eager smile for a respect, and struggling to slow that change that it might appear natural. Was there concern in the quirking corner? A tightening of the lips? An intake of breath? Did the head lower, and not too far? ‘Yes. Perfectly human and flawlessly done.’ He thought without pride. ‘Arden is full of wonders, and nobility made no less even if banished…hah, look how ugly he makes me by comparison!’
Ace listened actively, his eyes set on Arden’s, and from them he caste some reassurance. Lawrence laughed within, cackling as he tore into himself with a new and awful barb. Both were stuck when Arden set loose a new revelation.
Both blinked when they were told the news that this “immortality” was linked to Arden’s life: making him the emergency release they sought, and sharing more intimacy with Lawrence than either of them could properly fathom—and sharing in that bond something more incredible and real to the world than gods and men. It was dangerous to him, but how could anyone throw away any bit of this.
“So He who first thought, and thought Himself Lord and Creator—it is his remains,” Lawrence asked, Ace’s voice shifting to something quiet, shocked and awed, grave and endlessly ill, “entangled in mine..?” He could still feel that weight within him still hot.
He, they, puppet and master, stared at Arden Janelle. Eyes truly open, and jaw powerless to do anything, but remain closed; speechless. He looked down at his hand, the cut minutes from gone, “heh…haha…” Real laughter seethed in Ace’s heart, Ace laughed nervously, Lawrence’s mind fulminating, sparks of joy like fireworks exploding into new stars that died and fallen with old hopes. The Thayne had killed himself, and none else could, perhaps…perhaps this scrap would protect him. His euphoria was real! And the wonder of why a guild of Thieves or a nation’s sorcerers might have this thing fell into the darkness, unsparked by any sense of deception.
“Thank you.” Ace looked at Arden, glinting gold flickering on his tongue. “And yes!” He slammed back the glass, and emptied it instantly. Had he caught the secret? Not until later, now was the time to be Ace, to burn, to revel, to revel in strength, to revel in revelry! “Lead the way to way to this bar and place,” ‘be quick before my feet begin to race,’ “we are wealthy, and the dawn is still not brave enough to tread on the heels of this night!” He said, hard on Arden’s.
“Should you ask? No, Arden, this night I trust you, you’ve shown nothing tonight of anything, but taste. I am with you, lead on.” Ace did not think to wonder as Arden leapt from the window to the next of the beloved nights venture, but he leapt to window’s sill, and leaping through it, threw himself free.
The coin went the way of a thousand others; he bit through and swallowed it. Tonight he had acquired a great many things with the Thief’s Guild. For one sleepless night, among the tens of thousands, he would live.
Cut throats the lot of them; they looked at the law and said,
“We are free.” But, bravery a fleeting moment’s station,
They looked to one another and demanded to be led.
Up rose the Van from among them, a rogue promethean in his station,
And from him came the cancerous rot of a nation.
Time saw him diminished.
Time saw him renewed.
Such a bright and valorous station
Could not be done without for the ambitions that it fueled.
So forever and a day, from ancient times,
The Van has been a station that saw all things Wicked in Man divined
Just as each good station promises a fuller a life,
everyday this produces naught but greater worry and incredible strife.
And thus the thieves are free,
In a simpering, cowering, black hour,
only one thing unknown left to see:
The violent self-destruction of that power.
For the new Van has no need for women, men, or gold
And when asked of his designs there was little of which he told.
There was only this, he said, from the shadows of the sun,
“The world changes again today, a new victory for us comes.
From the days when thieves commanded,
that the law’s watch depart,
a new world has been built, and new venues for our rapacious arts.
Lock picking, kidnapping, banditry, and new bastards spawning.
Whoring, and pimping; cut throats roaring!
Let’s not bandy words! If the thieves are to be free,
As the Van, I say: wait ‘till they get a load of me!”
Can it be said that Scara Brae is in better hands?
That no man could be better said to be so sly?
Better said to be in command?
None! And nothing can go awry!
Tis’ a thing of caution; and rash actions are for the fools;
They who would step on the Grand Nick’s path as he is turned loose,
Because the Van always wins, and, this time, everyone may lose.
Sagequeen
11-06-11, 09:08 PM
Knave: It seems to me like you are telling yourself a story in your own world, not just the world in which your characters exist, but also a world in which words, thoughts, emotions, actions, and ideas have their own significance - unknown to anyone besides you.
It's never a bad thing to create a world, but there must be a bridge from the reader's to the author's, whereby the former is invited into the latter's. This bridge is the author's burden the build and maintain throughout the story; it is not the reader's job to struggle across every chasm, nor to chase you as you leap from one thought to another.
I had to go back and read your character sheet yet I still don't understand much of what you were trying to get across. It was not for lack of effort on my part as a reader; I have been through the story multiple times, and it is troubling on the part of the reader to have to read and re-read something just to make sense of it.
Blank: Your thoughts and ideas were clearly presented. I would suggest pulling more of your setting into the narrative throughout the story so the reader has a sense of place. Many times you referred to the fire, so it seemed there was little more than Arden, Ace, the fire, and a table.
Plot Construction ~ 11/30
Story ~ 4/10 – Okay – so the title of Van is transferred from one to another. I understand the beginning and the rising action of the oath. The climax is lost – I mean, I think I see where your characters experience it, but the significance is more or less lost on the reader; it was underwhelming. In order for the reader to understand and appreciate the climax (the blood oath) and Ace/Lawrence's revelation in post 9, there must be more information, more background, and more context. I don't mean anyone should go into an entire character history, but instead, give just enough to make the oath and the revelation relevant and meaningful, beyond the transfer of power from one to another. The ending, sinful debauchery, is understood.
Strategy ~ 4/10 – So much was lost to me about Ace/Lawrence, that I cannot see how he has used his abilities/personality to drive the story. I get his ambition, but that's about it. As for Arden, I vaguely understand that he's pleased to be rid of the yoke of Vanship, and the blood magic was well done.
Setting ~ 3/10 – Some of the descriptions were nice; however, they were cast aside quickly, and the story became two actors on an empty stage. You've got to give your characters a world in which to play and interact. I get a rather limited description in the beginning, but after that, it's mostly references to a fire and the table. Granted, this is meant as a melodrama and the states of mind of the characters, but that shouldn't keep a writer from using the setting as a tool to accomplish that.
Characterisation ~ 9/30
Continuity ~ 3/10 – Your passing mention of Scara Brae was noted, however this could have been any thieves' guild anywhere in Althanas. There was categorically not enough information to place your characters into the story world you presented, not just to immerse the reader, but also to immerse your own characters in a living, breathing world. There were passing mentions and memories, but it amounted to little more than name-dropping without any substance. One thing that might have been helpful is to begin the story at the end of the council meeting, capturing the action that would reveal more of what Scara Brae and the thieves guild is all about; with others present, you can show the culture instead of telling about it in memories. As it stands, the characters were disconnected from what little setting there was.
Interaction ~ 3/10 – The relationship between Blank and Ace was not clearly enough addressed. There was very little interaction among the characters and their world, aside from a fire, a table and liquor. My biggest issue with interaction happened between posts 4 and 5. Knave jumps back in time, into Blank's post, and then inserts dialogue, so basically I have two different conversations. This also happened between posts 10 and 11 where I get two versions of the same event.
Character ~ 3/10 – There is no clear sense of your characters. I think I would need to go back and read a lot of what you've written to even begin to understand the complexity of what you've hinted at in this story. The greater part of development attempted in Ace was lost in vagueness. I don't comprehend enough of the relationship between Lawrence and Ace to understand how it impacts the events of the story or any growth or change. I see that there is something there, but there isn't enough of a foundation provided within this story to give me a footing. Arden was more clear, and it is significant that his subservient personality caused him to turn over the Vanship. Even though this is a relatively short quest, more could have been accomplished, or overall, more clearly stated.
Writing Style ~ 10/30
Creativity ~ 3/10 – Blank: your word usage and metaphor were pretty good and appropriate. Knave: For all the impressive vocabulary used here, so often was the meaning lost. The style of writing is laborious and difficult to digest. While it worked in a few instances, overall it takes away from clarity and from enjoying the story. Let me put it this way:
We are wordcrafters. As the artist uses paint to create a picture, we paint a story with words. An artist carefully chooses each color as he paints, making sure it is exactly the hue he needs. For example, the color blue has a number of different shades from powder to midnight. If the word 'fun' were a color, then there is a spectrum of words from which we can choose: amusing, boisterous, convivial, diverting, enjoyable, entertaining, lively, merry, pleasant, witty. Each has its own connotation, its own hue. Just as an artist would not paint a redbird pink, so would we not refer to a quiet and enjoyable chess game as boisterous.
Beyond this, there is still much to consider: first, the cadence and rhythm of a sentence, a paragraph, a post, and a story. How does it flow? Do the words fit the context of the situation or do they detract from clarity? How do the words chosen reflect the general feel or theme of the story? It's important to remember that, sometimes, the simple word captures a meaning far better than its sophisticated sibling. Using big words for the sake of using big words will always take away from a story, rendering it burdensome to read, and even more so when the connotation of the word does not match the context of the situation.
Mechanics ~ 4/10 – I found many common errors here. Sometimes, it's simple proofreading, like using 'new' for 'knew.'
Another common error was using it's for its. If you use 'it's,' then you should be able to read the sentence with 'it is' in the place of 'it's.' If it makes sense that way, that is the correct usage. 'It's' is not used to show possession.
The technically correct way to deal with dialogue is to start a new paragraph when a new character begins speaking as opposed to in the middle of a paragraph.
I found a lot of misused commas and semicolons. If two parts of a sentence have a noun and a verb, then the two parts should be separated with comma and dividing word like 'and' or a semicolon. If you cannot identify a noun and a verb, then it is a sentence fragment and a comma should be used.
On a side note, if you want more information, I can make a PDF of the printed pages I marked as I read.
Clarity ~ 3/10 – Please, read your writing as if you were a reader who knows nothing about your character's past. Don't snub your reader with vagueness. If you are going to mention or reference something, give your reader just enough information to understand it. Check your transitions between thoughts, sections, posts and overall. Make sure things are logical and well-explained, evidence presented, and your metaphors don't give the wrong impressions. Clarity was the weakest point in this story; yet, it is the most important.
Wildcard: 4/10
Total ~ 34/100
Blank earns 221 EXP and 70 gold.
Knave earns 204 EXP and 70 gold.
Additionally, Knave earns a new ability pending RoG approval:
The God’s Breath His Second Wind: Using a fragment of the Thayne’s remains, instructed under a ritual of blood and will, Lawrence possesses the power of resurrection. Should he die, he will return. Of course, this is in dealing with a near omnipotent and animal power, but its power is truth, and in a being like Lawrence it forces him back to his truest form and drives him to the limits of his sanity and beyond.
This does nothing to address its effect on the nature of Lawrence’s existence outside the category of Thayne born space. Ordinarily while one is inactive, neither seems capable of affecting the another—or even perceiving the other—so while portions life does return, portions of Lawrence’s body chaotically fluctuate between life and death and between the domains of three souls.
The end result: Once per thread, after being wounded beyond the point of repair, rendered unconscious, and with no possible way to recover, Lawrence Spades is able to resurrect back to normal health. Downside: Utter insanity, memory loss, unstablized shifting, emotional carnage lasting for as long as the battle (aggression) continues and three posts afterward.
All of this hinges on two things:
That it is only possible so long as Arden Janelle (Blank) lives. That Ace cannot break the oath he made .
Blank has requested changes to the Wiki:
mainly that Ace become leader of thieves guild, the totality of Blank's threadwork and changes to The Scourge, and changes to the wiki where needed .
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