View Full Version : Auspices of Perdition
Twilight set speedily to work over the city skyline, as flickering flames danced reborn in the sparse lampposts that lined squalid streets. Shops closed their doors and shutters as the late-night bazaar in the municipal center attracted nocturnal crowds with trinkets suitable for sale only in dim light and to dimmer folk. As house windows shimmered in the candlelight of evening meals, the rapid day's pace slowly sank into a leisurely stroll for most, though darkened alleyways hid an sickly side-effect of successful settlement. The poor, or more accurately the diurnal destitute, returned to hide amongst a few scattered shacks and hovels that lay near the town's entrance way on a large and raging river. They were too young, old, feeble, or cowardly to compete with the more seasoned skullduggers and sadists who crept amongst the mob, hidden by the listless veil of Nox. Though a paltry party, the vagabonds gathered in celebration of the meager arrangements allotted to them by the townspeople, more out of apathy than any human dignity. Around makeshift fires and with potent homemade libations, stories of life, love, loss, and lamentation were shared by the upbeat downtrodden. It seemed every campfire had the soul of camaraderie; all except one.
At the last hovel, a small and sullen sepulchral shanty half collapsed into the estuary, a pyre raged with lone figure near it. A youth, who stared so completely at the flame that no bystander nearby could decide if the kindling or his eyes burned more intensely. A ragged boy, whose tattered clothes and unshod feet sought neither warmth nor comfort from the blaze as he devoured the last bite of his bread. An older man, a professional beggar and de facto shepherd for the guttersnipes, had approached him early with a sincere smile and spare loaf in attempts to learn a bit more of the transient who had stumbled into “his town.” He left mere moments later; when the urchin finally responded to his inquiry, the conversation could only be described as a downward spiral into the most depressing reaches of thanatopsis.
As the night waned on, only one more of the anxious anomie sat opposite the wanderer. She was a copper-haired pickpocket only a few years older than he. Her small but calloused hands held two cloudy vials; malodorous to all but the most sorrowful sot. The boy took what was offered, but made no acknowledgement to her presence. After a long draught and a contorted face, he was still once more.
“They call me Katlyn,” she began, a hushed chuckle beneath her breath. Her voice, a mixture of saccharine and trust, was rare on the streets.
“Morus,” rasped the strange boy. It was clear the conversation unsettled him as he took another gulp of the dubious bottle, stifling a wince all the while. Katlyn only starred back at him, her eyes curious and her smile fading. As the minutes dragged on, she felt the need to push harder.
“What's your deal?”
Morus, caught off guard, looked back wide-eyed. “It's a bit of a forward question for someone you've just met.”
“It's a little rude to deny a request when you drink for free.”
The boy smiled back, trying his best to disarm the now visibly annoyed girl in front of him. “Forgive my rudeness then.” Katlyn's coldness slowly melted as the urchin's oddness charmed her. “You can tell I'm not from here, no doubt. And, no doubt, you'll want to hear none of the sophistry I spoke to the man form earlier. But my story is long.”
“So is the night.”
“It's bitter and melancholy.”
“Most stories are.” Morus could tell the girl was invested in him now, even if he was only an oddity. On a whim he would later blame on the drink, the boy began his tale on a cloudless night, in a city whose name he could not and cared not to remember; for in the eyes of a weary wanderer, all cities look the same.
Despite a full year's passing, every time I remember my father's estate the image remains as clear and static as a portrait. Forty acres of land, marred only by a handful of humble homes and fields of the most vibrantly colorful and fragrant fauna I will ever know, and all tended with the utmost care. Lively green grass and hedging gave way to bushes of red and white, purple and deep blue; jutting roots of savory brown and sparse spatterings of saplings clipped of bark and branch stood near every home. And all around, encircling the domain, was an impenetrable wall of trees.
He had built it in the depths of the Concordia, Corone's ample and awe-inspiring wood, far off the beaten path and known only to those whose business was required. My father, Aeneas, was an herbalist by trade and made, in his travels, a small fortune on which our family could subsist in ease. While still a young man, he and my mother had worked together to fell the timbers needed to build their first, modest home; the land they cleared was tilled, and all manner of seed he had some across in his voyages were planted and reared with the same fervent energy he would one day use to raise an unruly son. As time passed, his home grew bigger and included the addition of a massive, hollow earthen mound used to store herbs, spices, roots, and leaves for every salve or balm imaginable. His fields were a cash crop in the hands of a skilled herbalist, and his work allotted the knowledgeable and desperate to seek him out in his own private Xanadu.
Some of these itinerants had fallen on hard times and had given their entire savings to afford even the scantest amount of medicine for hapless loved-ones who fell ill. My father pitied them, the amicable soul he was, and would often return their coin. Those with pride refused outright, and took another offer instead. Around his modest manor new houses began to rise, and always with help from my father. These tenants worked the fields or served as makeshift staff to their patriarch's growing family. Roving merchants, possessing guile and barter bar none to find the growing village, took up second homes and made my father's hazardous mercantile expeditions a thing of the past.
He had a daughter first, Lucretia; with the bright blond hair of her mother and skin so fair that any trip outside the estate, though rare, became a hassle. Streetwise Radansanthain youth spotted a prize in the naive girl from the country, though her father always managed to scare them away in the end. It was a good thing too; although my sister was kindhearted, virtuous, and comely, she lacked even the faintest trace of wit or chicanery.
Next came another daughter, Aenea; a dark-haired and fiery tomboy, who was very much Lucretia's counter. What few admirers she had shrank from her bravado and fearless pride. She wore her hair short and her clothes loose, and quickly became a self-proclaimed defender of the innocent, which often meant firing back venom-tipped quips at other children who dared to taunt her sister. If that measured justice wasn't enough, her fists were all the testament needed. The few other children that were around learned their place quickly.
Then came their final child.
Aeneas was never particularly watchful of auguries. Having spent so much time determining his own fate, he was burdened with the overconfidence continued success oft brought. When his darling wife announced her condition, my father was filled with blind exhilaration. Lucretia loved the color and smell of plants more than the knowledge of their medicinal properties, and Aenea's boundless energy kept her well away from study; it was the birth of a new opportunity for my father to pass on his legacy, wishful for a son, that caused such dreadful oversight.
The harvests in the months after my conception yielded poorly. Rains were light brief affairs that left the ground wanting, and the air was always savagely cold or bitterly warm. Ravens had nested near the window of the manor's master bedchamber, knitting woven baskets out of hipposelinum, stolen from far off graves. The tenants swore that every flock of birds they saw swerved and dived in such erratic flight patterns that my birth would only be a blight. On that fateful night I dragged my way into this world, the moon was wretchedly full.
It started right as evening had set. My mother's contractions were more painful than she had remembered. Inside the master suite my father mixed herbs and bitter roots to try to relieve her pain, while a a wizened midwife from the community saw to her labor. Experienced many times over, it was she who first saw the spots of blood and my mother's pale complexion. As my sisters knelt with their ears pressed against the chamber door, Aeneas frantically set about to concoct some remedy for his wife. By the time he had resolved to give her Silphium powder, a potent abortifacient that would have been worthless at the time, the midwife had cut me from my mother's womb. Upon seeing that screaming, bloody creature that took his wife, my father thought it fitting to name me Morus.
Morus, the daemons that drive men to their doom.
If my father did despise me, he hid it well. Even in grief, he assured that my childhood was regrettably happy. From an early age I was reared as his apprentice. I awoke at dawn each morning to gather reagents and additives from the field, toiled under the watchful midday sun synthesizing my spoils, and I read endless treatises and folksome tomes in quiet lucubration. Aeneas deserved a successor worthy of his eclat; I was rightfully chastised for every mistake I made and drilled with the discipline necessary for such a demanding subject. However, even the finest teachers can do little with unworthy students.
There was little doubt I was a philomath; and while I had a passion for learning that made apothecaries thrive, I spent any opportunity away from my father's watchful eye nose-first in some foreign and arcane book. Through printed word I escaped into worlds of esoteric enlightenment and away from dreary reality of my namesake and work. I shamefully resented Aeneas' strict focus on his bailiwick, and delved into any topic I could away from medicine. Philosophy on politics, veneered accounts of valiant wars; my favorite, rare translations on tragic heroes, became an strange bastion for me.
When I wasn't pressed in study or engrossed in off-topic books, I played trite games with my sisters at their beckoning. Lacking the free time they took for granted, I lost handily to Lucretia in her bizarre game of dexterous hands and to Aenea in footraces and violent tussles. I was always glad that Aenea, at least, didn't baby me to the same extent as Lucretia. The younger daughter's heart hid a secret loathing for me that spurred her on to assert dominance in every field my scholarly pursuits had distracted me from. I owe her my gratitude for preventing her young brother from ever being too delicate; but at the time, my only response to defeat were scathing critiques and quotes from authorities that fell on deaf ears. Were I given the chance again, I'd have held my smart tongue and pretensions deep within, where sins of pride belong.
It wasn't until I was twelve that my father first hit me, but I cannot blame his reasons. In devouring a few works by more romantic artists, hedonists who viewed the aesthetic world as the only one that could be known, I stumbled across passages that piqued my interest and drove me to misdeed. Verdant forests, havens for naturalists, held tiny secrets hidden deep within them. Plants, known to me only as a source of food and healing study, could be consumed to reach a supposed euphoria. To me, those pages gave me hope for pure pantology. This knowledge convinced me that I was a gnostic on the estate of dullards and confined thinkers; woefully, hubris is ever-present in the mind of youth.
Seeking out the hemp fields at first, where the tenants and my father wove rope, I learned how to smoke the plants with heated stones and straw. Those first few blissful days of new discovery found me languishing deep in thought, or thought I considered deep. It wasn't until I tried my hand at the poppy fields, used only sparingly to reduce pain in patients, that my father sought fit to act.
The boy stopped his story when he caught Katlyn's wandering gaze through the blistering heat. Her eyes, as if in blissful sleep, starred through the flame and held on the small bag that lay at Morus' feet. She rose, grunting mock effort as she stood from her crate and strode confidently over to sit next the urchin; not once taking sight off the satchel. As the girl sat beside him, Morus felt obliged to clink the bottle she offered in friendship and swig down just slightly more than his new companion. Fire fled his mouth and sought refuge in the maelstrom that his stomach had become. He felt a warm blush on his cheeks that kept the nip of night at bay, and his mind was filled with groggy enthusiasm. When she was finished with her sip, the girl began to drunkenly whisper into his ear.
“What's in the bag?” She slurred, but smiled right after with a look that kept him captivated.
“Just a few traveling supplies,” he replied, coy in all but the awkward grin that ran across his face. “Only the essentials.”
Katlyn began to unbutton her waistcoat, removing a pouch and long pipe from an inner pocket. Teasingly, she hid the contents of the substance she sprinkled into the bowl from the boy's eyes; though his mind was rightly elsewhere from the moment she had undone her top button. In one swift and surprisingly sober move, the redhead grabbed a burning twig from the fire's edge and lit the end of the pipe, taking in a long puff before blowing the potent miasma right in the urchin's face. The smell was unmistakable to him, that pleasant hashish; he quickly and gratefully took the pipe when it was offered. For a few silent, blissful moments, they passed it back in forth. As the lightness of his head took him, Katlyn offered her lap as a temporary pillow, allowing Morus to recline on what little log he had left.
“My father hit my too,” the pickpocket murmured as she cradled the boy's head. “It's why I left home.” The urchin looked up into her eyes, frowning for a moment before clearing his throat.
“Aeneas knew the plant's effects well. He had treated patients whose addiction to opium overpowered their charity, shame, and sanity. Though he snapped the switch against my backside the day he found me with that accursed ivory pipe, I cannot begrudge him.” Morus' frown quickly turned into smirk. “Besides, it didn't stop me. It just motivated me to keep my activities more secret and kept any habit I formed in check.” Katlyn ran her calloused fingers through long strands of black hair, and the boy could not help but enjoy the attention.
“Why did you run away then?” She said as she tucked away her supplies.
“My perdition,” he grinned with solace and watering eyes.
“Perdition?”
My soul was never really mine; Fortuna held its lease in her grandiose grasp. I twisted in her strings like pleasant puppet and engrossed myself in the messages she sent me.
I remember the vivid forms the Somnium took while in languished sleep. My dreams were often resplendent visions in youth, but my experimentation had taken them to unimaginable lengths. Foolishly, I had not learned from Aeneas' lesson and enjoyed their splendid grandeur as an unbridled pastime. But the omens became more glaring. Places too specific for my mind to invent, towns I had never been, fed fantasist flames on Morpheus' canvas. Though news rarely reached our community, I heard quiet tale of the war that ripped Corone apart, and of attacks I had witnessed but never saw.
As the dreams became more substantial, their focus turned to my father's estate. Repeatedly, I watched from that far ethereal realm as he tended his precious fields. Sprouting Aloe vera was his first concern before moving to the Blessed thistle or Red clover.
Careful, methodical, it seemed he checked every corner of every plant, but he was always interrupted in his work while he stood dead-center in a field of red poppies. A small figure raced clumsily through his work, crushing any plant in its way. By the time it reached towering Aeneas, I could clearly see it was me. Those superbly crafted silk robes requested from Raiaera, leather boots and gloves from Radasanth's markets, and that haughty grin on my face; a mirror held to my superficiality and my sickening sense of superiority.
I reluctantly observed as that treacherous boy hands my father a wounded snake clasped tightly in his gloves. He wants the creature healed, but Aeneas seems cautious. He's a shrewd man, attempting to bribe the child with the promise of another pet; but damnable me seems as adamant as ever to have his way. My father relents and takes the serpent, only to receive bite on the wrist and a quick, senseless death.
I always awoke then.
Lucretia and Aenea were opposites who seemed to share only parentage, sibling, and a birthday. The isolated estate lit up but once a year in festivity. Aeneas, his tenants, and even the birthday girls themselves began baking, placing decorative lanterns, and setting up tables beneath a canopy near the manor a full day before the event. The yard was filled with chatter of the most mundane variety, and well wishers were always present to fill my sisters' ears with saccharine-soaked sentiments. The smiling, cheerful crowd were diligent in work and friendly to the point of abnormality; to prevent retching, I fled to the forest's outskirts.
Dream stick in hand, I burned beneath the shade Concordia provided. Felled trees were ideal for lounging in the sweet, cool breeze; no rancid Radasanthian den could compare to the vista nature laid before me. The quiet woods blocked all but the minutest murmur from the distant estate. With every billowing puff I let out, the calm, damp earth and mossy logs accepted my sleepy forgetfulness. My listless, heavy eyes began to notice sharp movement against the naturalist backdrop. While every falling leaf met the ground at a snail's pace, some white figure darted amongst timber and brush at a speed so startling, I was compelled to investigate.
”Perhaps father has grown wise to my routine,” my drowsy thoughts began. “He sent a tenant friend to follow, some peon of a man.” The faded trail I tried the follow, blocked as I was from Apollo, his chariot cloaked overhead by waves of gold, amber, and tan. Autumn's chill lead me forward, tugging frigidly at my hand. Soon I reached a clean-cut clearing, my target seemed ever-nearing, half-closed lids made the peering a herculean plan.
“Hello,” hummed a voice in gleeful tone. As my heartbeat raced and my skin felt the flush of Vulcan's furnace, I desperately searched for its source. The tree-break seemed deserted and no branch was big enough to hide the vision I sought. But I could feel the cool autumn wind change into something colder, as shivers of frost and dread ran up my spine. Gradually, preternatural light began to take form in front of me. The figure was small, and its features seemed to define themselves all at once as the brightness reached its apex. It was a boy, a few years younger than I, whose closed eyes and twisted smile filled my head with wicked spectres of betrayal. A startling laugh was all he left me with as he took off again, his white, loose robes flowing in their own strange wind.
I tried to follow, but the muddied ground caked to my boots and made them heavier, harder to drag over the many logs the lurid spirit seemed to spring right over. Perhaps five minutes had passed, maybe longer, before my ill-tempered lungs and dull legs bade me to run no longer. Desperate to catch my breath, I ignored the harried breathing of another creature that lay meters from my feet. As I bent knee to sip from a stream, I caught an audible groan. Nearby, propped carelessly against a rock, was a young woman. Her auburn hair and tan face were speckled with blood. Leather armor, crudely made, was sullied further by the knife wounds on her chest and arms.
It took longer than I care to admit, but I knew she needed help. I checked her breathing quickly before grabbing a light, sharp stone and headed back towards the estate. Though I spent my youth in Concordia's fringe, it was always wise to be weary. I marked the trees with a single notch as I sped, hazily, back to my father.
The good Samaritan beginning down his path of regret.
Though I cannot recall my frantic pleas to my father and his men, the curious looks they gave me are burned into my mind's eye. Around a heavy wooden table assembled just hours before, basking in the cool afternoon sun, they sat in seeming judgment of my tale and its labored retelling. Worried and delirious from the poppey, only my shameful, tear-soaked eyes finally convinced them to act. Hushed discussion rolled through their ranks as a crowd gathered, curious at the disturbance my distress had caused. Through a red, raw looking-glass, I could see their irritation.
Mocking murmurs were on the lips of every woman and boy who watched my father's council. While most kept quite, a foolish few made their outrage obvious and known. I was not to be trusted, the more tactful ones declared, while others simply derided the story on merit of my reputation. I had told Lucretia that my haggard and sluggish states were caused by overexposure to the materials of my craft. Up until that moment, she had believed every dim word of it and spread the tale to any doubter. But in her white linen finery, at the forefront of the crowd, all she could do was dip her head and hold her tongue. The defeat, painted so plainly on her face, caused a panic in me as fierce as the glare Aenea gave.
“Enough,” Aeneas commanded. His people fell quite; their sheepish bleating muted for a time. “I'll take five men with me to the woods. Gunther,” he said, pointing to the stout old farmer at his right, “bring the litter and any spare rope you have.” With his strong jaw, sharp eyes, and clean-cut black hair, he looked the part of a mythic hero standing proud upon his verdant fief. He chose his other four, before turning his searing gaze at me.
Without a word, he dragged me unceremoniously from the soon-to-be fairground and into the house, down a winding set of steps, and into the dimly lit, brown cellar I had chosen as my room. As he opened the door, my father shoved me roughly inside. If not for his strong grasp of my wrist, I would have wound up sprawled on the packed-earth floor. Every paranoid delusion of my father I'd ever had raced through my mind. ”His love has limits,” my weary head thought, “and I have little of that already.”
“I had thought I made myself clear,” Aeneas began with an unspoken fury that bristled beneath his voice. “Look at the state you're in. Have you no shame?”
“But,” was the only word I could get in before his powerful hand slammed across my face. I bent a knee and stayed there, unable to meet my father's scrutiny.
“Well speak further when I return. Should your story prove false...”
“It won't!”
“Should it,” he raised his voice to growl, “than we'll speak for a very long time.” I heard his heavy footfalls and the slam of my door as he left. He bolted it from the outside, a precaution he rarely used with me. Slowly, I slithered towards my bed, my courage from earlier drained from every pour.
As I lay in my goose-down covered in satin finery, I whispered feverish prayers that Aeneas would find the wounded woman I had seen; perhaps the strange apparition as well. I was convinced he would return apologetic, thankful for the quick wits of his son.
Exhaustion took me deep within its grasp.
Katlyn smiled to herself when she heard the boy's soft snores. She removed her hand from beneath the top of his trousers to quickly riffle through any crevice or shadow that could conceivably be a pocket on his ragged attire. A few copper coins, a needle with black thread tightly wound around it, and a single foiled piece of chocolate that he'd no doubt been saving; trifling treasures to a skilled thief, but she knew his satchel was bound to house something worthwhile. As careful as her trade had made her, she lifted his head from atop her lap, stood up, and placed him gently back onto his improvised bed. Her hazel eyes stared for ages at his listless form for any sign consciousness or break in breathing, but his small body never stirred.
“So scrawny,” she mused. His pale skin, held taught to bone, was still flush and warm to the touch as Katlyn ran her thumb across his forehead to brush away the dirty black locks of hair that fell just above his eyes. She admired him a moment longer, basking in the heat of the fire that lapped at her back, before grabbing his bag and sauntering off into the night.
The boy had been an easier mark than most. Katlyn was used to older men who traveled from town to town in desperate need or work, or who needed the digression transience offered. Their pockets were often fuller, but each one would kill her handily if they discovered her trick. She was a skilled conartist for any age, practicing her ruse of drink and smoke, cheerful smiles, and even more intimate techniques when the need arose. Usually it would take two bottles of her fiery swill and countless passes of the pipe to ease her target's tension, but Morus had fallen prey without a hitch. The girl was thankful she didn't have to take advantage of him further, though some sick whisper in her regretted the conquest's end.
His story was long, he didn't lie about that.
The darkened shantytown was still. The rush of the river was a steady beat, and only Morus' lone crackling fire broke apart the shaded monotony; yet with each step the cutpurse took, the blaze grew fainter. By the time she reached her shack, the fire was reduced to a dim glow in the distance, obscured by scattered hovels and patchwork riggings poorer sailors used to moor their boats.
Dawn would come within the hour, perhaps. The sky, though black, began to give way to faint wisps of light. The thief gazed up at the sky, taking in the night's cool grasp before the sun could beat down upon the land. A twinge of guilt rilled in her stomach, the boy's face appeared in a brief glimmer amongst the twilight stars. If he was lucky, he'd rouse groggily in the morning to find himself stripped to the skin, although she had her doubts that even the desperate among the beggars and thieves would bother with his rags. She worried more about Gaffer Jon; he had no true grandchildren and offered larger chunks of meat from his stewing pot to boys he eyed greedily. And there was no telling if the brief but bloody murders they had a few weeks ago could start up again, the murderer having never been caught. A drunken horror took her for a moment as she pictured Morus' throat slashed ear to ear.
”But Mrs. Riverford...” Katlyn was relieved at the thought that the vagabond village had at least one motherly figure. She had eyed the boy suspiciously earlier while Katlyn and her exchanged gossip in the evening, but her words were peppered with fearful sentiments and the stubborn protest that the pickpocket should feed him before she got him drunk. “She'll know to make sure he's alright.” The old woman's hut stood no more than twenty feet from his fire. A solace washed over her as she relaxed her mind's paranoia.
Katlyn relaxed too much, perhaps, as she felt a sudden force grip her, slamming her head first into her shack's door jamb.
When Katlyn awoke, the sky burned a dull blue through the single broken window in her home. She was left in a heap beneath the laddered loft above her had where she slept. Thin needles of hay from her bedding fell softly on her face as she strained to see and move. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back; the thick rope no doubt her own. Her head throbbed as she squinted in the darkness, desperate to find the cause of her distress. By her doorless entryway, aglow against the gleam of morning and the half-used candle in his hand, Katlyn beheld the grimmest sight she'd ever looked upon.
Morus came closer, and the thief could see the change in him right away. Gone was the boy who sat awkward and alone, tending his private fire and scaring off anyone who would befriend him with forced melancholy. Gone, too, was the boy who smiled and chuckled in her lap, flushed with libations and libido. What replaced him was a grim urchin specter; a twisted smile played across his face, as if forced up from deep, dire place. His eyes were unsettling, a malignant mixture of pain, anger, and anticipation. Around his shoulder hung his satchel, heavier than the last time she had seen it. As he stumbled forward and placed the candle on her table, its rightful spot, he brought his face to within an inch of hers. Katlyn could smell the thick stink of alcohol of his breath and saw the state of his gnashing teeth. It was only when he began to speak that the thief noticed her knife, stolen from beneath her bed no doubt, held firmly in his right hand.
“You heard, but you did not listen,” he murmured in his dull, dreary monotone. Katlyn had grown sick of the way he sounded towards the end of his story, but now he firmly held her attention. Fear beat steadily in her heart as her hands fumbled in vain to escape their binds.
“What are you doing? W-”
“Thief, I name you. A seducer as well. A siren in service to Laverna, blessed with the deftness of Mercury.” For a moment, the cutpurse thought she saw the glimmer of a tear in his eye, until a look of contempt washed it away. He brought the blade of the knife to her neck, running his thumb up and down edge nervously. “If you scream for help, I'll end you before it arrives.”
”He doesn't mean to kill,” Katlyn thought to herself, trying to remain as calm as she could. Knives had been pulled on the girl before, and she was convinced she knew how a true killer would act. ”He's a stupid boy. A scorned child. This is a petty scare attempt.” The tip of the knife nicked her chin, dragging her unhappily out of her illusion.
“How did you find me?” Her voice was a whisper, and she cursed herself for her subservience to a child's threats.
“The dreaming,” he derided, “if you had bothered to listen to my story, you'd know it speaks to me.”
“I thought you imaginative, or mad. I know which you are now.”
“It told me to find her here, with my possessions,” said Morus, ignoring the jape. “When I saw you just outside this lovely house, I knew sweet Lima would deliver you into my hands.” He raised his arm and flicked his wrist gently. A silent rush filled the room before him, sending the candle tumbling against the wall. The whole rotted gray shack seemed to shake from the unseen.
“Witch,” the thief hissed. Morus only strained a soft chuckle. A sudden idea bloomed in her bitterness. Coyly and with as soft an expression as she could muster given her situation, she asked “You never finished your story, or whatever this 'perdition' is. Did you father beat you when you returned?” She hoped she could stall the boy long enough to work her wrists free, working slowly and checking her captor's face for any sign of recognition to her actions. Years of the neighborhood had taught many a useful lesson to her. But as Morus' face changed again, she felt a cool sweat drip down her back.
“The dreams speak to me, as I've said before.” An inhuman cruelty had entered his voice, stepping halfway between a snarl and a laugh. “What do you think happened?” He studied her closely, and as the moment dragged on, disgust at her ignorance shone plain as day. “The snake dream, you fool. I mentioned it for a reason.”
“That could've meant anything,” said Katlyn defiantly. Flustered at the obvious subjectivity, the boy continued.
“The serpent's jaws snapped quickly. Aeneas and his men were ambushed in the woods they'd known as home. Brigands, out of work soldiers returning from some far off tournament, most likely. They must have convinced one of the tenants to turn traitor. Gunther perhaps, craven churl.” Morus trailed off for a moment, breathing heavily amidst the dust and dun. The boy seemed confused, or feigned it, before his eyes met hers again. Katlyn saw only the coldest blue in them. “Whatever happened, I awoke to the rank smell of smoke and rot and ruin. I was dragged from my bed, my haze, and my world and brought forth to witness my very reality's collapse.”
A sudden crack to the face broke the mystique the room once had. Katlyn was free when she writhed loose the ropes and lept to her feet, socking Morus soundly on the cheek. She bolted through the door nimbly while the boy took a blind slash at her leg with his stolen knife. By the time he stood up, still stunted, weary and drunk, he heard her cries ring out across the shantytown. Sharp and shrill, her calls were bound to gain notice. He took flight quickly, dashing through the threshold still flecked with blood from earlier.
Apollo reared across the sky, burning night to pink cinders and routing Nox for another day. The cool damp ground beneath his feet began to warm to him as he fled, speeding towards the gate with all his might. His legs ached, but the shadowy figures behind him seemed none too pleased as they shouted murder at the top of their lungs. He had a slight reprieve in their sleepiness, but soon the chase would quicken the blood.
Into the forest, just beyond the gate, he knew Diana would play a role. Whether she would hide him in her wilderness, or give speed and strength to his hunters was still unknown.
I'll continue this storyline in an upcoming thread, so I'll ask whoever judges this please be available for the next one.
Spoils: A steel knife still clutched in Morus' hands, and rather poorly adorned. At least ten gold, Katlyn's pipe, as well as enough hashish to last Morus a week, taken from the pouch around the thief's neck.
Enigmatic Immortal
03-16-12, 12:19 PM
Well, here’s that judgment you’ve been waiting for. Full commentary and full Rubric, so I’ll try to give you good stuff that can help with your writing. Please remember that you can always feel free to take what you want, and disregard what you do not like. These are just helpful ideas to get your writing to take maximum effect with the rubric.
Story (7) You had an interesting manner in which you hooked the reader into an origins story. The dreamworld and real world aspects were both fairly interesting hooks and you mastered the weaving from one to the other flawlessly. There were hiccups in the manner of pacing which I will address later, but for the most part you did well with what you established. I know that you left this on a cliffhanger, but I didn’t grab the edge of the cliff in time and fell over, wanting more. Even with intentions to end the story on a dramatic note, some form of resolution must be defined.
Strategy (7) Very nice use of the dreamworld as explained above, and the use of the characters to push and pry our protagonist helped make this score rise. My only advice is to, in addition to this, try other ways to help tell your story and make it work for you.
Setting (7) Your start was AMAZING. I was in that shanty hovel of place you were watching the flame with, and you hooked me well with the scene. It was very vivdly written to encompass all aspects of your first scene. Then, as time went on, the colorful, powerful descriptions turned to well done descriptions. You need to keep the consistency to score higher. You do not need to keep on the ultra high level of amazing like you did at the start. But if you used that sparingly, and kept with what you did towards the middle and end, you’d be popping out 9-10’s in no time. I swear it’s you and Duffy who can pull off setting well.
Character (8) I got a very good understanding of Morus in this, and how he is the way he is. You did well to bring to life his tribulations from his past and the manner in which he grew up with. You also did well to show the changes that those times brought to his present. How can you score higher? Little more time with Morus is the answer. More time to mesh with the character and start finding those little quirks that will more than make him stand out, but identify him to readers. You are at a good starting point, I’m sure you’ll pick this up in no time.
Interaction (9) You have nearly mastered the art of interaction. The way you emote to your NPC’s and the surroundings is very well captured in your writing. I like the use of your character to promote the personalities of the NPC’s you have. These aren’t just random nameless, faceless people, but actual human beings with motives and design. Keep at it is the only advice I have to make it perfect.
Continuity (6) As far as where and when this took place according to your character in the world of Althanas, it was a bit lack luster. You focused very much on the character and his past and that served you well, but this area suffered a bit more for it. It’s hard when hopping between the past and the present ot keep the continuity score way up. If you are to continue doing this style of writing, my suggestion is to make sure when you go back and read to look at what you wrote, and ask “if I never read my works, would I understand this?”
Mechanics (8) A few hiccups here and there, a misspelling of a word. However, you showed you clearly proof read and make efforts to ensure the work is flawless. Use a finer comb and this score will break up.
Clarity (6) Anytime I had an issue with the story it was only because I broken out of the world of reading by a grammatical error. They happen, so I didn’t knock any points for that because they were few and far between. However, I did knock you when I was pulled out of the world to scratch my head. Your thesaurus level writing in the first two posts were really top notch quality. But your use of words left me confounded. If this was to keep up all thread, I’d have need to keep my internet open next to me to look up words. Is this a bad thing? Not at all! You write very well, and the opening was the indication of that.
So…why did you stop? Towards the middle and end the feeling of letting it all end came over me. Like you rushed to get the story done to move to the next part. I think this word is being used a lot in our rubric, and I want to make sure you know why. Consistency allows the flow of the story to continue uninterrupted and make everything easy to digest when reading. When you break up the flow it get’s confusing and harrowing to read. Whatever style you choose, be it heavy prose and word choice, or neat and tidy with sprinkles of the aforementioned heavy prose and word choice, keep to it.
Creativity (7) Another solid score for the way you started. In fact if based off your first two posts I’d have given you a nine. It’s the dropping of it towards the middle. By comparison, it comes out really much like a stiff punch in the face. However, that’s a minimal reason for the score, the boosts were because of the use of the dreamworld and the way you swapped styles EXCELLENTLY from third to first person. This isn’t your first rodeo, clearly. So well done.
Wildcard – Here is where I’m giving my last minute impressions for you. This story was well written, eloquently poised, and very engaging in the way you gripped the hooks deep to me. I very much enjoyed the writing style you have and the story intrigues me to read more. I eagerly await your next edition of the tale of Morus.
(8)
Total: 73/100
Morus Earns: 1250 EXP and 75 Gold coins were Swiped in his mad dash out! (Spoils approved; knife and drugs.)
Questions, you know how to find me
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