Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Apophis 12-04-04, 11:18 AM	This is a story I wrote about a changeling employed to the Ministry of the Dead in the capital city of Korth in Karrnath. It's not complete yet, and i'm still debating whether I should just go short story or try to develop it further into a novel. I'm posting it on the forums here to get some editorial critiquing and suggestions on how I might improve what I have and possible areas to take the story into. I'd appreciate feedback. Light from everburning lanterns brightens the lonely streets, but do little to brighten their appearance. The lights hang tenuously from their poles; red sorcerous markings inscribed all along the upper most part of their height. A light rain drizzles ceaselessly against the flat monolithic architecture, and gathering in the gutters and drains it pours into the sewage system running below Eighth Street. The buildings crowd together. The only real landmark visible is a floating thirteen-tiered tower where the student wizards and arcane practitioners of The Twelve reside. Even then it’s a barely noted spire whose black design is only illuminated by the magically tended lights that pour out from its windows and arches. The cobblestones feel slick against his feet as Pox makes his way towards his appointment. The twisting maze of streets and side-alleys wind like some children’s nightmare. The black cloak he wears is heavy with the rain now begining to come down with force. A sign hangs above the door he stops at, reading “Darkwood Dreams” in bold elegantly drawn lettering. Upon entrance the smell of exotic herbs and perfumes assault his nose. The ladies look up as rainwater drips from his dark hair unto the carpeting. The main room of the bordello is an attempt at elegance here in Low District, bordering the gates to the Community Ward where Madam Hemmel draws most of her paying customers. A dark red-haired human girl approaches him and takes his cloak, eyeing his illusory form while folding the cloth in her arms and asking him his business. “I’m here for lunch with Liandra.” “I’m sorry, but Madam Hemmel is in a meeting right now.” “Do you know when she’ll be free?” “I’m not sure, but I think she’ll be done soon.” The woman presses her body against his own; her shapely form clothed in a green leotard that he notices presses up her breasts and makes them swell. He extracts his arm from her hold, light reflecting off the symbols of death that adorn his leather armor to mark him as a corpse collector for the kingdom. The woman, seeing the mark of governmental authority, shies away and offers to bring him something. “No, I’m fine.” Is Lieutenant Pox’s reply as he moves to seat at one of the miniature tables that lay amidst lavish cushions. Watching the clientele frolic with the various ladies under Liandra’s employ, he looks to the lavish clocks to check the time. He is one of the few in Low District who can use Madam Hemmel’s first name. The changeling has known her for eight years now, and for a time had schooled her younger sister in Karrnathi history and literature. They had kept a tradition of having lunch every other Sulday. The wait isn’t long. “Lieutenant Pox, I’m sorry for the wait.” “It’s no trouble.” He looks up and rises in the presence of the madam, she’s dressed in a flowing gown of expensive green glammerweave. The fabric clings to her body, shimmering with bright illusory patterns that you normally only find on the ladies in Highcourt. Her dark oil black hair is done up in an elegant bun and tied together by silk threads. He accepts her hand politely before moving with her into the bordello’s hallways. They walk together to her private chambers to have lunch, he marveling at the decadence located here in this impoverished part of the capital. The room is lit by several lanterns, each one enchanted with cheap affordable magic to keep them burning forever. They are decorated with red silks and gold, the colors of used extensively all through the room’s design. There is a bed located in the far end of the room with posts holding a canopy of glammerweave sheets that can be drawn closed. The illusion caste against it dances vibrantly to enhance the crimson splendor of her bed. Beside her bed are several bits of furniture crafted from densewood imported from the elven nation of Aerenal. Dressers, a coffee table, and a breakfast table in the center of the room further adorn her home. Pox makes his way to the seat that she usually occupied, pulling it out and offering it up for her comfort. The madam smiles appreciatively and settles down in her chair. There is no speech for several minutes as they just sip at their drinks. Pox’s thoughts are preoccupied today with all the work he has to perform for the Ministry. It thus comes as no surprise to him that she is the first to speak. “How is your work going?” she says. “Well enough.” “With the war over it must make meeting your quota difficult.” “I deal with it.” He replies, taking his knife and spreading a little of Korth’s famous cheese on one of the crackers. “I’m actually making my usual rounds today in Low District.” “They demand a lot out of you. Most of the city guards don’t even come here, much less to collect corpses.” “Maybe I’m due for a promotion.” He has a meeting with one of the king’s informants in an hour, but it would only take him fifteen minutes to get there. He looked across at his companion, possibly his only true friend here in Korth. He sometimes had toyed with telling her about who he really was, a changeling employed directly underneath Caius III’s brother Count Vedim who currently serves as Minister of the Dead. It bothered him why he didn’t. There were many reasons: national security, his job, and value of his personal life. But none of them seemed to satisfy that question. “Jessica has been asking about you.” “Has she? What’s she been asking about?” “Where you are. How you’re doing. When you’re going to see her again.” “My schedule doesn’t allow it.” “You know she thinks the world of you. This place isn’t good for her. I’m not good for her.” “Neither am I.” They sit in silence for a long while, each sipping half-heartedly at their drink. He’d taught Liandra’s sister everything she knew about Khorvaire’s past, taking special emphasis on Karrnathi history. He even taught her a few of the simple spells he’d learned over his years. They were mere tricks really, illusion and enchantment, but she’d shown a great deal of natural talent for magic. He had actually smuggled in the two sisters from Cyre many years ago as a favor towards a dead comrade. His body was still serving as a warrior at Ft.Zombie. He still didn’t know what connection lay between them, but had known better than to pry. The rain doesn’t ease up, still pelting at the window with now increased fervor. The sound drowns out the crackling of the lantern flames, but fails to drown out the awkwardness of today’s visit. He breaks the silence in-between his drinking by asking about Jessica. “How old is Jessica now? It’s been four years since I taught her?” “It’s been five years.” Replied Madam Hemmel as she refills his cup. “And she had her fourteenth birthday last month.” The chimes of her magic clock interrupt their conversation. Its notes clear and bell-like; it seems out of place here with notes so pure and tranquil. He notices that age and moral ambiguity now are wearing away at Liandra’s features, lines creasing at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. He begins to realize just how hard life here in Low District really is on her, even without the need to personally see to her clientele. He finishes his drink; her aged appearance fading like discarded clothing as they both rise. “I should go. My job won’t let me rest for long.” “I’m sorry to see you go so soon, Lieutenant. Please don’t hesitate to drop in to see us.” “The drink was very fine. I’ll drop by to visit Jessica later.” He takes his leave of the building, rain still being there to welcome him out into the dark and uninviting streets. The bite of bitter cold and freezing rain is kept at bay by the now dry cloak he wears once more. The cloak hides his armor, aiding to disguise his military authority here. Raindrops drip down his jaw and chin as he moves again down Eighth Street, heading South down Morgue Drive to meet with Thirteenth Street. In silence he is watched by the gargoyles that commonly hang over Korth, their grinning faces filled with fangs that are supposed to scare away evil spirits. He sheds his current face while walking, the illusory image washing away in the rain as he takes a new one. This face is older and more mature with scars running down his chin. He gives it a grizzled look with graying hair, making himself appear more common than the attractive near elven features he takes when doing social calls. It takes him ten minutes to get to the corner of Thirteenth Street. He has twenty minutes left by his estimation before he meets with the informant. His eyes look to the crowded ghetto homes that line this district. Now moving to the door with the secret symbol used to mark safe houses. He takes out the key he carries when visiting this place, its silvery metal glowing against the light shed by the street’s lanterns. Lieutenant Pox unlocks the door, reciting a simple charm to confirm he was the owner of the key. The charm was a Karrnathi nursery rhyme, commonly recited by children without knowledge of the arcane significance of its wordings. The lock gives a subtle flash of light to confirm when the key is injected. Turning it clockwise and pushing in the door, Pox is relieved to get out of the rain once again. He feels as if he might somehow be washed away like all other lies by its flowing torrent. It is a silly fear but he holds it all the same. He sits on the hardened etched flooring and waits on the informant to arrive. * * * Thirty minutes. It has been thirty minutes. Ten minutes past the deadline. He can feel the storm outside increasing in intensity, a draft working its way into the single room he had been waiting in for over thirty minutes. He doesn’t feel comfortable, but it’s more than just the splinters piercing into his back from where he’d laid propped up against the wall. It might even be more than the now eleven-minute delay in his rendezvous with the informant. All he knows however is that the security of his routine mission had been compromised, but he wasn’t sure how. The first thing he has to do is inform the Ministry. It is probably nothing, maybe a mugging while en route to the room or a wrong turn made while in a hurry. There are numbers of possible explanations, but none of them seem to satisfy that gnawing in the back of his mind. It’s when the door to the room gives in with the crash and splinter of moldy wood that he becomes sure of it. His eyes squint against the sudden light of an everburning lantern as he springs, feeling a body barrel into his and knocking the wind from his lungs. He gasps feebly, attempting to inhale air back into his lungs when he feels the club smash into the side of his head. His skull pounds in on itself as he feels it rebound against the damp inner wall of the room. The world spins as sky meets floor. Looking up to see an armored figure standing overhead, his vision makes out a green emblem of a claw proudly displayed on his attacker’s breastplate. The helmet he wears masks the left side of his face, and a sword is strapped to his hip. He and three other of his comrades were carrying clubs. Pox knows immediately who they are, but the leader seems inclined to inform him anyway. Their knightly garb failed to impress him. “Royal dog. I’m Captain Alfin of the Order of the Emerald Claw, patriots of Karrnath. We’re here to make you pay for your crimes against the heroes of the Last War.” “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any money.” His lips curl in a smile even as the club is shoved into his face and the captain pins his throat against the wall. Captain Alfin and his colleagues didn’t seem amused by his manner. “I see you’ve a sense of humor.” Says Alfin. “I try.” Replies Pox. “Maybe you’ll find it humorous when we string you up by your guts.” “I’ve been threatened by better looking people than you.” “I’m sure you have.” Alfin sneers as he speaks. Pox knows that despite his bravado, if he doesn’t do something to distract them he will die. “You found my partner then I take it.” He baits them, checking to see if they were the ones who had intercepted the informant. “You should be careful about who you trust.” Pox’s eyes stare back into the Captain’s, realizing that this was more serious than mere interception. This was betrayal. And if he didn’t get away it would go unnoticed. It’s then that the knights behind Alfin interject. “Maybe we should crucify him, sir.” “No, let’s burn him alive.” “There’s no message left without his body, fool.” Things are starting to look serious and as the captain’s club cuts off his air he finds that it’s getting harder to keep his vision clear. This is when a cry of alarm comes from the rear ranks of the Order’s knights, relieving the pressure on his throat. He watches as flames dance up from the rear, singing everything in their path. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. But he found that the wild magic was heading straight towards him as well. He closed his eyes to shield them from the flames and felt the waves of heat wash over him. Thankfully it only singed his hair and clothing with the knights in front. His eyes open to see a boyish looking figure standing in the doorway. A simple hat, a dirtied looking tunic and coat, and trousers are what adorn the urchin. The boy’s eyes are wide and fearful but he can see the fire that still crackles along his fingertips. The guards distracted, he knees Alfin in the groin before calling a basic enchantment. Three will o’ wisps spring from his fingers, their dancing lights encircling Alfin’s head and blinding his vision while he tumbles and dodges his way around the other knights in his company. The sting of the rainwater against his bruises reminds him he’s alive as he grabs the arm of the boy and together the two run into the muddy streets. It’s two or three minutes before they’re pursued. He knows they’re being followed by the shouts coming behind them. He doesn’t bother looking back. They were in trouble he knew, but his knowledge of the winding alleys gives him some advantage. These knights are familiar with Low District, but not as familiar as Pox. Moving down an alley on Seventh of Ten Street, he places his hand over the mouth of the urchin boy to keep his heavy set breathing from giving them away. Muttering a simple spell of illusion he crafts a silent image of them moving down a different street and watches while the knights chase after their ghosts. It’s ten minutes before he releases the boy’s mouth. The child’s shaking through his clothes. In this weather he’ll catch sickness so he leads the boy to a drier place where they can hide. The boy seems to trust him, though he doesn’t understand why. He’s confused about how the child can wield such potent magic at such an early age. They move to an open sewer grate, climbing their way down into the ill lit tunnels. The boy makes a few motions with his soiled hands, his magic looking forced as reality was twisted to his whim and light emitted from a club he must have stolen from one of the Order’s knights. “Who sent you boy?” “Nobody.” “Don’t feed me that.” “I only,” the boy hesitates in his speech, making Pox peer more closely at his features, “wanted to help you.” The boy’s eyes are wide and brown; possessing a gentle face that seems marred with dirt and grime. His filthy countenance did little to hide the naivete` in his eyes. Pox’s surprise is only increased when the child pulls off the dirty cap, allowing long waves of brunette locks to spill forth. It’s then that he realizes that the boy is actually a girl, maybe of fourteen or fifteen years. “Is that really you Mr.Pox?” The question catches the Lieutenant off guard, and an instinct drives his hand to his whip. The girl doesn’t notice and soon her arms are wrapped around his waist in a familiar grasp. He isn’t sure who she is. Does he know her? “I knew it was you.” she says. “Who are you? How do you know me?” asks the changeling. “You don’t remember me?” “I’ve never met you.” “You’re cruel.” The girl looks up at him, eyes watering and washing away some of the filth that masks her feminine qualities. The urchin then clutched his hand, burying her face into his grasp with affection. “It’s Jessica. I’m Jessica Hemmel.” “Jessica?” He’s a bit surprised. He didn’t expect the little girl he schooled to grow up. It is inevitable but always unforeseen. “What were you doing there? I could arrest you for disobeying curfew.” Their voices carry down the tunnels despite their low whispers. “I was following you. You didn’t visit me. I’ve missed you so much. I didn’t know you were a changeling.” “I wish you didn’t.” “You’re cruel.” They stare at one another in the dark, she holding back adolescent tears while clinging to her old tutor. The slick nature of his mind gave him insight to her affection. He doesn’t need the trouble of a foolish girl’s crush now, but he rests a hand atop her head as he spoke and allowed his illusory face to fade. His true features are revealed with the shadow of a mouth with blank clear eyes. His skin is white and pallid, and drawn tight over his face. His hair is smooth and snow white in color, hanging down low over his eyes. “How long have you been following me?” “Maybe twenty minutes. I was across the alley when those thugs broke in. I missed you.” “You did something very stupid. But you did save me and for that I’m grateful.” Her eyes look up in confusion before he can hear the sound of footsteps coming from down the corridor. He knows Jessica can hear it too. She’s already put her hat back on, tucking her hair underneath it to try and hide her femininity. “We need to move.” They move quickly down the sewage tunnels, neither knowing where it was they were really going. It was dark, the pair only possessing the magic light that clung to the knight’s club Jessica had filched.
Apophis 12-04-04, 04:02 PM	I did a little editing with the beginning paragraphs of the story. I had to reword a couple of them. I found I kept slipping into the past tense with a few of my sentences. I've put them into present tense now. If anyone else can spot further mistakes or corrections I need to make please post them in your replies, and maybe include a suggestion on how to fix it. :plotting:
Rinna 12-05-04, 02:23 AM	This is very well written. I like all your descriptions and the tone you've set. Really brings me into the middle of the story. Makes me want to know more about what happens. One thing that threw me off guard was your use of "Sulday". At first, I thought you'd misspelled Sunday. I think it would sound better if it was just Sul. Less confusing, and it's probably how it would actually be refurred. I especially liked your description of Pox changing his one mask for another as he's walking. I think it sounded very authentic. And I already like Jessica a lot. As for whether it should be a short story or a novel...well, that depends on where you want the story to go, where the characters want to take you. I think you can get a very powerful and emotional story in a shorter work, but you've also got enough background and intregue and mystery to carry the story on for longer. It all depends on what you need it to accomplish. Anyway, excellent start. Rinna