(Answer as many or as few of these as you wish) :)
hi, Fenric!
(this is from the WIP excerpts ask game if anyone wants to send or receive asks about their projects)
oh you KNOW i'm finding one for all of these lol
✏️ (first line of a chapter):
He hovered there, in that space between cold and oblivion.
📖 (the last line of a chapter):
Yet solitude makes fools of us all.
🤝(a line that introduces a character - in this case, Captain Hauke she-Redmer):
A statue with stern features and short-cropped hair glared at him from the corner. "Do you believe yourself above the law?" they snarled. Their voice was smoke winding through undergrowth, dark and portentous. "That you can steal from the House of the Sun?"
🫂(a line or dialogue exchange that shows the relationship between two characters - Lienzo he-Kohl and his parent, Phi they-Kohl):
"When did you last take your injection?"
"Yes, welcome home, son. I missed you, too."
🎲(using a method of your choosing, share a randomly-selected line - i have 36,415 words for this one so far, so a random number generator dropped me at 17,975, which was the word 'blood' in this paragraph):
The sting grew to a sear and Lienzo yelped. Before he could pull away, however, it stopped. He sniffled, expecting a fresh gout of blood, but found his nose dry. He tapped at his bridge. Straight. Unbroken. "Did you just...?"
that was fun, thank you for the ask! (and if you end up reblogging that game, please tag me so i can ask you things!) 💜
Hi there to my followers/readers! Sorry I once again have fallen behind on my writing, especially in regards to the trio of potential project pilot chapters I had planned. I have been sick and sleepy a lot lately, mainly due to weather transition affecting my bad leg, which has not lead to the most conducive writing environment. I have started and scrapped several attempts to get back to the chapters though I am definitely not abandoning them altogether, very much still liking the story seeds I've developed.
The next couple weeks are going to be rather busy for me but I do have a few days free before the weekend so I'm hoping to get at least one more of the chapters done this week. Gonna try focusing the next couple days. Wish me luck and good luck to anyone else embarking on writing endeavors :)
Hello! I remembered I wanted to ask you about the magic in your pilot WIP. Would it be OK if you explain how the invocation works? I really like how Jaq calls the domain? the magic belongs to, before calling out the spell!
Hello and thanks for the ask!
For those who don't understand the nature of the ask: I recently had ideas for three separate new writing projects and decided because I couldn't pick between them, I would write pilot chapters for each and then let readers decide which one I should focus on (I could override that, of course, if I really fall for one story idea over another but would like to honor my readers' wishes)
So far I have only completed one of those pilot chapters, titled The Lord of Frost (the second one is partially complete, the third one still a handful of scratched-out ideas. I have fallen behind on the project due to a ton of IRL paperwork issues, sigh, hopefully next week will prove kinder to the creative process). This is the story to which @satohqbanana is referring, it's been posted, feel free to go check it out.
Anyway, to answer the question: sadly I don't have the full details of the magic worked out yet and certainly not the full extent of the unusual magics used by the Shadow Sentinels in their dealings with the realms of the underworlds. But what I do have worked out is that the Shadow Sentinels, at least, draw their primary magic strength from the spiritual energy barrier between planes of existence (secondary sources of power would be objects imbued with magic found in either world, such as the holy water and ghostbane herb tea Jaq mentions as being helpful for healing). Devices such as warding rods and hexblades serve as conduits between spellcrafter and the interdimensional energy fields, runic hexagrams as circuits redirecting that energy, spells spoken aloud as anchors for the psychic link between magic and mage.
As for the incantations themselves, I'm still working out how those exactly work. I figure there's going to be at least six base-types (Barrier-type and Weapons-type are two of them as seen in the pilot chapter, maybe Elemental-type but as that can be turned into a Weapons-type spell such as the Indra Blade maybe not, IDK) but I'm still figuring out exactly what they are and may very well change the spells used in the next draft if that's the project I choose. The system still has a lot of bugs to work out.
I know some people find spells spoken aloud or calling attacks to be cheesy but I always find them to be fun if not too over the top. I suspect if this is the story I choose the protagonist will naturally use this method but other mages may very well find different manners of manifesting the psychic link necessary to make their spells come to life.
Thanks again for the ask and for your comments here and in the tags (I agree my sentences can often be a bit overwrought and long, it's an issue of mine at which I've improved but still need polish. Fortunately this is a pilot chapter). I look forward to more questions once I have more story written for this and the other projects :)
Potential Project Pilot Chapter One: The Lord of Frost
Hi there everyone! I've mentioned in multiple posts that I have been working on three potential story ideas with the intent of posting potential pilot chapters in the hopes of picking a primary project to work on, with you, the reader, deciding which pilot chapter you like the best guiding my decision.
So far, I have one complete chapter, half of a second and the notes for a third chapter awaiting my attention. In order to get me back to writing after yet another short hiatus (I had a lot of paperwork to fret over), I have decided to post the first complete pilot chapter today. Assuming all goes well, I would like to have the second project's pilot chapter up this weekend and then work on the third one next week. Thanks to anyone and everyone for your support! Please enjoy the chapter and feel free to like/reblog!
(NOTE: As these are pilot chapters, they will most certainly appear again in a different revised form when I start the project properly. Each project is currently unnamed and as such will be going by the chapter title I assign each one)
There were those who insisted The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens did not exist. That he was just another urban myth among the school of hundreds swimming through the sea of frosted fog enveloping the undercity. A fae-tale to frighten the street urchins, a chilling creation of the dozens of tour guides and peddlers seeking quick coin from curious newcomers to the Imperial Capitol.
Of the teeming thousands of under-citizens living in the shadows of the titanic towers of their rulers, lost in the bleak brick forest and drifting purple smoke, it was Jaqson Skade of 108 Flint Alley, Unit 3F, who knew the truth of the matter better than anyone else.
For Jaqson Skade, for better or worse, was The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens.
He’d give absolutely anything to be anyone else, his heart and soul to live another life, walk another path. But the Goddess of Fate was not so kind, not to him. Nor to any of those poor souls who stood against him and the ancient magic that was his burden.
“Nine hundred and ninety years has our beloved city of Great Exahldria stood proud,” harrumphed Grey Tobey, senior of the scruffy, shabby conclave of street prophets gathered near the district’s central tram station. He bellowed and blathered at the milling crowd, clutched at the floppy lapels of his threadbare great-coat with the spidery fingers of his right hand, arthritic left hand curled tight in his ragged rat-brown beard. “Ninety-nine decades! The bones of this city are engraved with the markings of each year, of the moments, men and monsters that walked its blessed paths and made this city live and breathe! And do the lot of you have any clue as to the most cursed of these creatures walking the city streets this day and age, huh?! Do you?!”
“Here we go again,” Jaq sighed, watching the horde of ranting raconteurs from his place in line at his favorite caffa-cart. The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens, far younger in years than the urban legends claimed, clicked his tongue in irritation. “Time for another of Grey Tobey’s Tall Tales of Terror.”
The caffa-cart cashier, a willowy redhead whose tiny nameplate read Emira, giggled from behind the cluster of steaming stainless steel samovars and service-pots. Once his order was up, Jaq fumbled about in the pockets of his crumpled black velvet jacket, flicked his crimson crystal coin-card against the lens of the payment point, then grabbed his cup of hot, steaming caffa with a simple smile and nod to the pretty young vendor. He blended back into the crowd subtle as smoke, worried this was the day Grey Tobey regaled the crowds of their unfortunate encounter from two months past.
“Lay off, Tobey, will you?” grumbled a short, squat woman in a faded blue coat sitting on the cobbles by his feet, frantic flowery patchwork all over her sleeves. A blanket roll covered in cheap, handmade souvenirs sprawled at her booted feet, a few brass coins shining in the upturned bowler hat at the end. “You’re scaring folks away, not bringing them in!”
“Button your trap, Hester!” Grey Tobey hissed, bowing his bent back and balding brow in the direction of a traveler new to Blackstone Gardens and its peculiar inhabitants. “Look, here’s a customer! Care to hear about the local legends of our fair district, madame? Free of charge to hear the tale, three bronze scepters to live it!”
“Oh, I really don’t have time for a tour of the Gardens,” murmured the woman, blushing beneath the broad brim of her black, bell-shaped hat. Jaq could barely make out her words against the susurrus of the crowd, but a quick touch of unspoken spellcraft cut through the rambling rabble easily enough. “On my way to work; the tram will be here any moment! I will say I am curious about this cursed creature of which you speak. I do love a good urban legend.”
“Of course you do, madame, of course!” Grey Tobey flung out his bony arms in an elaborate flourish, home-made brochures and buttons spilling out of the wooden tray dangling from the straps slung ‘round his shoulders. “Many a dire creature from the bowels of the Ten Hells slither and slink these streets, beasts of brimstone and fell-fire that would tear your soul to ribbons and ash as soon as look at you!”
“Really? Here, in the tram station?!”
“Not the station, madame, but all the streets and alleys around you! Every nook and cranny-or is it crook and nanny? No matter! Aye, hellspawn and devilkin and their unholy conjurers walk among us as we speak! Masked masters of mortal sin and depraved rites that would turn your blood to ice! Dark Servants of The Queen of Damnation herself!”
“Yep. Any moment now.” Jaq slithered past a pair of street vendors arguing with a block-faced Dragoon of the Metropoli, brushed aside a pile of soggy broadsheets from yesterday’s edition and took a spot on a secluded corner bench beneath a sculpted stone column. He took timid sips of his caffa, cast glimpses at the black-and-beryl clockface overhead, cursing at the amount of time left before his tram arrived.
Once Tobey had drummed up enough grandiose verbal build-up, a crooked finger would pick Jaq out in the crowd, with his sober sable attire and shock of silver-white hair incongruous against his pale, youthful face. The infinity mark tattooed into his slender neck, the many curious rings upon his fingers, the mismatched eyes beneath hooded lids-one burnished gold, the other a glacier-bright blue-green-all those signs would label Jaq a creature of the Cursed Legions, a practitioner of the Forbidden Arts.
To Jaq’s surprise, Grey Tobey instead turned his feverish gaze upwards, trembling hands pointing to the domed ceiling of white glass and black iron overhead. No, not the ceiling: the massive stone beast suspended beneath the dome and above the tiled plaza, wings and horns and lean leonine body lost far beyond the hexagonal gilded framework of clocks and vox-vents.
“The Chimera of the Changeling Gate!” Tobey cried, spinning the surprised woman in the black bell-hat around as if they were in a dance, cackling all the while. “Aye, nary a demon as powerful and deadly as that ferocious serpent-lion walked our streets before or since that day a century ago! Why, my grandpappy of blessed memory said he recalled the smell of sulfur tainting the air decades after that cruel beast ravaged the land, its reign of terror at long last put to an end by the fair Knight of the Ivory Spiral….”
Jaq breathed a sigh of relief. No need to worry about Tobey today. Perhaps the crazy old bugger was saving up the story of their accidental midnight meeting for another mark; perhaps the cheap dragonflower wine he swilled to keep the freezing fog at bay most nights burned away the memory of weeks past. Either way, Jaq liked to try and keep his cursed existence on the downlow as much as possible.
In a city of ten million, in an older, shadier district like Blackstone Gardens, this wasn’t too difficult a task. His morning caffa-run made it a little harder, though, but Jaq couldn’t inveigle his inner essence with the Higher Mysteries without at least one cup of scalding hot bean juice down his gullet. Accompanied by tons of cream and three sugars, of course. He may have been a sinister urban legend to many but that didn’t negate the need to satiate his ample sweet-tooth.
“Ultraviolet Line Train 303, Margrave’s Park to Wiley Street, Now Approaching,” announced the thin, reedy voice of the metal-mind controlling every tekhnic apparatus in operation. “Have Fare Talismans Ready Before Boarding Please. Ultraviolet Line Train 303…”
Jaq gulped down the rest of his caffa, tender throat protected from the boiling brew by a quick ice cantrip, then scrambled from his perch towards the edge of the main platform. He kept his talisman dangling against his bare chest, beneath the thin silk of his taper-collared white button-up shirt, flashing the hexagonal pass at the nearest heavy-browed Dragoon with a look of utter boredom. While there were weirder folk about the station than Jaq-fringe-mages and slimepit harvesters, crystal-burners and kobold priests-he still didn’t wish to draw any attention, especially from subway fascists.
Train 303 sped by in a quicksilver blur, dozens of faces and the muted light of the interior masked by tinted tube-shaped windows. The doors dilated open with a soft hiss, revealing the ice-blue neon nimbus of the cramped cabin within. Bodies moved in, bodies moved out, the balancing act between vehicle and platform done within seconds.
Jaq found his own lithe-framed flesh vessel squeezed in between a couple of crystal-burners from the nearest energy station, their char-scented slate blue overalls hidden by bulky greatcoats. The majority of passengers aboard, standing and sitting, wore some form of scarf, hat, gloves and coat as the undercity of Great Exahldria was infamous for its chill and damp even into early summer; Jaq supposed he should’ve aided his blending in by wearing more than his simple black velvet coat but he was called The Winter-Warlock for a reason. He liked the cold.
The doors dilated shut again and in a flash they were off into the wild black yonder of the tram-tunnels. Jaq hummed a quirky old tune his long-dead master once taught him under his breath to calm his nerves, wishing the ride were over already, that the whirring thrum of the speeding train was slightly lower-pitched, that the larger of the two crystal-burners wasn’t digging their elbow into his side.
Three more stops and then we’re home. Deep breaths, happy thoughts, you’ve got this.
The subterranean pitch outside quickly faded; the bright blue neon inside dimmed. Beyond the tinted glass, the jewel-bright horizon of Great Exahldria sprawled upwards and onwards.
Above, between, below, the ancient capitol of the Thetasian Imperium swallowed the early morning sky and marched along and over the snaking ribbons of its mighty rivers. Iridescent blades of plate-glass and cut-crystal sliced through the clouds while domed districts of industry, habitation and agriculture zones bustled alongside commerce sectors, combat arenas, energy fissures and slime-pits at the base of the skyscrapers. Fortresses, bridges, universities, ampitheatres, palaces-name a splendid civic structure, a shining example of architecture at its finest or strangest, and you could find it somewhere in the sceptered skyline of the megalopolis.
Jaq wanted none of those things right now. He wanted to be away from the noise and the bustle, free of the warmth of so many beings huddled together, the shifting, shuffling living wall of flesh. He wanted to be home, hidden at the far back of his crooked little alley, with his books and his artifacts, his clocks and cats and unfinished projects, Lydia’s surly, smoke-eyed stare glaring at him as he turned away another petitioner. Anywhere but here.
When the vox-vents finally called out Wiley Street Station, Jaq nearly jumped for joy once the doors gave way to freedom. What was likely the worst obstacle of the morning was done and over with; the long hours of the day stretched ahead.
Wiley Street above was much like the rest of this part of Blackstone Gardens-clusters of row houses and flat-blocks squished together, ten to thirty stories high, brick and brownstone facades crumbling and cracked. The foundation blocks of skybound districts and the lattice of the upper traffic webs loomed over even the tallest building, spellstone and silvered steel glistening. Inkleaf trees and noxflower bushes lined the streets and sidewalks every so often, the darkling beauty of the thin-stalked plants giving the district its name. Not much else recommended the working-class neighborhood to newcomers, save the ancient ruins and urban legends of centuries past. It was a region of the undercity where many existed, but few truly lived.
Flint Alley was about another five minutes’ walk down Wiley Street, sandwiched between a row of secondhand goods shops (many closed) and the old arcane animal shelter. Should Jaq ever need to go thrift-store diving or adopt a lonely land-squid, he didn’t have to go far.
The same couldn’t be said for his morning cup of caffa, not anymore. The old café right at the alley’s entrance had shuttered its doors six months past, much to Jaq’s dismay. The Blackstone Central’s café served a good breakfast brew but they were too distant for his liking and they switched out cashiers too often for him to grow comfortable with anyone on staff. Hopefully that redhead Emira would last more than a week. Jaq had a good feeling about her.
He nodded at ruddy-cheeked Missus Gordon while she moved another box of faded paperbacks and music-boxes to the front window display of her thrift shop, gave a quick hello wave to jowly Mister Brooks the shelter-supervisor as he took a burly drakehound out for its morning walk. A few people in the neighborhood knew of Jaq, were even on polite terms, but hardly anyone he could call a friend.
Jaq wished he could afford to be open with more people, to be seen as an ordinary, likeable person even among the everyday ranks of magedom in the city. But he was an unusual case and always had been, an officially sanctioned Warlock of the Thetasian Decadiarch. One of the Thirteen Shadow Sentinels, cursed from birth with the dark magics of the Ten Hells itself, commissioned to rid the Imperium of the vestiges of the Last Great Demon War still scattered throughout the land.
And even within that small and secret body, Jaq was still an unusual case.
The Winter-Warlock they’d named him, The Lord of Frost, The Ambassador To The Elementals Of The Coldfire Court. The other Sentinels searched and served far and wide across the Imperium and even other nations while he stayed here, in the slums and shadows of the capitol itself, where the undercity met the underworld.
Beneath the bluster, Grey Tobey was certainly right about the denizens of the demonic depths walking the streets of Blackstone Gardens. For there was a Hellpoint within the ruins of Old Exahldria scattered about the district, a narrow crack in the barriers between realities.
And it was up to Jaq to protect the city from whatever horrors waited on the other side.
The curling coils of purple smoke sliding down the alley and along the black iron stems of glowglobe-posts only added to the growing sensation of cold creeping into Jaq’s mind and body. He’d almost welcome back the seething mass of subway passengers and all their sweaty, sour warmth.
On second thought, maybe it’s not that bad.
Ice crystals and frost clung to window casements and drainpipes, sewer grates and doorframes. A few lumps of mud and slush decorated the alleyway, the first stalks of early spring grass trying and failing to thrive in the brackish strips of soil. The slightly metallic scent of burning energy crystals from the nearby power plant-the source of all the violent and azure fog throughout the night and early morning-added to the sensation of stepping into mid-winter.
And yet, for all that, Jaq had to remind himself he was not in some snowy wilderness. He was in Flint Alley, home was in sight, the warmth of indoor heating emanated from the brick and mortar on every side. He was still in the domain of humanity, still in a realm where fire coursed throughout the blood of the living.
Perhaps fire runs through your blood, echoed a shrill, sharp voice deep within Jaq’s mind. But not mine! Never has, never will.
Jaq spun about. No one at the alley’s entrance, no one at the alley’s end. Another quick glance showed nothing in the dumpster behind 110 Flint Alley apart from the usual garbage sacks and soggy cardboard. And what might possibly be the fattest raccoon he’d ever seen.
“Show yourself, devil.” Jaq reached into his cluttered pockets, slid out from the black velvet depths a short scroll-worked rod of bronze, flicked the rod open to its full length. Brushing snow-white bangs out of his eyes, Jaq tapped into his Second Sight and synchronized the spectrums of coexistent realities. What his usual eyes could not see, his Third Eye drank in all. “I am Jaqson Skade, a Sentinel of The Shadow Court. You will submit!”
“I will, will I?” The ghostly pallor of a Twisted Imp shone stark against the muted, mottled greys of the alleyway reality. Nasty, brutish and short, its face filled with fangs, its bulbous eyes brimming with hatred and hunger. “No, I don’t think so!”
The creature crouched at the edge of the road, toadlike and tubby, shocks of mold-blue hair sticking out between long, pointed ears. Black talons and webbed feet clawed at the frosted dirt while milky-white limbs clothed in rags tensed in preparation to strike. Twisted Imps were the spirits of murdered kobolds, corrupted by the demonic energy of the otherworld and often forced into a foot-soldier status by any number of Demon Knights wandering the fell frontier, Unbound or Beholden alike. Usually, they roamed the paths of the dead in troops of twelve to twenty-four, but this one was alone. And waiting.
All of this flashed through Jaq’s mind as the Twisted Imp switched from toadlike crouching to a lightning-quick lunge, shooting its deadly claws arrow-straight towards Jaq’s exposed throat.
No matter he was in the world of the living and the Twisted Imp was on the other side. The barriers were weak here in the undercity, weaker still wherever Jaq went.
True to his reputation as The Winter-Warlock, Jaq swished the air with his bronze warding rod, flashed the trio of rings on his left hand, said aloud the necessary words of spellcrafting. The air rippled with sparks dancing along his breath.
“Barrier Incant! Glacial Blight!”
A field of frost enveloped Jaqson in a heartbeat, crystal knives slicing the air and rendering his surroundings deathly cold. Elaborate patterns of whorls and spirals painted the air a vivid sapphire, spears of ice and wind shot a dozen feet outward. The Twisted Imp screamed upon contact with the spike-studded shield, its sickly flesh carved into bloody tatters, hot red droplets staining the cobbles below.
“No dispersal, eh?” Jaq stepped back, lowered the spell barrier, flicked the bronze rod outwards again. The Imp staggered backwards several yards away, scarred and snarling but still extant. “Tough little bastard, aren’t you?”
The Imp rasped a vicious curse, then dashed to the side. Jaq repeated the spell but the Imp dodged and bounced its bulbous body off of the dumpster lid. Garbage sacks exploded upon contact with the thrusting spears of ice, a sickly-sweet scent perfuming the air. In the confusion, the Imp flew by Jaq’s head, slashed a claw at his shoulder.
Jaq gasped, cursed, stumbled. His physical body felt nothing, didn’t let loose a single drop of blood let alone a gushing flow. His spirit was wounded, however, shallow but smarting nonetheless. He’d need a vial of holy water and an infusion of ghostbane herb into his tea later.
Assuming he survived, of course. The Imp was a tougher little foe than he’d realized. Who knew what could happen next?
“Got you!” The Imp cried happily, clinging to the side of an old rundown warehouse now. It twisted its head around to an unnatural angle, another reminder of its existence being tethered to another reality. Cackling, crawling, the Imp refused to stay still. “Next blow will kill you!”
“I highly doubt that!” Jaq swung the rod around, forming a circle of sparks in mid-air. Six more quick slashes and he had a basic hexagram. The exact pattern produced created a runic symbol in the center of the energy circle, a flail of lightning. “Salvo Incant! Indra Blade!”
The Imp cried out as a rapid firestorm of electric tines blasted out from the circle, silver-white and golden-green. Every hop the Imp made from stone to stone, the lightning followed and faster. Staccato burst after staccato burst, a whirlwind of stormlight circling the alley as the Imp tried and failed to evade the wrath of Jaqson Skade.
Charred ghostflesh and coal-black claws fell to the ground a mere yard away from Jaq seconds later, the Twisted Imp’s features even more twisted than before. Ice crystals clung to the burnt and broken body, static sparks frizzed and popped. Jaq bent low, flickered a quick warding circle into existence with his rings, poked and prodded the Imp with his rod-
The Imp’s curling fangs clamped shut around the rod, bloodshot eyes brimming with red rage. A forked tongue, pale green and slime-coated, slithered in between the dagger-sharp teeth. “You. Die. Now!”
Jaq fell back onto the cold hard ground, cursing as the creature surprised him. He’d be damned if a mere foot-soldier class creature killed him but with his casting rod clamped shut in the jaws of death, it was hard to summon anything strong enough to finish the job. He had no other spelltekh about, no wards strong enough to last more than another few minutes, no neighbors in sight or Dragoons nearby to even wonder what was happening.
No way of defeating and destroying the Unseen.
With a ragged burst of breath, Jaq tried a spell out of pure desperation, aware of the backlash. “Aurora Incant! Soul Flame!”
The spell was one which had earned much enmity from the Demon Conjurers of the Coldfire Court. He’d used it only twice before, in minor skirmishes against the Onyx Archduke, and always the spell had proved effective-and also draining to the point of utter exhaustion. Jaq never thought he’d have to stoop so low as to use the spell on an Imp of all things, but this simply wouldn’t give up!
The Imp and Jaq both cried in pain as a crackling cold burst of flame erupted from the Imp’s mouth, parting them both with a short, sharp shock. Jaq landed on a pile of dislodged garbage sacks with the casting rod in hand, the Imp a tangle of limbs in a brackish mudpuddle outside a building three doors down. There was a ringing sensation in Jaq’s head, a blistering heat along his hand and upper right arm. The Soul Flame was usually much more powerful but this packed a wallop all the same.
Jaq staggered upwards, brushed away potato peels and citrus rind off of his sleeve. And groaned when he saw the Imp clawing its way back up as well-the left claw was broken and bent, the fangs shattered, yet still the Imp clung on to its wretched non-life.
“Must. Kill. The Lord. Of Frost.” The Imp hissed and gurgled and spat. “Must. Kill!!!-”
Whatever else the Twisted Imp was about to say was cut off, quite literally, by the quick, clean sweep of a radiant white blade. The Imp’s bulbous, blackened features crumbled into ashen motes, drifting away on the corpse-cold winds of the underworld. Jaq’s Second Sight shifted back into the vision of his reality, proper color flooding the world. And he smiled as he saw who wielded the blade that dealt the killing blow.
Tall and straight-backed, amber tresses pulled back in a braid, garbed in a bronze waistcoat, white trousers and a frock coat colored the crimson of her order, Jaq’s trusty second wiped clean a smattering of black ichor from the soul-forged steel of her hexblade with a lacy handkerchief. Then Lydia Shaw flashed her employer a stark, stony stare.
Thanks as always to the amazing @winterandwords for tagging me! Still working on those potential project pilot chapters-hoping to write more next week when my son is on school vacation-so I will take the sixteen sentences (possibly more) requested from my complete pilot chapter, the one featuring Jaqson Skade, the infamous Winter-Warlock from the undercity of the imperial capitol, Great Exahldria. This section follows directly after the opening paragraphs shared in the last Six Sentences POST:
****
“Nine hundred and ninety years has our beloved city of Great Exahldria stood proud,” harrumphed Grey Tobey, senior of the scruffy, shabby conclave of street prophets gathered near the district’s central tram station. He bellowed and blathered at the milling crowd, clutched at the floppy lapels of his threadbare great-coat with the spidery fingers of his right hand, arthritic left hand curled tight in his ragged rat-brown beard. “Ninety-nine decades! The bones of this city are engraved with the markings of each year, of the moments, men and monsters that walked its blessed paths and made this city live and breathe! And do the lot of you have any clue as to the most cursed of these creatures walking the city streets this day and age, huh?! Do you?!”
“Here we go again,” Jaq sighed, watching the horde of ranting raconteurs from his place in line at his favorite caffa-cart. The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens, far younger in years than the urban legends claimed, clicked his tongue in irritation. “Time for another of Grey Tobey’s Tall Tales of Terror.”
The caffa-cart cashier, a willowy redhead whose tiny nameplate read Emira, giggled from behind the cluster of steaming stainless steel samovars and service-pots. Once his order was up, Jaq fumbled about in the pockets of his crumpled black velvet jacket, flicked his crimson crystal coin-card against the lens of the payment point, then grabbed his cup of hot, steaming caffa with a simple smile and nod to the pretty young vendor. He blended back into the crowd subtle as smoke, worried this was the day Grey Tobey regaled the crowds of their unfortunate encounter from two months past.
“Lay off, Tobey, will you?” grumbled a short, squat woman in a faded blue coat sitting on the cobbles by his feet, frantic flowery patchwork all over her sleeves. A blanket roll covered in cheap, handmade souvenirs sprawled at her booted feet, a few brass coins shining in the upturned bowler hat at the end. “You’re scaring folks away, not bringing them in!”
“Button your trap, Hester!” Grey Tobey hissed, bowing his bent back and balding brow in the direction of a traveler new to Blackstone Gardens and its peculiar inhabitants. “Look, here’s a customer! Care to hear about the local legends of our fair district, madame? Free of charge to hear the tale, three bronze scepters to live it!”
****
OK, hopefully that's not too dense a section of sentences. Hope to share the full chapter soon (as well as the other pilot chapters, having fun with each of the project ideas so far)
Anyway, tagging anyone else who wishes to share either seven, nine or sixteen sentences and also specifically @sarandipitywrites, @rivenantiqnerd, @satohqbanana, @writingamongther0ses, @dragomango, @rainbowcoloreddays, @dyrewrites, @elizaellwrites, @callsignbaphomet and @asha-mage :)
What is your process for moving from getting an idea to starting to write? I get ideas sometimes but when I try to start developing them into something I could actually start writing I get stuck. I start with my concept and say ok let's make some plot, but then the plot is influenced by the characters so I drop the plot and move to characters. Then I realize that the characters are a product of their environment so I try to start world building. But the world needs to make sense for the story so its just a big frustrating spiral. Where do you start personally?
Hi and thanks as always for the ask! Gonna put the answer beneath a read-more in case it proves to be lengthy:
Hmm, this is a tough one as I don't really have a set process for transferring ideas into actual story. I have a ton of ideas that never make it to page and its always difficult to determine which ones will be enough to manifest into some sort of written content.
Usually for me, the ideas that actually bear fruit are those that become strong images or visions in my mind, not just words themselves or planned outlines or handwritten notes. I am very much a lover of art and visual media (and only wish I had the talent to actually create such pieces) so for an idea to have a strong enough hold on me to wish to write about it, I have to be fairly certain of the visualization of said idea.
Does this sometimes mean some of my writing comes off more about style and substance? Admittedly, yes, the style/aesthetic/visuals have to be strong enough for me to care first, then I find the plot and the world and the core of whatever story I'm trying to imagine.
With characters its a bit different-while aesthetics are important for me there, too, I have to know who they are inside before I care enough about them to write as well as who the people are that surround them and affect their lives. So if a story I plan on writing is going to be more character-focused, then I need to have a good sense of at least the foundations of that character's being before I write anything, then come the visuals, then comes the world and then the plot.
For me, plot is something that tends to develop last. So many plots in different stories I love have a tendency to be variants of one another/a basic set of plot types (man vs. god, man vs. nature, man vs. machine, man vs. society, man vs. self, etc, etc.) that for me the art of creation, of trying to craft something with at least a semblance of uniqueness, is a struggle. So quite frankly the actual bones of an overall plot can wait until I have a grasp of the people, visuals and world I'm building. I do try to at least have a seed of a plot or a basic scenario to go with the initial image or else you're just describing something without context or structure. If you focus on that singular scenario first without thinking too far beyond it, I feel that helps to focus your initial writing instincts. The other stuff will develop with time and patience and revision, just get that first scenario out onto the page and go from there.
Here's a quick example from one of my potential project pilot chapters, the one with the Imperial Survey troops searching for the Doomed Treasure of Sarneqel (I've shared a few lines of that in a post). When I sat to write, staring at the blank page, that blankness became snow. The snow had to be touching something, not just a backdrop of frosted, empty sky, so I pictured mountains and ice, and then a city beneath them. The bleakness of the snow then made me think of the bleakness of ruins so it became a ruined city, a city devastated by a long-ago battle. The city needed to be viewed by someone who wouldn't know it well-the battle was centuries ago-so I figured the viewpoint was someone searching for something, a lost relic, one with legends or notoriety attached to it.
To further emphasize that war had torn this once-proud city apart, that viewpoint became a soldier-a higher-ranking, though not too important, soldier so they'd be wearing colors that would stand out against the cold of the snow. I knew this soldier wasn't going to be too important as this is only a prologue but he still couldn't be a cardboard cut-out-so he comes from a long family line of soldiers, is especially patriotic and self-assured that while empires like this ruined city may fall, his certainly won't. He is not so deeply taken in by propaganda and patriotism that he has blind devotion to his distant rulers BUT he does practically worship his superior officer, a woman he refers to as his personal goddess (there could even be a romantic attraction there but haven't written enough to know). He certainly loves the trappings of the Empire that has raised him and stands poised to conquer much of the world, desires glory and prestige, he wants to be remembered, to stand out from the rest of his family line of warriors, not just to be another sword in service to the Six Thrones.
To further add interest, while a ruined city and a search for an ancient legendary relic sound very typical fantasy, I of course like to blend genres and add a couple of other small details to showcase things aren't always as they seem. This viewpoint officer speaks to the men in his squad via a bit of tech known as an omni-vox link, speaks of being able to ride about the ruins via a mech-mount (which is presumably some sort of magic-powered technology, a mini-mech or exo-suit or some such. Maybe even a cybernetic-enhanced beast, don't know yet). It would be tedious to go into detail at this point so I just leave it be, a tantalizing clue that this world has the trappings of both fantasy and scifi, so you're not quite certain how the world will develop, where the story will go. Intriguing details in which you can fill in the blanks later help push the story further, IMO (as long as you don't make the details too cryptic/confusing or forget their relevance until its too late and you have to go back and rush to explain the detail; that's how you get stuff like Lost, a show I once loved that is still deeply flawed).
Back to the viewpoint character: One or two other personal details will likely come to light as I finish the chapter-suffice it to say, he is a person with wants and needs and a bit of backstory, even if he is a very minor character who probably won't survive the prologue. Only a few details but enough that I have fleshed out a few paragraphs, pages even, have stretched the initial image of a ruined city in the snow into a setting and the starting point of a story. Once you have even that many visuals to work with, that much foundation built, you have so many different paths you can take your story down. It's best to try treading both paths familiar and unknown in order to get the story moving and to keep you from wandering off. A lot of my stories go unfinished precisely because I wind up either sticking solely to familiar paths and growing bored or trying for something too experimental/different and end up confused or anxious.
It also helps to have a big brainstorming file ahead of time and just throw out ideas until you get some that seem to connect, to just stand out from the others, and then see what you can make of them. I was lucky with the pilot chapter described above-one image became another, then another, blanks being filled in and crystallized, fairly easy. There are many days where that is not the case whatsoever and yes, I am very well aware of the frustrating spiral of which you speak. Sometimes there's just no avoiding that spiral.
Anyway, I did not mean to ramble quite so long. Hopefully that gives you a decent idea of how I get my creative juices flowing and how I push the process of story-crafting forward. These days I seldom have issue starting a story-its continuing and finishing a story and then revising it that I struggle with. I really need to find a way to keep my attention from wandering.
Thanks again for the ask and good luck with any story project you may be attempting, I hope this helps in some capacity :)
Thanks to @asha-mage for tagging me! Rules: Post 6 sentences from a current WIP then tag 6 people to continue the game and share.
Seeing as I posted a snippet of one potential project pilot chapter in the last tag game, I shall post sentences from the first pilot chapter of the three planned (the first is currently finished, still working on the other two). There'll be slightly more than 6 sentences in order to complete the opening sequence:
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There were those who insisted The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens did not exist. That he was just another urban myth among the school of hundreds swimming through the sea of frosted fog enveloping the undercity. A fae-tale to frighten the street urchins, a chilling creation of the dozens of tour guides and peddlers seeking quick coin from curious newcomers to the Imperial Capitol.
Of the teeming thousands of under-citizens living in the shadows of the titanic towers of their rulers, lost in the bleak brick forest and drifting purple smoke, it was Jaqson Skade of 108 Flint Alley, Unit 3F, who knew the truth of the matter better than anyone else.
For Jaqson Skade, for better or worse, was The Winter-Warlock of Blackstone Gardens.
He’d give absolutely anything to be anyone else, his heart and soul to live another life, walk another path. But the Goddess of Fate was not so kind, not to him. Nor to any of those poor souls who stood against him and the ancient magic that was his burden.
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OK, slightly more than 6 sentences but tagging 6 people per the tag games rules regardless: @winterandwords, @sarandipitywrites, @dyrewrites, @rivenantiqnerd, @satohqbanana and @elizaellwrites Anyone else who wishes to play along may do so as well :)
Thanks to @winterandwords for tagging me! Now that I've started dabbling with a few pilot chapters for potential story projects, I actually have some lines to share. Can't guarantee they're any good but oh well, here we go, from Unnamed Writing Project # 2:
The bells of war rang out once more across the wasteland, strong and stark and silver. Five hundred years since the fall of Jadysarne, its sole surviving child-city of Nossetar clinging to the high-passes of the cruel cold mountains far above, and one could still hear horns blaring on the wind. Feel the swift steely streak of arrows slicing past your face, taste and smell the acrid aftermath of sulfur from a battle-mage’s brimstone ballista scorching the streets.
As for sight, well, Imperial Surveyor Sub-Lieutenant Rhys Timorath found himself encountering mostly grey on all fronts. Grey, grim and gruesome as the gallows, with a touch of white around the edges. A solemn study in stone, snow and smoke. Black mantled cloak flapping in the wind, the scarlet silk and gold frogging of his uniform was the only real pop of color where he stood.
“Push forward, soldiers!” The Sub-Lieutenant called out over his omni-vox link. A dozen com-units crackled amid the field of crimson-and-black tents serving as the survey patrol’s base camp at the ruined city’s edge. “Today, at long last, we shall find the Haunted Treasure of Doomed Sarneqel and our names will be honored by the Obsidian Throne! Glory to Vanaqar!”
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More than seven lines shared but oh well. Don't have more than another page of this story so far btw (and about 13 of another project, scant sketches for the third) As mentioned in a previous post, once I have all three pilot chapters written I'll share them and let folks decide which one they think I should continue!
Anyway, tagging anyone else who wants to share some writing as well as @sarandipitywrites, @satohqbanana, @tardisbird, @rainbow-colored-writer, @lordkingsmith, @callsignbaphomet, @acethetic-lizzy, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragomango, @dyrewrites, @appelsinner, @unrepentantcheeseaddict, @artdecosupernova-writing and @pb-dot :)
