Mordar
2013-04-29, 06:30 PM
Hi all -
Here's an intro to a story I wrote several years back. It was (clearly) inspired by a game, and I would certainly need to change a bit to make it less reliant on the reader knowing the events that transpired in the game...but beyond that, is it worth continuing? I'd appreciate your thoughts!
Prelude
A sound filtered down the sewer channels, hardly louder than the normal noise made by the detritus floating along the filthy water. It was enough, though, to catch the ear of a very attentive listener. This particular listener, his elfin form pressed tightly, yet comfortably, into a niche lifted his head and slowed his breathing. Again he heard a small splash, a bit closer this time than the last. He glanced down the corridor towards the sound and could just make out a tiny flicker of light, like that from a guarded candle.
The listener made sure his cloak was gathered around him, keeping his brilliant metallic hair from catching any hint of light and his decorated spear shielded from view. The movement caught the attention of the large black bird absently preening itself on a pile of relatively dry refuse, every bit as out of place here as the man in the niche. The raven shifted and began to dig at the refuse with his razor talons.
“Quiet, Gáirbran. You’ll ruin the surprise!” Gréostradh whispered to the raven. The Aes Sidhe smiled ruthlessly in anticipation of the next few moments as the bird considered him with a glassy stare. Apparently it decided to heed the elf and resumed sitting quietly on a staved-in wooden cask.
Enter the King
The boy was named Donovan by his mother but was mostly called ‘sewer rat’, ‘dirty thief’ or ‘scum’ by the people of the city. No more than fifteen years old, he was already beaten down by the weight of life. In the city streets he was too small to fight, or even defend himself, and too slow to be an effective thief. The stench of the sewers clung to him, making all but the most generous unwilling to offer him even a kind word. In the delicate safety of the darkest corners of the sewers he found solace, envisioning himself as the King of the Sewers, a rogue far too cunning and clever to be caught by the most adroit members of the Watch…too skilled for even the Orders to do more than shake their heads as he stole from under their noses. In truth, he would never amount to much of a thief, but the sewers were his kingdom, such as it was. It was only here that he could eat whatever meager food he managed to scrounge, often supplementing it with the trash and rodents lining the corridors. It was only here that he could sleep in relative safety, curled under worn and lice-infested blankets, praying the rodents on which he lived wouldn’t find him as appetizing a meal.
Now that those crocodiles are gone, he thought, the rats should start coming back. The beasts had consumed everything they could find. On the upside, that seemed to include the giant rodents that he had glimpsed once before running off into the darkness, damp from sweat and urine. The strange trio that had come down seeking the big croc had done in the spiders down south and the howling thing that was chained by the altar. Who knows, Donovan hoped half-heartedly, maybe the cultists will stop coming down here too and then I’ll really be in charge. Maybe things really were starting to run his way. The eviction of the horrors of the sewer offered a benefit for the future and today he had been lucky enough to come across an apple only slightly bruised and spotted with age. He cradled the fruit in the threadbare shirt he wore, holding it with the care one might show a child or beloved pet. Such treats were few and oh-so-very-far between and to be protected and savored. He had often seen children up above cavorting about with apples, biting absently at them, leaving more on the core than they ate or even pelting one another with the beautiful red fruit. The smell of baked apples or the sight of festival apples colored with nameless delights was commonplace for those children…but for Donovan the slightly too-dark red, somewhat soft apple he had filched from a bench was the stuff of dreams.
Donovan had few memories of his “childhood” and fewer still that were pleasant or reassuring. His mother was young and alone, and like so many young, alone women she was easy prey for the industry of the night. Though she had loved the small boy she could seldom provide for him. The meager coin she collected from her “job” went towards more and more attractive clothing – to hide her diminishing beauty and form – and more and more strong drink – to hide her revulsion at the depth to which she had sunk. She did, however, manage to bring Donovan a small treat from time to time, often fruit filched from the plate of a client or left behind when he was through. The boy could recall the light in his mother’s eyes when she had a treat for him, and though it was usually only a few grapes, a wedge of mould-free cheese or perhaps a handful of berries there were also times when a plum or crisp, pristine apple was made into a feast fit for a tiny king. It had been nearly eight years since she had died and he had been turned out to the streets. The owner of the house had said his mother died in an accident, but he suspected she had become too worn to be profitable, overstepped a rule and been beaten again. Last time it had taken a week for her to recover, and perhaps this time it was just too much for her to bear. The morning before she’d died (been killed) she’d brought him a crust of bread, piece of cheese…and an apple. It was always his fear that she’d been beaten because of the food she’d stolen for him. He’d managed to survive on his own since that horrible night and every time he’d eaten a bit of fruit since then he’d thought of his mother. Tears started to well in his eyes, just as they had every time…a mix of joy at the pleasant memory of the only person who’d ever cared for him and crushing sadness that he might well have caused her death.
The boy who fancied himself the King of the Sewers reached his accustomed “throne room” – little more than a wide spot in the tunnel littered with junk – and set his tiny candle on a reasonably secure crate. The tears were flowing freely now as he gently lifted the apple from his shirt and began to polish it gently on the least-filthy scrap of cloth he could find. Satisfied he’d done his best, he examined the fruit in the flickering candlelight. As he held it up for the final inspection he noticed a glinting light across the tunnel from his throne. Thinking it a trick of the tears, he rubbed at his eyes and peered into the darkness. The boy again saw the glint and recognized that meager light was being reflected by the glassy eyes of a large black bird. Donovan started to rise in shock just as the haft of a spear crashed against the back of his unprotected head. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. His hand flopped open and the treasured apple rolled to the edge of the sewer channel, teetered for a moment, then splashed into the miasma of liquid waste from the city above. The raven cawed raucously, almost in mocking laughter, then flew to the shoulder of the Aes Sidhe standing over the still form of the boy who would be a king.
- M
EDIT: Oh, a character sketch of Gréostradh:
Gréostradh is short for elfkind, though not for one of the Sidhe, and his slight build belies the strength more typical of the Fey than “bright” elves. Like most of his kind, his appearance is jarringly discordant, yet engaging. Gréostradh’s eyes are sparkling sapphires, devoid of pupils, and his floor length hair ripples with hues of copper, bronze and platinum accented by the ties and bangles he uses to keep it neatly corralled. He might be considered attractive if not for the large stylized bird silhouette covering the majority of his face. This black shadow does not seem to be a tattoo or woad but is far to perfect to be an accident of birth.
Beyond his physical appearance there are two qualities of this Fey that people are likely to remember – his spear and his ever-present raven companion. His weapon, like most everything associated with The People, is elaborately styled and beautifully functional. Nearly a foot longer than Gréostradh is tall, his namesake weapon is crafted from ironwood and braced with bands of silver, iron and gold. The etched head is more gently curved, barbed blade than spearpoint, tapering to a delicately-wrought point. Sashes of blue and white silk cloth are tied along the haft and trail out behind the weapon when wielded with the trademark flair of a Sidhe combatant.
The raven, Gáirbran, seems typical of his kind and spends most of his time watching for unattended food or shiny bits of treasure. He seems oblivious to people most of the time (save when then intend him harm or are near the aforementioned food and treasure) but can be encouraged to be both friendly and entertaining. He prefers to alight on objects near Gréostradh as opposed to on the Fey himself, but should no other perch be available his shoulder will serve.
The Sidhe generally dresses in comfortable clothes of silk or fine-spun cotton and wool, nearly always fashionable and well-tailored. His extensive wardrobe includes most all colors but he seems to favor deep blues, greens and reds as dark as bloodwine. His heavy leather armor is black with strips of olive, brown and verdant green cloth accents, none of which seem to draw the eye when an observer is not paying particular attention.
Again typical of his people, Gréostradh moves with the inborn grace and silence of a people forced to rely on stealth in much of their dealings with the Mundane world. His use of silence and shadow is greater than most of his People and is of great benefit when stalking prey or avoiding his own stalkers. Beyond this he relies most on his excellent perception and innate magicks to help him navigate the world at large. Given his capricious nature and the reputation of the Sidhe that precedes him at all stops he will need stealth, wariness, magic, grace and strength to survive…and perhaps a few friends would help as well.
Here's an intro to a story I wrote several years back. It was (clearly) inspired by a game, and I would certainly need to change a bit to make it less reliant on the reader knowing the events that transpired in the game...but beyond that, is it worth continuing? I'd appreciate your thoughts!
Prelude
A sound filtered down the sewer channels, hardly louder than the normal noise made by the detritus floating along the filthy water. It was enough, though, to catch the ear of a very attentive listener. This particular listener, his elfin form pressed tightly, yet comfortably, into a niche lifted his head and slowed his breathing. Again he heard a small splash, a bit closer this time than the last. He glanced down the corridor towards the sound and could just make out a tiny flicker of light, like that from a guarded candle.
The listener made sure his cloak was gathered around him, keeping his brilliant metallic hair from catching any hint of light and his decorated spear shielded from view. The movement caught the attention of the large black bird absently preening itself on a pile of relatively dry refuse, every bit as out of place here as the man in the niche. The raven shifted and began to dig at the refuse with his razor talons.
“Quiet, Gáirbran. You’ll ruin the surprise!” Gréostradh whispered to the raven. The Aes Sidhe smiled ruthlessly in anticipation of the next few moments as the bird considered him with a glassy stare. Apparently it decided to heed the elf and resumed sitting quietly on a staved-in wooden cask.
Enter the King
The boy was named Donovan by his mother but was mostly called ‘sewer rat’, ‘dirty thief’ or ‘scum’ by the people of the city. No more than fifteen years old, he was already beaten down by the weight of life. In the city streets he was too small to fight, or even defend himself, and too slow to be an effective thief. The stench of the sewers clung to him, making all but the most generous unwilling to offer him even a kind word. In the delicate safety of the darkest corners of the sewers he found solace, envisioning himself as the King of the Sewers, a rogue far too cunning and clever to be caught by the most adroit members of the Watch…too skilled for even the Orders to do more than shake their heads as he stole from under their noses. In truth, he would never amount to much of a thief, but the sewers were his kingdom, such as it was. It was only here that he could eat whatever meager food he managed to scrounge, often supplementing it with the trash and rodents lining the corridors. It was only here that he could sleep in relative safety, curled under worn and lice-infested blankets, praying the rodents on which he lived wouldn’t find him as appetizing a meal.
Now that those crocodiles are gone, he thought, the rats should start coming back. The beasts had consumed everything they could find. On the upside, that seemed to include the giant rodents that he had glimpsed once before running off into the darkness, damp from sweat and urine. The strange trio that had come down seeking the big croc had done in the spiders down south and the howling thing that was chained by the altar. Who knows, Donovan hoped half-heartedly, maybe the cultists will stop coming down here too and then I’ll really be in charge. Maybe things really were starting to run his way. The eviction of the horrors of the sewer offered a benefit for the future and today he had been lucky enough to come across an apple only slightly bruised and spotted with age. He cradled the fruit in the threadbare shirt he wore, holding it with the care one might show a child or beloved pet. Such treats were few and oh-so-very-far between and to be protected and savored. He had often seen children up above cavorting about with apples, biting absently at them, leaving more on the core than they ate or even pelting one another with the beautiful red fruit. The smell of baked apples or the sight of festival apples colored with nameless delights was commonplace for those children…but for Donovan the slightly too-dark red, somewhat soft apple he had filched from a bench was the stuff of dreams.
Donovan had few memories of his “childhood” and fewer still that were pleasant or reassuring. His mother was young and alone, and like so many young, alone women she was easy prey for the industry of the night. Though she had loved the small boy she could seldom provide for him. The meager coin she collected from her “job” went towards more and more attractive clothing – to hide her diminishing beauty and form – and more and more strong drink – to hide her revulsion at the depth to which she had sunk. She did, however, manage to bring Donovan a small treat from time to time, often fruit filched from the plate of a client or left behind when he was through. The boy could recall the light in his mother’s eyes when she had a treat for him, and though it was usually only a few grapes, a wedge of mould-free cheese or perhaps a handful of berries there were also times when a plum or crisp, pristine apple was made into a feast fit for a tiny king. It had been nearly eight years since she had died and he had been turned out to the streets. The owner of the house had said his mother died in an accident, but he suspected she had become too worn to be profitable, overstepped a rule and been beaten again. Last time it had taken a week for her to recover, and perhaps this time it was just too much for her to bear. The morning before she’d died (been killed) she’d brought him a crust of bread, piece of cheese…and an apple. It was always his fear that she’d been beaten because of the food she’d stolen for him. He’d managed to survive on his own since that horrible night and every time he’d eaten a bit of fruit since then he’d thought of his mother. Tears started to well in his eyes, just as they had every time…a mix of joy at the pleasant memory of the only person who’d ever cared for him and crushing sadness that he might well have caused her death.
The boy who fancied himself the King of the Sewers reached his accustomed “throne room” – little more than a wide spot in the tunnel littered with junk – and set his tiny candle on a reasonably secure crate. The tears were flowing freely now as he gently lifted the apple from his shirt and began to polish it gently on the least-filthy scrap of cloth he could find. Satisfied he’d done his best, he examined the fruit in the flickering candlelight. As he held it up for the final inspection he noticed a glinting light across the tunnel from his throne. Thinking it a trick of the tears, he rubbed at his eyes and peered into the darkness. The boy again saw the glint and recognized that meager light was being reflected by the glassy eyes of a large black bird. Donovan started to rise in shock just as the haft of a spear crashed against the back of his unprotected head. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. His hand flopped open and the treasured apple rolled to the edge of the sewer channel, teetered for a moment, then splashed into the miasma of liquid waste from the city above. The raven cawed raucously, almost in mocking laughter, then flew to the shoulder of the Aes Sidhe standing over the still form of the boy who would be a king.
- M
EDIT: Oh, a character sketch of Gréostradh:
Gréostradh is short for elfkind, though not for one of the Sidhe, and his slight build belies the strength more typical of the Fey than “bright” elves. Like most of his kind, his appearance is jarringly discordant, yet engaging. Gréostradh’s eyes are sparkling sapphires, devoid of pupils, and his floor length hair ripples with hues of copper, bronze and platinum accented by the ties and bangles he uses to keep it neatly corralled. He might be considered attractive if not for the large stylized bird silhouette covering the majority of his face. This black shadow does not seem to be a tattoo or woad but is far to perfect to be an accident of birth.
Beyond his physical appearance there are two qualities of this Fey that people are likely to remember – his spear and his ever-present raven companion. His weapon, like most everything associated with The People, is elaborately styled and beautifully functional. Nearly a foot longer than Gréostradh is tall, his namesake weapon is crafted from ironwood and braced with bands of silver, iron and gold. The etched head is more gently curved, barbed blade than spearpoint, tapering to a delicately-wrought point. Sashes of blue and white silk cloth are tied along the haft and trail out behind the weapon when wielded with the trademark flair of a Sidhe combatant.
The raven, Gáirbran, seems typical of his kind and spends most of his time watching for unattended food or shiny bits of treasure. He seems oblivious to people most of the time (save when then intend him harm or are near the aforementioned food and treasure) but can be encouraged to be both friendly and entertaining. He prefers to alight on objects near Gréostradh as opposed to on the Fey himself, but should no other perch be available his shoulder will serve.
The Sidhe generally dresses in comfortable clothes of silk or fine-spun cotton and wool, nearly always fashionable and well-tailored. His extensive wardrobe includes most all colors but he seems to favor deep blues, greens and reds as dark as bloodwine. His heavy leather armor is black with strips of olive, brown and verdant green cloth accents, none of which seem to draw the eye when an observer is not paying particular attention.
Again typical of his people, Gréostradh moves with the inborn grace and silence of a people forced to rely on stealth in much of their dealings with the Mundane world. His use of silence and shadow is greater than most of his People and is of great benefit when stalking prey or avoiding his own stalkers. Beyond this he relies most on his excellent perception and innate magicks to help him navigate the world at large. Given his capricious nature and the reputation of the Sidhe that precedes him at all stops he will need stealth, wariness, magic, grace and strength to survive…and perhaps a few friends would help as well.