Thechosenone

Late in the game, but I have to formally pass this round. I moved this month and getting my house in order has taken its toll as has rearranging my local social scene. I'll be back in the game next round. Good luck writers.

I'm in for the next round.

Heads up, in the writing forum there a dream based writing contest with some great stories and voting. they're great reads. I wrote Shiver, a story about chompy and dreamer and a victim. if you like nightmare stuff its a great place to be http://www.wyrd-games.net/showthread.php?34015-Iron-Quill-Beta-Round-Voting!

So its about evenly split with people that liked or didn't like the layout of the story. Which Is fine, at least its getting attention. For me, this IS what a dream/nightmare is. Any linear storytelling of a dream sequence is artificially done for the sake of conveying a story. In dreams, things happen withing cause, scenes make sense to the viewer in a way that would be disjointing and obscure to anyone else. A dream world works on an entirely different type of logic and physics. As far as wondering what the dream is about and wanting more information, I mean, I could have come right and said that basically the story was about the Man in Black and frenchmen and a deal brokered by the Barrister. And that the Dreamer is the son of the man in black. But telling a tale like that for one, wouldn't fit in 1500 words. And for two, no dream moves through events like that. The person experiencing the dreams lives in an emotion that born out of scenery and metaphor. So I'd say i'm very happy with piece because its a concept piece in the end. Given 1500 words its hard to do any character justice but 1500 words is a wealth of time to convey the emotion of fear merely through images. Short stories ultimately don't get by with a wealth of background information and detailed setup. They are stories of the moment and how deeply can you experience that moment with a character. This is just a short story about a terrfying nightmare forced on someone. Fragments of a larger story are there but again, 1500 words only allows for a story to be about so much. So its not about the cure, or the frenchmen or the barrister. Its just about a dream and how terrible the dream is for the man in black. Everything else serves only one purpose and its to add disjointed evocative details. Thanks for all the feedback though. And thanks for everyone who read it.

thanks for the feedback el indido. gives me good stuff to consider.

I'll take another look at the piece hopefully soon. Question Panda, did you find it difficult because of the way it was written, which is an intentional disjointed nightmare. Nothing is linear in a dream, it just happens and it makes sense to the person experiencing it. But I always appreciate your critique and I'll see what I can to with it when time permits.

I think there's two approaches to doing established characters. One is to grab up all the source material and try and match that flow because it jars other people when things don't follow with the canon. I however take the other approach. If you can soundly establish a completely divergent alternative storyline then it gives you freedom to do what you want while still having familiar images and characters. I love my alternative take and I'd suggest trying something similar.

Thanks for the read.

http://www.wyrd-games.net/showthread.php?33288-Iron-Quill-submission-Shiver Think you missed mine chocobo

There's nothing wrong with embracing tropes, its just all how you present it. I would have done something like this, just off the top of my head: "But who are you?" "Names names names... so obsessed with codifying and quantifying!" The voice is spoken by the wind, by the sky and by the night itself. Shadows begin to dance across the snow capped desolation. "I am the frost fingered fear that crawls up your spine! The darkness that slithers across the moon! the shriek and sudden silence! I'm what waits for you at the bottom of the falling nightmare! Why ask for a name little thing? What I am is so much more important than who I am." Again, still trope esq but different and descriptive and it conjures up some imagery.

In concept I do really like it. Edonil hit the grammar issues I had. I know its not done so something I'd suggest looking into is the dialog. Its just a bit stiff. The "I have many names" trope is certainly one that's been done but there are so many fresh ways to do it too. Overall I just want the interactions spiced up a little. The idea is so rich but the description and dialog don't do justice to it. Something I find helps with dialog is to speak it out loud. You get a good feel for what works and doesn't that way. Thanks for the share.

So let me start with the points that I felt didn't fit right 1) Just a preference but I like numbers written out and instead. so nine instead of 9. 2) Caleb's family served the duke's family. The word family gets handed out to rapidly there. Caleb's family served the duke's. 3) Caleb dare should probably be Caleb dared. The paragraph prior to this has some repetitive uses of the same words too. 4) I don't think its overly clear what actually happened on the train. 5) The transition between thirty years is a bit stiff and the call to arms a bit tame. But that's just the stuff I found that stuck. Otherwise its a solid origin tale for a character. Thanks for sharing.

thanks Hardlec. Glad you enjoyed.

Thanks for the story. There's a lot of nice imagery there to enjoy but I'd really be SO much happier if you could reformat this. Right now it appears as a huge block of text and its so difficulty to get into it since the entire thing just blurs together into a wall of words.

the beauty of team writing is fresh eyes on the material. I didn't catch that. Fixed.

Got some days off coming up so if anyone else has some suggestions for edits, feedback or anything let me know. Its rare to have a lump of free time.

Nice addition to the story Edonil. As always there are clean neat descriptions and solid grammar. Two sticking points to me. One, i just don't like the use of onomatopoeia so that FWOOSH just takes me out of the pace. I'd prefer a descriptor from someone's point of view. And in the first couple of paragraphs the word "syringe" is used so many times so rapidly that it breaks the pace. There must be some alternative methods of referring to it when its its brought up so repeatedly .

Made some litle edits from my phone. Glad the line, kinda worked ish, and that overall you enjoyed the piece. Excited to hear from the rest of you. Also, in advance and as promised, jordan was just as terrible as everyone else panda

Thanks for the quick reply and I'll take a look at all of that closer after work. As far as the line though, I tried something different. Its used without being said. When the man in the dream answers the question that wasn't asked. Here basically: A door slams but the sound comes from the sky and it’s not wood joining wood but thunder. Clockwork clicks into place. Metal pieces kiss. Drops of water fall from above and tap his duster. Finger slips off the hammer of his pistol after the simple motion is complete. His eyes focus on the gun, the boots and the wet earth they’re dug into. In the pools of water around him there is a flickering reflection of red and yellow. He can feel heat to his back. Fire. “It’s as good a place as any isn’t it?” He looks up and answers the question asked of him. He’s there, the white coat, the mud, the flash of the Nipponese Blade, the glitter of gun metal. “This is where it all started. Everyone else is here now too” The tip of the killer’s sword points to the wet earth. His voice is the familiar melodious French that has become the haunting cancer inside every breeze. “Two anomalies left. Time to put another back.” But maybe that works, maybe not.

(Well here's the round's piece. Please, have at it. Enjoy it. Comment and critique it up. Thanks for reading ladies and gentlemen) “I know this place.” He remembers the manor is dark and sleeping beneath a December sky. The cold doesn’t touch him as he enters the lighted home. Candles burn from scattered chandeliers. The smell hits before he can see them. There’s none of the ozone stink of Soulstone fumes. His hand slips from the knob on the white door as he walks in; anticipating something that he can’t name. He can’t tell if it’s a thing that’s happened or a thing that will come to pass. The wooden planks of the floor shudder underneath his feet. The quiver doesn’t concern him but he wonders why he’s wearing those boots. The black boots of an officer, polished and new. Why would he be wearing those boots? Of all boots, why those? They should have burned up with the rest. The floor shudders as he looks down at the foyer from the balcony. His fingers probe the banister’s wood. The sanding and lacquer fail to completely hide the imperfections in the grain. The door to the estate is open and daylight streams through. He wonders why it was left open again. “William shut the door please! Your sister is going to crawl right out!” He shouts to an empty house. The floorboards breathe a heavy sigh at his unanswered request. A cross breeze blows hard through the quiet house from some unseen open window or another door carelessly left ajar. He can hear a murmur, a distant familiar voice hidden within the gust. It catches in the foyer and slams the lavender door shut. “Your sister’s fingers could have been in that door William!” “William…” The name echoes from a voice unspoken and slithers through the air with all the delicacy of a hushed whisper. He turns and reaches out for the drink. Cubes of ice clatter against the side of the rocks glass, its surface slicked with condensation already. “Thank you Dolan.” He says with little regard to the back of the vested servant behind the glossy paneled bar. Even in the private study of his home there is no escape from the heat. Dolan nods, turning his head slightly to acknowledge his employer’s gratitude. His face is pale, his eyes raked over by something sharp and careless. Where the bridge of his nose should be is only a fresh red fissure leading into the deepest unknown of Dolan’s skull. “He called on you again sir. Won’t you answer his message? He’s rather insistent?” Dolan asks. Stringy ropes of saliva and blood loop from his broken mouth as he speaks. They fall over the glasses, the liquors, the floor and across the black vest he’s wearing. “I’m not in the mood Dolan. Just fill this up again will you?” He stares down into the glass, only ice and lingering remnants of fine whiskey remain. His eyes fix on the glass as its refilled. Dolan’s purple vest faces him; he can see his arm in the periphery of his sight and the spout of the bottle bleeding a controlled stream of spirits. “As you wish sir.” Dolan’s mouth mutters from somewhere out of sight. The breeze returns slamming another door. The bottle drops and the glass tips with it. Something important is gone now and he can’t find it anywhere. Lost or stolen? He kneels in a pool of cold crimson that blossoms around him, seeping out from his woundless body. Impressions form in the wetness, shapes like still bodies. His eyes wide, his hair hot with sweat and pulled wild by his frenzied hands. He looks up to the ceiling of his cellar, it ripples like the surface of lake disturbed by something beneath. He screams a bestial primal wordless roar into the lavender ocean above. It’s water, clouds and fire all at the same time. “Where is it!” Four stars are born in the abyss above and flock together. Four hells stare down. The breeze blows, the distant words rattle again. “Right here.” His wife hands him the envelope over his shoulder. He sets the paper down on the patio table and turns over the envelope. It’s sealed with green wax and an ugly wolf’s head stamp. He doesn’t bother opening it. “Another one…” He calls over his shoulder to the sound of his wife mixing an afternoon cocktail. “Everyone went their separate ways. We all moved on. Why can’t he just do the same?” She doesn’t answer. The rattling of the glass just out of sight grows louder. The house shudders. “Where’s William?” A sudden clarity grips his heart. His chair is blown forward; the splintering of the house around him might as well be the sundering of the entire world. The walls warp in on him like tight rubber with faces gasping beneath. There are hands everywhere. Each one is like the touch of ice. Colder than ice. The sort of chill that only fear can send down a spine. The sile of his house opens like a curtain drawn and the flowing, billowing burn of the void pours in. He can feel his heart pound, his eyes widen and his hands skitter across the soft ripped flesh of deck. His nails tear at planks of skin as the breeze carries him in. He can’t hear the voice within the breeze over his own panic. A door slams but the sound comes from the sky and it’s not wood joining wood but thunder. Clockwork clicks into place. Metal pieces kiss. Drops of water fall from above and tap his black duster. Finger slips off the hammer of his pistol after the simple motion is complete. His eyes focus on the gun, the boots and the wet earth they’re dug into. In the pools of water around him there is a flickering reflection of red and yellow. He can feel heat to his back. Fire. “It’s as good a place as any isn’t it?” He looks up and answers the question asked of him. He’s there, the white coat, the mud, the flash of the Nipponese Blade, the glitter of gun metal. “This is where it all started. Everyone else is here now too” The tip of the killer’s sword points to the wet earth. His voice is the familiar melodious French that has become the haunting cancer inside every breeze. “Two anomalies left. Time to put another back.” He looks down at his pistol again. He can feel an old fear tugging at his heart. It stands in the dark. The handsome man in the Guild coat. Slicked hair, perfect features. The contracts. He watches patiently waiting for his due. A sound like the snapping of a branch hits. The handsome man in the dark lets out a cry of ultimate release. His tall back crooks forward and his limbs bend. Hair falls into loose greased veneers that hides a face bleeding all its color. The eyes vanish behind a cracked mask the color of bone. Sickness drips from sore ragged lips and around the edges of the mask. He wrings his filthy hands together; waiting for payment to be rendered. The light in the water flickers with all the colors of a fresh bruise. “No prayers? Not even now?” The wretched twist of a man ask. His black gums and stained teeth flash like a wolf’s grin. “I don’t believe in God.” Eyes still on his gun. “Neither did I” The barrister hisses. “I just wanted a cure!” He turns from his gun and unleashes hate at the barrister. “I told you were to find it, as was the bargain. To the letter. To the law.” “But you told him first!” He points at the man in white who stands frozen. Halted in the moment. “He took it! And I watched as my boy withered!” “You never said you wanted exclusive rights to it Mr…” He cuts him off and raises his gun. The abyss, unseen behind him, quivers with delight. And he sinks. Sliding down against the white walls outside the bedroom. The wind slams the door shut beside him. Even through the door he can hear whispers of physicians, the cry of his wife and the deafening absence of voice he’ll never hear again. “William... Oh my boy, my boy." He sobs "This can’t be happening! This CAN’T BE HAPPENING! It isn’t real!” Pistols skitter across the cobblestone street as the man in black falls to his knees and topples over. Gun fire, screams and the hunger of monsters echoes around him. All is forgotten as he drowns in his own nightmare. A specter hovers over him. A boy, barely there, fading in and out like a half remembered dream struggling in the first moments of morning to survive. The man thrashes on the pavement, his eyes wide with a horror that only he can see and the boy can appreciate. “This can’t be real!” old tears run down his face as he tangles in his duster and his limbs go ridged. A strange familiarity strikes the specter, the brief smile that twitched upon his lips withers. His voice, innocent and ethereal ,haunts the intersections. “Whose nightmare is this Chompy?” A terrible familiarity infects the ghost. Something crushes through the barriers between realities, infecting the world with its antediluvian horror again. Claws caress the silken walls of the material universe and teeth dance over its fragile surface. “My most cherished one, chosen above all others. Don’t worry about that now. There is so much time for that. But the fun is almost over. It’s my turn.” The boy’s smile returns. The terrible echo of the inflicted dream dies away with the promise of watching his friend play. “All done.” His delicate little finger grabs at his forehead and pulls down as if unfastening a row of jacket buttons all at once. His form rips open like a curtain and the burning, bubbling nebula beating on the walls of reality spills in. The nightmare takes form and a birth scream echoes across the night cursed streets of Malifaux. The shadow of a god shivers in tear soaked eyes.

As much as I don't want, now we're just going to have to troll every thread you're part of Edonil. Gatsby is a great book. I suggest reading it by choice in your adult years now. I know when I had to read it back in high school I hated it. It was a chore. But having read it again back during round one I grew to love it. Every character is so perfectly done and every emotion so perfectly wrought. Its really something. And yeah, my thing's done. I'll post it before work. My inspiration was playing out the in game effects of a (1)AP Spell but with like, 1500 ish words.

@Panda, Copy plus paste is tough stuff! No seriously its new work. I'm totally not one to peck at a story. If i get it in my head i'm not touching the story till i can get it out in one sitting. The rawness of the story in that form really works for me. It develops as I type it. It probably comes from my fourteen years as a game master but when I wrote its almost like I develop as character, put them through a scenario and evolve it as I go. I never have a set ending in mind, just scenes and themes. Also I was gunna random this one as far as characters go just like I did last time. Grabbed a bunch of cards. Drew three and two of the same ones as last time came up. Skipped random and just thought up a scenario and picked a few characters. Also, lets troll the story threads again by talking about which Gatsby characters we hate. Also, also... I do believe you visited my blog. Glad to have you. Anyone else want to visit a fashion and life style blog pop over to The-Approach.org. Anyway, can't wait to post, get feed back and get editing. 1500 words is hard stuff.

I even hint AND nudged. Edonil is a tough man to crack.

So mine's done. Wrote it in two hours and took another forty minutes to do some quick edits. Wish I could put it up now. Hint nudge.