Worldbuilding

Do you remember how I talked about building worlds last week?

It's a rabbit hole that lasts for DAYS.

In case you're wondering.

The yellow islands are inhabited by dragons.

The blue island is the only sizable human kingdom out here.

Largest island - oldest clan. Clan name translates to "The Separate People" from their own tongue. They were originally a rebellious faction from one of the mainland colonies, and have grown so much since that point that none of them remember where they came from. They make up for this by inventing legends about their founders. The most popular is a variant of the creation myth from the mainland; that their original Patriarch (a dragon whose title was something like "He With Broken Teeth") was born from a stone on the mountain struck by lightning and given life by the elemental forces of nature. The tale of where his mate came from is... less cohesive. Different families within the clan have different versions of the story. 

Second-largest island - (triangle-shaped, southwest corner of Big Islands) second-oldest clan. Clan name translates to something like "Of the Sea" or something equally descriptive. Many of these dragons are descended from the same stock as their nearest neighbors, but deny any relation. They have been separated by so many generations that the resemblance has been lost, as those "Of the Sea" swim more often than they fly, and their physical characteristics have slowly changed to reflect this, helped along by the occasional dalliance with a Sea Serpent, with whom they share a common ancestor. 

Satellite island - (eastern island of the core four, and the smallest) third-oldest clan. Clan name means "Small Land." This clan is also a splinter group from the Separate People, and have done their best to more or less recreate the culture of the big island in miniature. Due to the separation of the peoples, some minor changes have taken place, and this results in disagreements between the clans about which is the "right" way to do things. The Small Land and the Separate People have the closest ties of any of the clans, and are more likely than the others to form an alliance in desperate situations. 

Third-largest island - (northernmost, wibbly-shaped) youngest of the Big Clans. Clan name means "Of the Stars" or something like it, indicating a grand destiny that never materialized. They are more immigrants from the mainland, more recent than those on the Big Island, and were the result of a religious squabble among the mainland clans within the last millennia or so. They refer to themselves as a "Roost" rather than a "clan," and believe themselves better than common dragons because of their close connection to "The Mother," who is supposedly the source of all creative strength in the world. Their island was the home of an active volcano* until about 700 years ago, when a largish earthquake plugged up the magma flow and allowed the volcano to cool. Many of their tales indicate that at some point in the future, the volcano will wake and The Mother will return to them in physical form, but no one knows exactly when this is supposed to happen. 

*It is because of this volcanic activity that the Small Land colony didn't make an effort to settle there. 

This is all rough at the moment, but it's beautiful and I love it so far. The best part is, of course, that none of this has anything at all to do with my main project, which is my novel. :) Yup. I'm really good at finishing things. Sure am. 

Don't judge me.

Planet of Hats

It's been a while since I posted (apologies to the Internet for disappearing during NaNoWriMo). I will get back on this horse and gallop off into the sunset next week, but for now, I'd like to talk a little bit about one of my favorite pastimes: Worldbuilding.

Some time ago, a friend of mine introduced me to a YouTube channel (oh, nefarious YouTube, why must I sacrifice my time to you?!) by the name of "Overly Sarcastic Productions." One of their more recent videos is one of a series called "Trope Talks," which I hold dear to my little literary heart. This particular talk was on the topic of "The Planet of Hats." I've included it here for your viewing pleasure.

This is a problem I've run into time and again, not because I'm a bad writer, but because the plots I try to tackle are sometimes simply to big for the story I'm trying to tell. I end up with fragments and glimpses that, while tantalizing and interesting, are not satisfying. 

And of course this, coupled with my apparent inability to write a satisfactory ending, leads me into the Pit of Despair to have the life sucked out of me by a Machine of my own creation. 

To address this gaping hole in my own education and skills, I have decided *dramatic uplifting music here* to apply some of Red's steps from her Planet of Hats video to my own worlds, especially the ones that feature in the novel I wrote last month. 

In the meantime, though, I created a nation of dragon clans on an archipelago in the southern seas of a fantasy world, far enough from the mainland that the smallish human kingdoms that sprang up there are almost completely isolated with their dragon neighbors. 

Because I'm nice like that. :)

I'll post some more about that world another time, since I think I've talked enough for now. Next week, look forward to some snippets from the rough draft of my novel. ;) 

In the meantime, have an awesome weekend, everybody! 

*runs off to pack like a madperson, preparing for THE MOVE*

The Stone Stable

This is a dream that I had a long time ago now, but the place I saw there has stuck with me. Someday, I think I'll use this setting. From what I can remember, all the animals that live in the Stone Stable are magical in one way or another, and their Riders live upstairs. There was a gal that ran the place... but I don't remember anything about her. *sheepish smile* Clearly, I need to work on this.

- - -

Standing just inside the West-facing double doors of the Stone Stable, you see an airy space, with a high ceiling and fluted pillars at regular intervals. The stone is pale grey, worn smooth under your feet and painted in fading shades of yellow and white in the grooves of each pillar. Scrolls and ivy are carved into the places where the ceiling joins the walls and the pillars, as though it were a celebration of the reunited stone.

To your left, you would see a wide hallway, flanked on either side by half doors of solid oak, stained in shades of light tan, panel borders painted yellow and fading with age. Rather than latches or knobs, there are short rope pulls that could be worked by a horse, and several of those beasts are looking at you curiously over the stall doors.

Past them, you see a second set of double doors facing North, open to a packed dirt yard, where a single goat and several chickens are wandering. Above the door, you can see what looks like a wide stone walkway, set inside the wall. Now you notice that the walkway stretches all the way around the cavernous room, and there are large gaps between the walkway and the wall at the head of each stall. Wisps of hay hang from the openings, and from your vantage point, you can see the heaps of hay stored up in this wrap-around loft. The ladder to reach the loft is just behind you and to the left. You could climb it, if you wanted. It looks very sturdy.

Directly in front of you, a large alcove holds two wide doorways. One opens into a spacious kitchen, with a wrap-around counter and plenty of cupboard space. You can't see most of the kitchen from where you're standing, but you can see that the stone floor has a smooth, slightly indented path worn into the flat slabs, where hundreds of feet have walked from where you're standing to the homey room beyond, the source of all deliciousness and edible foodstuff.

There don't seem to be any electric lights. Windows let in streams of sunlight on the eastern side of the building, which you are facing, and there seem to be skylights in the kitchen. You find yourself wondering how this is, since there's clearly a second level.

You approach the alcove, thinking to explore further. On the left is the kitchen, its half door open and welcoming. You can see now that the kitchen is only partially on the left, beyond the door, and that it also wraps around to the right, under and beyond the ramp that leads to the second level.

After a moment of deliberation, you decide to take the ramp to the second level, curious about what sort of living quarters might be boasted in a stable made of stone.

The ramp curves to the left, and follows the outer wall upward to the level of the high ceiling. A handrail on your right keeps you steady, though the ramp itself isn't steep. At the top of the ramp, you find yourself standing in a low hallway. You could touch the ceiling without trouble if you wanted to. By the dark spot above your head, you can guess that many people have. There are windows on the right, facing east, and doors on the left. A close-cropped rug of dark red and creamy yellow runs the length of the hall, where maybe a dozen rooms stand open. Sunlight reflects off the pale stone in the hallway, bouncing into the rooms beyond.

As you pass the first room, you peek inside. It looks like something you might see in a brochure for a bed and breakfast. A fourposter bed stands in the corner, where a thick comforter patterned with fruit and flowers drapes over the mattress and nearly touches the floor. A solid, dark chest of drawers and a mirror are against the right-hand wall, and a desk is on the left. Surprisingly, there's a small lamp on the desk, its cord hanging over the edge and pooling on the floor, where it threatens to tangle around the wheels of a threadbare desk chair that looked like it had seen many years of hard use. In the middle of the room, there's a small clear space occupied by an oval braided rug, and near the foot of the bed, set into the opposite wall, is a deep window, with an upholstered wooden seat built into the alcove.

Each room you pass is more or less the same, with slightly different furniture, different bedspreads, and different chairs. Nothing matches, but everything is arranged the same. Some of the rooms have pictures on the walls, and personal items on the desks. Most seem empty, though. Unoccupied and forlorn.

The last room is a living room, with mismatched couches, a thick rug, and an old-fashioned TV, flanked by large bookcases filled with books and a few VHS tapes in ratty cases.

This, you think, would be a good place to live.

Cliff Palace

This piece was commissioned by a friend at work for use during a D&D campaign. I'm rather proud of it, actually. :) Friend has expressed interest in future pieces as well, and I'm excited to actually get to write for actual monies. 

- - -

The air is chill and damp, smelling of rain. Above you on the mountain slope, a sheer, rugged cliff face towers. At the base, a natural hollow is filled by a lopsided stump of a house like a lone, broken tooth in a dead grey gum.

Hardly a sound comes to you, even as you move toward the house - or is it a house? It looks small in comparison to the cliff, but as you get closer you realize the building is massive, built to giant proportions. Crumbly, grey-green moss is eating away at the warped facade, but portions of the stone door frame have been rubbed clean on the right-hand side. The door itself is reduced to large splinters, barely holding together with ragged flags of wiry hair clinging bravely to sharp tips. Thunder rumbles ominously overhead - there's no other shelter nearby and it seems likely if you don't go inside, you'll get soaked.

Nothing is moving on the other side of the demolished door, but the biting, eye-watering scent of rotting meat wafts out to greet you. Just inside the threshold, bare rock is exposed to the debris of many seasons, chaff and dirt blown through the open door on spring and autumn winds. A strip of the floor is clear of this evidence of neglect, as though something large was recently dragged through the door.

Will you go inside?

Possible Prologue?

So, to explain - this is the 2nd or 3rd draft of an prologue that I'm not sure I'm going to use for the purpose I intended. After some overhauling, poking holes, filling holes, and setting development, the novel for this year's NaNoWriMo has slid sideways out of the setting/plot that would have used this prologue. I might use it another time, but not for this novel. 

---

Space is a song yet to be sung,

Light is a story, awaiting a tongue.

You who have walked where I've never dwelled,

Shall hear as I tell you all I've beheld.

Who am I to tell you what no mortal ear

Would ever, could ever, be fit to hear?

I am a Star, and what I have seen

Is stuff of your dreaming, and all that can mean.

And so, here's my challenge; if you so dare

To write down this story and its wonder share.

Remember this tale and believe, my dear youth,

For all I shall tell you from here on is truth.

So says the star, barely audible over birdsong outside the window on a chill, early autumn morning.

​My morning meal is cold as I write this, and I must use short-hand simply to keep up with what the star whispers in my ear. Either I am going insane or this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. A scribe with little work, great aspirations, and rather empty coffers, I am not one to turn down inspiration when it gift-wraps itself for me. The morning sun has cleared the horizon now and the star is quiet again. I can only pray that when I break my morning fast tomorrow before dawn the star will deign to continue its tale.

You may not believe what I've written here. I hardly believe it myself. Perhaps when we have heard more, we will believe.

Perhaps not.

Please find enclosed the first chapters of what promises to be a tale for the ages, for no tale yet was told by a star.

No tale heard by men, that is.

Unexpected Hiatus

I took a look at my blog and realized that I somehow missed scheduling posts for October. Then I remembered beginning the process of sending off short stories to magazines for publishing and then writing the outline for this year's NaNo novel and commissions and things...

So, yeah.

No real reasons here. Only excuses and explanations. But I have something to make it up to you. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to back-post the last two weeks (because I don't like gaps in my history - it's like retroactive guilt) and schedule posts for the next month and a half (because NaNoWriMo happens next month, and I doubt I'll remember ANYTHING).

Thanks for your patience, guys. I'm on this.

Dreamwalker and Seer

You might remember Jhett from another of the stories posted here - he's a personal favorite of mine, because he's so adaptable to different settings. In this case, I've paired him with another character that was developed more recently (you'll see her again later on, I'm sure) to see what would happen. More on the character mash-ups later. I have ideas about this.

*Back-posted on Oct. 18.

---

The girl woke to complete darkness. She could still see the wounded, bleeding man before her eyes, reaching for her, pleading for help - but his wounds were so gruesome that she couldn't choke back the rising panic in her throat. She screamed. It was a short, muffled sound, but it was loud in her ears. Ester clapped her hands over her mouth, heart pounding. She could hear someone moving nearby, felt the curtain sway, then grow tight at her side as someone fell against it, the curtain rod overhead creaking slightly with the strain. Her mind was still filled with the image of the man from her dream, and it was a struggle not to scream again. What came out was a sort of whimper.

"Ester, it's me. It's okay. It was only a dream." Jhett sounded half asleep. His words were slurred and she could tell by the difficulty he was having with getting up that he was tangled in the curtain.

"Jhett." Her voice broke with relief. Not the man from her dream. It was Jhett, and Jhett was safe. In a minute, having flailed about until the curtain was out of the way, Jhett took a seat beside her on the sleeping furs and put an arm around her.

"It was just a dream," he repeated soothingly, which she found somewhat ironic. She swallowed a hysterical laugh and pressed her face against the curve of his arm.

"Nothing is 'just' a dream. You're not 'just' a person and I'm not 'just' a girl, any more than Quinn is 'just' a dragon." Ester felt herself beginning to shake a little. It was too vivid to be "just" a dream, but she didn't want it to be a vision. She didn't want people to get hurt like that. "Tell me a story?" she asked, still shaking, even as she tried to calm herself down.

"You know I'm no good at telling stories. You just go back to sleep and I'll help you dream something nice."

Ester hesitated. "Are you sure? I think it'll come back if I go back to sleep now..."

"Go ahead. I'm a dreamwalker, remember? And if I'm right here, I can slip right in, no problem."

She still wasn't convinced. "If I go back to sleep now, he'll come back-"

"Who?"

"The man in my dream. He was hurt, and I couldn't help him."

"I can take care of him. Don't worry." He was rubbing her back, and slowly, she relaxed under his confident tone and gentle touch. "You just sleep now. I've got you."

It was hard to tell when they had shifted from sitting to lying down, or when drowsiness turned to sleep. Ester didn't try to fight it - at least, not has hard as she could have - and it seemed only a short time later that she was facing the injured man again. The space around her was dark, but she could see his face as clearly as if there were a lantern shining full on him, the light reflecting off the blood.

But then Jhett was beside her, hand extended. "Water. We'll need to wash him off first." There was a heavy water skin hanging from her belt. Ester passed it to him, admiring the rich brown of the leather, the coarse visual texture of the cork. She watched as Jhett bent over the man, cleaned the blood from his face, and, ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt, bound his wounds tightly. A man in a pale green uniform approached swiftly, his face haggard, but smiling.

"Thank the gods this mess is nearly over," he commented aloud to the three of them, and knelt to examine Jhett's work. "It's rough, but it'll hold until we can get him to a clinic." Jhett retreated a little and wrapped an arm around Ester's shoulders as a low-slung dragon wearing a pale green banner between his horns and matching harness. The dragon, too, looked tired, his legs spattered with mud and grime, his wings drooping somewhat.

"Can you carry this one, Mok?" The man in the uniform looked at the dragon with touching concern, but the dragon nodded firmly.

"One more, ten more - twenty more, if that's what it takes. At least now the treaty's been signed, folk will stop getting hurt." There was a measure of relief in that statement, mixed in equal parts with exhaustion.

"You two have done good work. Now evac with the rest of the civs, and let us do our work." The uniformed man heaved his patient up onto the dragon's back and strapped him into the harness. It was an unmistakable dismissal, and Ester was more than ready to take it, though her gaze lingered on the dragon, who was now striding purposefully away, his sinuous tail swaying through the air like a snake. Something about that had to do with Jhett... but she couldn't think what.

"Come on, Ester. Let's go." His arm tightened around her and she glanced into his face. He was smiling and confident.

The hiss of steam in the distance told her a train was pulling into the station. She knew without needing to ask that they were going to get on that train, and it was going to take them away from this place.

"Okay. I trust you." His hand was warm as she held it between her own.

The train whistle blew. Jhett guided her toward the sound. "I'll do whatever I need to keep you safe." His promise was quiet, but her ears were keen.

"Thank you, Jhett."

"No worries. That's why I'm here."