Ha, well, the logic I was attempting was: Skink's are needed for proficient healing; Lyxanda's leg had healed "remarkably well", therefore there's a high likelihood with recent contact with Skinks. Why imagine a grim climate when I just need to look outside for inspiration?
Now where do the inglourious basterds come in and carve a saurus symbol into the forhead of Zopoilote? Seriously though this was great! the parallels between WW 2 Germany and this story were quite chilling with horrific implecations.
Ah, I feel like I ruined the production of my first fan theory Cheers man. unfortunately there are no Inglorious Bastiladons to employ vengeance! Obvious inspirations were obvious.
The Loom at the Threshold The gateway closed with a crisp, cool gasp; the constant warm light that basked the constellations of the Seraphon was gone. Ateskatl could do little but clasp his arms tightly. Awaiting the arrival of the welcome party he attempted to hold composure: the stars were distant and the air cold. Gazing about from the pyramid’s summit the great complex was lit on both sides by starkly different lights. One an ever-changing and violent maelstrom which broke over stone and metal like fiery waves, the other was a pale, delicate and unfaltering yet strong, and whose source Ateskatl instantly recognised: far in the distance was a single constellation of ever-distant stars. The tears of the star dragon. He shivered. Waiting, he preened his ceremonial feathers: he was to play a significant role in the salvation of the people here. He had to look the part. “You’ve come then.” Ateskatl turned to see a single Skink Priest – his trappings were notably archaic, and his collection of icons and talismans incongruous to Ateskatl’s own. To see such a stubborn figure of the past was irksome. Far more annoying, however, was the presence of only a single delegate. Was this the custom now, or had he just remembered the old ways wrongly? “Yes, well…” Ateskatl replied, “One doesn’t lightly disregard a meeting with a Starmaster. Especially a Slann so… well known.” He stepped forward to give a custom bow of greeting, but the Priest had already turned back the way he came. The Priest gave a sharp twitch to indicate Ateskatl to follow him and led him down a narrow set of stairs, burrowing itself into the pyramid like the scars of an ancient, cyclopean drill. Ateskatl followed him in silence, the guide rebuffing what conversational pieces Ateskatl had prepared. Little indication was given of their direction. Ateskatl held onto the assumption that he was being brought to the Starmaster, but he couldn’t feel somewhat disgruntled at the lack of appreciation. The lack of any positive response to their salvation was worrying. As they descended deeper into the temple, away from the conflicting lights, Ateskatl noticed an odd change come over his guide: a faint glow seemed to be emanating from him. All Seraphon had an aspect of starlight from them, gifted to them by the unfathomable magicks of their Slann masters and the godlike aspect of the star dragon. The azure brilliance of the Seraphon was lacking from the Priest however: the light seemed dampened, almost gray. “You needn’t have come” the Priest said, finally. The Priest had stopped by a door, his hand placed ready to roll it aside. “We have no desire to involve ourselves with your interests, or whatever interests you represent.” Ateskatl was breathless: never had he seen such disregard to the wishes of his Starmasters. Order was paramount in the Great War against Chaos. To shun the Slann was to shun order, a concept no Seraphon could rightfully accept. “I represent the final attempt to rescue this forsaken temple. After this you’ll be abandoned to the aether: your brothers, the Slann, and Dracothion will have no part in wasting anymore resources on your…your whimsy.” “What brothers?” the Priest scoffed. “You won’t find many of them to save here, so-called Seraphon.” The Priest heaved the door aside, and stepped into a long corridor. He turned back to Ateskatl: “My Master awaits your visit, but please be aware your discussions will only be short: he cannot be distracted for long.” “He will listen to me” Ateskatl replied firmly. Despite his resolve, he could not help but feel a heavy tug at his confidence. He might persuade a Skink of the confidence in his mission, but a Slann would not be duped. He must work hard to convince the Starmaster of his rationale. Stepping up to the doorway Ateskatl found the threshold suddenly blocked once more by the Priest: “I’d ask you to avoid talking to the others. It would do neither party any good.” Ateskatl found the request odd. However, as they started down the corridor to the Slann’s stellar chamber, he found the warning unnecessary: those Skinks that clustered the complex hastily made it their business to avoid him. Of what he could glimpse, the odd curious peeking head or fleeting glance of a tail, all others glowed with the same odd gray aspect. All, he also noted, seemed to not just glow but shimmer - as if their light emanated on a similar frequency. Though disturbed, Ateskatl found himself pitying them. “What is going on here?” Ateskatl said, half to himself. The Priest broke the silence: his eyes watching Ateskatl nervously fiddle with his feathers with an air of detached amusement. “Do you know why they avoid you, Seraphon?” Ateskatl finally made eye contact with guide, pressing him for answers he was afraid to ask for. “They fear your starlight. You must remember that they, we, are still flesh and blood, and lack the blessing of your star-drake. To them, we are the last bastion of what has been: what was felt and thought by the ancients.” “My starlight…” Ateskatl muttered, “Is that what this is all about? My celestial self is nothing to fear. Guide, let me speak to them. They should know, they must know of the greatness that welcomes them in the Mortal Realms-“ The guide gripped Ateskatl's wrist tightly. “You will do no such thing: you would only stress them more. My brothers here, my brothers, shall not suffer more at the designs of your stars.” Ateskatl tentatively peeled the fingers from his wrist. The guide suddenly regained his composure and released Ateskatl’s hand. “Let me show you something, it may change your mind.” Setting a brisk pace the guide stalked quickly up the corridor, turning sharp corners with the decisive swirl of feathers. Ateskatl jogged slightly to keep up: the Starpriest suddenly felt unanchored and confused. Turning down the corners a pitched, staccato scraping sound grew echo throughout the complex. His guide pushed at a door and the sound burst louder. Ateskatl realised he was hearing wailing. Agony. “Look” the guide said, stepping aside. The room was almost empty save for a dias. Writhing on top was a Skink, naked of any trappings or icons of status. Across his body long gashes flinched and sputtered; dried blood powdered the table. Back arched, hands clawing at air, the Skink spasmed with each flinch of a wound. With each spasm a piercing scream escaped. The Priest closed the door. Ateskatl found himself paralysed. He had forgotten the sight of blood, of ruined flesh. “You never get used to these resurrections,” the Priest said. Ateskatl turned, eyes still wide from the sight. “Resurrections...” Ateskatl muttered. The Seraphon were reborn from star-stuff should their enemies destroy them, but resurrection was unheard of in the times before the coming of Dracothian. “What is this brutal magic?” The Priest sighed. “This is the sweet spot between the flash and thunderclap, the dive and the plunge. Here, our people await the final ultimatum – return to the forsaken world as we are; creatures of flesh and bone, or move forward and join your masters as starlight. A third option is not possible. This why they always return – it’s not a supernatural occurrence; no method you could take back to your battle fields in the Realms. There are two absolutes open to us and death is not one of them. At least, death here. Our weaker brothers try and remove themselves from the equation, but it’s a natural certainty that they are included; they have to exist as long as we remain at this threshold of existence." The Priest, whose gaze had become distant suddenly refocused back on Ateskatl. "This is the choice imposed upon them, upon us. We are beings of order, but to be forced into a situation where order and reason prevails and yet still where one believes such an action to be reasonable, that to remove oneself would uphold order…this is why we come to reject what you stand for.” Ateskatl smoothed back his feathers. He was unsure he absorbed all of what his guide had said, but what unsettled him more was that uncertainty had extended to his resolve. He could not let the Priest leave without one question, however: “If this pain is being suffered, why stay? The gateway to High Azyr has always been open to you.” “Open for what?” the guide hissed. “To be remade from memory, stripped of our flesh?” “There really is nothing to fear. All those that died during the Chaos victory, our great heroes, even they returned-“ “They are not Saurian, they are not Lustrian. Facsimile; simulacra, all of it.” The Priest tore away, his feathered cloaked billowing behind. Ateskatl found himself hesitant to follow. “Come.” The Priest finally shouted back, “It’s time you met my master.” Ateskatl slunked behind his guide: he told himself to keep up the conversation, to be evangelical and earnest with his wishes. But he found what had been a keen and solid ambition had a growing hollow. “I will wait here” the guide said. A large door of glinting obsidian rose before them, monolithic its peak disappeared into the gloom above. Emblazoned upon it was a large rune of complex geometries – the sigil of the stellar chamber. Before Ateskatl could recount his much-practiced speech the door cracked open and he was hastily ushered through its slim crack. The door quickly shut behind. Ateskatl stepped forward: glinting the same gray light as the Skinks, hunched and prone the great Slann Zeno’tom sat silently. Ateskatl was unsure whether he should wake the corpulent Mage-Priest from his meditations, and began to ponder on what method would best wake a sleeping Slann. Seemingly sensing the Skink’s train of thought a blubbery cough echoed about the chamber and the Slann opened your eyes. “I have little time. I know why you’re here. All of your arguments; I know them already. You may still speak however. But before you do I suggest you inform yourself.” Ateskatl pushed back his feathers. The speech he had long laboured over suddenly evaporated from his tongue. The Slann’s eyes remained unblinking, unfocused upon him. He had to say something. He couldn’t look foolish, and yet one couldn’t hide from the vast intelligence of his masters. “Why?” he stuttered. “All of this, I don’t understand.” The Slann blinked. Slowly, as if he moved with great effort, he parted his lips and spoke. “As the World-That-Was fell into the Chaos maelstrom already my brothers had sought their new path: following their new god they beckoned the other survivors to ascend to a new promised existence. Following the trail of tears, all were compelled to alight the celestial realm of the God-Drake. But then I saw them: tired and weary and afraid. This change, it was beyond what all my surviving Skinks had been taught in our old culture. I could not ask it of them to sacrifice who they had grown into back in Lustria. So I weaved a spell…” Ateskatl could see it: a brightness behind the Slann’s eyes. Something shimmered and danced. “I took it: the compelling and transcendental starlight of the Celestial Dragon, and the arcane death throes of our world as it was consumed by the Dark Gods, I took it all. I took it all and I weaved it about a loom bolted by their souls. One side pulling them towards an end of the old world, a finality for their flesh, and another pulling them into the new existence as starlight. Once the spell came taut started my hardest task: such a spell could be broken by the burning magick of Gods. I could not let the meddling of heavens intervene, chaos, celestial, or otherwise. I wove their souls, feeding them towards one force and then looping them back against another. Again and again. Each loop tighter than the last. Each loop threaded in half the time as the previous. Now they are safe, theirs souls wound infinitely tighter upon my loom, unable to be taken be either force until the spell ends.” A spell? Ateskatl had to say something. Perhaps he could convince the Mage-Priest to unbind it somehow. “But if you stopped the spell, right now. What would they be? Could that not make the choice for them? If you stopped it, they would be heading to one state or the other, no?” “It would be neither – they are caught in an accelerating infinite loop of state. There is never a loop not followed by another. To thread them towards starlight, the next step is always to thread them back along the loom to chaos. It is the nature of infinity: there is no final loop. Only by breaking the loom will they be able to become celestial or remain flesh. But once the loom is broken, once my work is dispelled, they will be irreversibly pulled in one direction or the other. By then, I would hope, they would at least be able to choose the direction each wished to follow." "Surely.." Ateskatl, braced himself once more, legs shaking from challenging the words of the Slann-Lord. "Surely they must do whatever you wished? Why give them this choice?" The Slann sighed. “The soul recedes slowly; a sea, unquenched by the dry deltas of insight and visited by harshness loses its water until one day a puddle vanishes and nothing remains. They dress in feathers to please the Gods. They inscribe on gold to please the Slann. It is not for the Skink to nurture their self. It is not for the Skink to feel. Skinks are artisans of the ethereal world: they worship, they nurture, they hunt. Anything else is hidden; everything else is shadows. Now you ask to bring all into starlight, and they ask me what will happen to them: will they transcend wholly, or will the shadows be burnt away? I cannot answer, like the Gods before me: I am impotent without guidance from the Great Plan. Our millennial empire has been scratched out. Our Gods never returned for us. Our beliefs are being re-written. These surviving Skinks, as much as every Slann lord, now only remain with the carrion of a dead culture. It is up to them which path they should take - follow the Celestial Dragon’s tears into starlight or embrace themselves as they who they know, taking each to their ultimate destination.” “Were any other Skinks given this choice?” “I do not know.” Ateskatl paused, a cool sensation creeped up his back. “They say each person, each creature: Skink, Saurus, hero, warbeast, all which were lost in the final war with Chaos, they were recreated in starlight from the Slann’s memory.” “This is true” Zeno'tom answered. Ateskatl twitched his crest. “But, how perfect is the memory of a Slann?” Zeno’tom shifted his weight. The Starpriest realised it was the first time the ancient Starmaster had moved. “I should not worry, Starpriest. You live now, what has changed and what has been reborn occurred before your starlight body came to be. You can only press forward. To look behind is to yearn back towards the Chaos victory.” Ateskatl stood awkwardly. He wasn’t sure had quite understood, and whether it was an answer at all. The Slann cloaked their intention in words. “Return to the others, Starpriest. They expect you.” Zeno’tom added. His eyelids were already sagging, returning to monitor the weave of his infinite spell. Ateskatl returned to the temple outer chambers, following the guide back to the gateway. The guide silently plodded ahead of him. Had he already made his choice, or was his assurance a product of the job? The guide was the only one who still so carefully attended to his feathers. The other Skinks had remained unchanged, some looked like they had barely twitched, others conversed in hushed groups. Pity, unease, and revulsion. He remembered his reaction to the Skinks of the temple. Their incorporeal, their oscillating state. Towards them now he felt the faint thorny grip of envy, rooted in a single question that began to saturate his mind. Ateskatl tried hard to push it to the back of his head and focus on how he would report back to the Starmasters. But it was still there, in the corners of his mind, lapping at his thoughts: what if he had been remembered wrongly?
Johan's Beast Every inch of his body was pinched. He wanted to cover his body, not only from the spray of the water pump, but because it felt natural: he was unaccustomed to strangers looking at his body. They had told him to cover his eyes though, so he did. Rough brushes ran up and down his body. Afterwards, shivering, maidens attended to him with scented oils. Their gloved hands roughly massaged in vinegar and lavender and frankincense and thyme. Cleansed he was handed new underwear. His scalp ached from the washing. His skin prickled with heat. Awkwardly he stepped into the underwear, still keenly aware of the others. He began longing for his old clothes - he had never noticed his musk before, he didn’t know what he smelt like, but he imagined that he missed it. How his old clothes had fitted him so well – he had spent much time trying to find the tailor prepared to sew with the cheapest clothes for the highest quality. How his colleagues, friends, and wife had always teased him about his style. He sat in his new underwear. Others waited behind him. A bag of grey linen sat on the desk opposite. He could smell the lavender from his seat. “Name?” “Johans.” “Age?” “35.” “Sex?” “Male.” “Preference?” “Women.” “Family?” “One older brother.” “Any turned?” “Yes, my mother.” “Have you ever been married?” “Yes.” “How long for?” “About, fifteen years.” “Be precise please.” “Fourteen years, three months, and twelve days.” “I know this is unpleasant for you but you must be precise. You absolutely must. Ok?” Johans nodded. The inquisitor put down her quill and squinted at him through her purity glasses. “I know it’s scary. All of this, you didn’t ask for it. And I know we don’t have quite the most pleasant of reputations, however the Inquisition is here to help you. If you make it through tonight then-“ “Tonight? But-“ “I must ask that you never interrupt. Again, another absolute. Chaos, Mr. Johans, Chaos.” “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry and all. Tonight?” She shifted in her seat. The candle light flashed on her glasses: she was looking away. “Yes. Well. I thought they would have told you. Incredible. It’s always me. Nothing’s easy in life, is it? Gracious. Well. Yes, you have one night. Recent sharp inclines in corruption have reduced the body’s natural resistance. All over the Empire's borders - it's not just you, you know? But, yes. After one night, if you manage to resist and you manage to pass inspection, you may return to civilisation as a free citizen. Otherwise it’s the hunting trail for you.” “One night.” “Oh, I know. But those days of month’s long convalescence were only really short-lived anyway. Just a fuel for hope really. Fool’s hope. It’s not all bad though. It makes the stresses of our job far easier with such a turnover. More paperwork sure but less preferences to cater too: less faff. Aren’t you glad this itinerary only took a couple minutes?” “Well. I suppose-” “Good. Splendid. In the past this would have lasted half an hour! Can you believe that? Had to make sure everyone was treated as a right and true citizen just in case they returned to the Empire of course. Glad it’s all over with though if you ask me.” “I don’t suppose you have any advice?” The inquisitor paused. “Well..” she said, sliding her purity glasses firmly up he nose. “I personally have never been corrupted. At all. Obviously. However, our scholars suggest a firm and vigorous attack. You’ve got to push yourself out there, you know?” The Inquisitor scrawled on a piece of paper and flourished over her desk. “You’re room number, Mr. Johans.” *** Each corridor looked the same – illuminated with rows of candles, the ample hardened wax fusing them into a rugged, pale range of anaemic volanoes. The flutter of their light cast no shadows, but reflected of the blank walls and doors. The dormitory had a permanent subtle glow. It made Joahns feel light-headed. Down one corridor a room was being emptied: masked and gloved clerics flung andshoved clothes and linen into a cart garishly adorned with runes. By them stood a woman, arms crossed, staring numbly as they gutted the room. “Hello. My Name’s Tabitha." Johans jumped. A rather mousey looking woman stood next to him, hands on her hips. "People call me Tabs. I don’t know why but I don’t mind it. Who are you?” “Hello. Johans. That’s me. This is my first day, actually. “ “Well of course it is, silly: just look at you. This is my fifth day. I’m a record holder. Well, since the one-night thing started. They even gave me a medal. Look-“ Reaching down her blouse Tabs pulled out a medallion. Glinting, embossed on the medallion was a hammer wrapped in eyes. “You do know what that is, right?” Johans said. “Oh, sure. They’re watching me. Apparently if I give in now I’ll be a really bad one. They had two halberdiers and a cleric outside my room last night. No hunting trail for me, oh no. “ Tabs rolled up her grey sleeve. “Check this out.” Her arm was marked just like his: a brown and hairy, mottled mole puckered her flesh in wild patterns. It was like his, but hers was the biggest he’d ever seen. Her entire forearm was branded. Johans itched his good arm. Tabs laughed: “everyone has that response.” She nodded towards the numb woman. “She just survived her first night. But she’s still marked too. I don't think she'll last the next night. They don’t think so either. I gave her my last butterbiscuit. It won’t help. I wish I had it. She liked it though.” Tabs leant in: “I will tell you a secret” she whispered. “If she resists again she plans to turn on her third morning. No going home after the third, she said. Might as well be dead. Who wants a three-nighter living with them? Gonna turn instead, she said.She thinks she can make it to the herd over the hill. Better to be one of the pack than a pariah in the Empire, she told me. ” “And you haven’t told the Inquisition?” “They already know. She knows this too. I think she’s scared. That’s why I gave her my last butterbiscuit. I understand why she would think to join the pack though: nature has a way of making new things from the old and dead.” Tabs patted him on the back. “I hope you do well tonight.” “I don’t suppose you have any advice?” Tabs frowned slightly “be on the defence. Let it come to you. You try to go and meet it and it’ll snap you up.” She shrugged “that’s just a load of platitude what I’ve just said though. Anyone could say that, even those have who never gone through it. You’re just going to have to see it through; it’s gonna be crap whatever.” “Great. Thanks.” Tabitha nodded and turned away. “Hopefully I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t have butterbiscutis to give to you.” Johans weaved himself through the manse corridors to his room. It was already late. He hadn’t even prepped himself for the night. Part of him couldn’t be bothered to make the effort - how much could a man even prepare his mind against the wild corruption which plagued the lands? *** Alone in his room in his lavander-smelling pyjamas Johan itched. Scratching brought little relief. Johan rubbed his arm against the corner of the bedside table, feeling it was less effort that scratching all night. The sun had set. No clocks hung from his walls: better not to apply the pressure of time, the clerics had said. The sun had set netherless. The windows had been bolted long before the evening, the only light the mat of candle-glow from underneath from door. Johans had only gauged the passing by the slow fade of birdsong. Now the only sound was the occasional scratch scratch scratch of a cleric patrolling the dormitories, cane dragging against the floor. The mark almost felt biting. He wrapped the linen tight around the arm, hoping the pressure would substitute the need for scratching wrapped himself in his bedsheets, tucking his feet into the duvet and wrapping himself until only his face peered out. Sleep wouldn’t come, but he didn’t want it: the darkness of the room promised a nightmare. Alone and hidden in the duvet Johans could almost feel the darkness leering over him. Only the scratch scratch scratch from the door brought him out of his anxious stupor. Scratch scratch scratch. Johans buried himself deeper into his duvet. He prepared himself for the return of the gloom, the anxiety. Scratch scratch scratch. The cleric had stopped behind his door, marking sacred runes on of protection and charity. Scratch scratch scratch. Maybe if he looked he could catch him doing it. Maybe he could see his shadow drawing in the candelight. Maybe, whatever blessing or ritiual, maybe it would run off on him. Johans shrugged his duvet and looked. Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch. A thousand red eyes gnawed at his door. He couldn’t move. Then more. A damp clouded his walls, peeling paper and sagging rafters. A humid heat settled, hot eddies throwing his grey clothes in a ghostly pantomime. A moist breath earnestly brushed his skin. Blood moistened his tongue. A shadow loped from out from the corners. A hand grabbed his throat. Clawed, rough, and threaded with matted fur. Its smell filled his nostrils: sweat and soil. He grabbed with his good arm but it wouldn’t release him. He grabbed it with the other arm but there was nothing to move – it was already at his throat. A thousand red eyes scratched at his bed. Mould clogged his lungs. Fire ate through his guts. Tongues lathered his skull. Blood filled his belly. He dug his nails into the beastly fingers, peeling its claws one by one from off his throat. The arm pushed harder and he roared in anger. The darkness roared back. Inches from his face the twisted image bent down on him, its eyes were wild, its hot breath panting, and from its forehead two horns spiralled into the night. The more he pushed the harder the beast pushed down on him. His good arm felt weak with each punch. It withdrew its tongue and yawned its fanged mouth wide. From the back of its throat a yellow light bloomed. Its rays touched Johans and his stomach jumped. The light felt putrid, sickly. More bile than light. The beast yawned wider, and wider, and wider. More and more light poured out . Johan's body seized as it soaked into his skin. Johans screamed. The beast screamed back. *** Pain flared again. Muscles knotted and jostled up his tainted arm. The mark had gone. Gone and replaced by leathery hide. Johan's back felt sore, his head ached, and his lungs gripped him so he could only wheeze. A dizziness set about him. He stumbled. The dogs howled. The cleric’s bells rang throughout the woods, chasing him down the hunting trail. He ran. His heart thundered and his muscles stretched. His breath was sharp and his eyes were wide. The uneven ground hurt his feet. Moss threatened to slip him up. Roots threatened to trip him. The horns sounded again. He shouldn’t have run. Now it would be undignified. The huntsman had watched him. His arms limp to the side, his lavender-soaked pyjamas already burnt. He had shivered from the morning shower: this time no maidens came to anoint him. Now they had only used hard brushes and the icey water. They, all of them, had watched him slowly leave the compound to follow the winding path ahead. He had kept his head held high: better to die a citizen then slaughtered a beast. But then the hounds. But then the bells. Johans ran. His arm flared again. A pain seemed to bristle across his arm. Flashes of rainbow fire burst from his flesh. Stars flashed across his eyes. His back bowed, his head burnt, his lungs stung. He wanted to look but he couldn’t. He had no time – he had to run. He had to live. He no longer wheezed but panted. He no longer ran but galloped. His hooves bit into the ground with each leap. He clawed at the soil with his loping arms, pushing off for momentum. He broke branches from out of his path, his horns lowered. The hounds howled. They were closer now, but he was different. The wild was his home. They were clumsy, they were stupid - stumbling over wood and soil. They couldn't hear the song of the herd. He could smell their musk. Just up the hill. There, he would be free. No men or women to chain him. No stone or wood to carrel him. No cloth or leather to clothe him. Johans howled. The hounds howled. Beyond the ridge, others howled too.
Spoiler: Text & Tea with Slanputin - "Johan's Beast" For Johans I tried a departure from my usual writing style. My usual writing style being earnest prose defined by lengthy environmental description and psychological landscape, with atmosphere generally taking precedence over dialogue. Here I tried to tell the story more through dialogue, both inter-character and internal, and tried a more whimsical voice. Do I think it was successful in divorcing myself from my usual yarn? Not so much as I retained my other traits where I inject degrees of ambiguity and my love for somewhat tragic characters. Plus "anaemic volcanoes" hardly counts as light environmental description. As for the voice, I found that it varied - I found it more successful when writing dialogue than psychological and environmental description. My main inspiration for this piece very heavily came from the 2015 deadpan satirical film "The Lobster", which features the threat of punishment by transformation into beast and a dormitory environment (although a Hotel in the film's case.) One of my favourite things to do in Warhammer fluff is to see how the common, muck-up-to-the-knees folk do in the world of never-ending war. The idea of how administrative and governing systems deal with corruption outside of violence appealed to me. This being Warhammer of course, there had to be the threat of violence somewhere. The idea of it being set in the Empire appealed to me mainly because I've only written one other story there, and that one was far more earnest than this. I characterised by following the traits of the beleaguered everyday man beset upon by surreal circumstance - think "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" and Terry Gilliam's "Brazil". Yes, this was originally going to be a comedy, but it ended erring a bit too far on the dark side of Wes Anderson to be an effective one. I like to think the characters still retained an air of oddity. If you're questioning the story I chose for a comedy well, my humour tends to be dark and sardonic. I can only write well what i like - although perhaps a challenge for the future? The "fight" sequence in particular was based on a recurring bought of sleep paralysis I used to have, and seemed to serve as good material for the fight for Johan's soul. The surreal psycho-environmental descriptions were meant to serve as a failure of his mind to comprehend the effects of the corruption, with each part based on a dark god. The sudden change in intimacy between the paragraphs reflected the deepening Chaos influence. Recently I discovered I quite like butterbiscuits. I don't know why I put my "author's thoughts" in a spoiler whilst giving its own post. I guess one can't break from @Bowser 's tradition.
Wow! This is so good! I love the cold organized beurocracy into hot messy wild. Gorgeously told story. Gripping right to the end.
If Tab gave the girl her last butter biscuit, why is she worried about her stash? That was a story with comedic intent? I think you swapped dark and moody with a different dark and moody - in a good way. The dialogue was great, although the inquisitor did answer a lot of questions after banning interruptions. A true beaurocrat would have read all of the required information off a laminated card attached to her lanyard. The story felt contemporary but was undateable, until the reference to halberdiers. I think I would have preferred having WH empire problems superimposed on a modern setting. But that is difficult ground to work on, given how crapsack the modern world is, and everyone trying to work out whose allegorical side you are on. Back to the story - a worthy sequence of hints being dropped, all of the needed information available by the end, but still a requirement to think afterwards - my favourite. Chilling description incorporating all / most of the senses - what we have come to expect from a Slanputin story. If you ever finish your PhD, you have shown you have a deep understanding of what it takes to be a fine civil servant author.
I agree about nailing down a degree of timeliness. Quills, candles, and halberds help but other than leaning on the audience's own expectations of the Warhammer universe I felt there wasn't much that made it feel like the Old World. The Inquisitor was supposed to be very self-indulgent: she liked hearing herself talk, so both the questioning and answering on her part was justified. Perhaps a line such as: ' she sighed, "very well then" ' would have made it clear she was acquiescing to his questions. The butterbiscuit stash represented Tabs' want for emotional stability which was defined by its very absence. Or something. I jest. Good catch. I'll edit. It definitely turned into not-a-comedy. I'm fine with that. Especially as writing comedy actually scares the willies out of me. "if you ever finish your PhD" ha. haha. I ask myself that question everyday.
Serpent’s Brew Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk. The rhythm echoed around the temple chamber. An erratic dance of shadows flickered across the walls, the quick motion of their master energising their revelry. The sound stopped. Nahualli reached into a red vase and cupped an oozing, chunky mixture in his hands. The compote had strong, innate magic – a powerful vector for the ritual. Dropping the chunks in the basin and, shaking off the straggling slop, Nahualli picked up a heavy pestle. Gripping the shaft with both hands he began his rhythmic grinding once more. Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk. The spell would be complete soon. Once the lather reached the right consistency Sotek’s favour could be invoked and the wrath of the Bloody Serpent would be made manifest. Nahualli thought on the atrocities of the Skaven pestilence: insidious, the rat-men’s arts of espionage and disease had successfully spread their warren of corruption, plaguing town and forest alike until it gnawed at the city gates. Nahualli gripped the pestle harder, his blisters weeping, and pushed his aching muscles. Sotek would once more grace the lands. It would be a clarion call to his people. A cry of hope to the refugees. A toll of death to the Skaven. Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk. Reaching again into the vase Nahualli cupped only air. Hissing at his lack of organisation so close to the ritual, Nahualli dropped the pestle and gathered to him a select number of items: a large bag lined with thick scale and leather; a dull cloak with no sign of pomp or stature; and his holy knife. Its blade felt warm in his hands. He held it to his chest closely, finger unconsciously caressing the notched handle. Lastly he picked up a nearby scrying orb and muttered a quick incantation. Cyan clouds stirred within as the artificact suckled on the magical wind of Azyr. Nahaulli’s fingertips tingled as the orb reacted to the portentous magic, and he closed his eyes to receive their vision. Though calibrated to anticipate the machinations of Chaos, the orb’s Azyrite magic could be persuaded to cast its gaze further abroad. Fortunately the Elves’ regimented nature meant that their immediate movements were easy to predict. Fortunately it was only their immediate futures that were needed. The possible patrol routes of the Elven sentries wove a detailed map in his mind. At the centre of the vision a crisp image formed: many colourful ribbons fluttering in a breeze. Satisfied, Nahualli slipped the Azyrite Orb into his satchel and left the shrine. Cautiously, Nahualli slid the heavy stone door flush with the surrounding temple walls; to the uninitiated there was little to give away the shine’s entrance. Tightening his palms around his satchel Nahualli walked out into the main temple concourse. His short time in the complex had taught him to keep shoulders slumped and head down. That way most people ignored him, already bent towards their own motives. The tepid colours of his vestments only magnified this effect among the bright feathers and ornaments of priests clamouring for the eyes of the gods. Soon enough the temple concourse yawned open to a grand vista: daubed the dawn’s light, a golden web clung to the pinnacles of the city’s ziggurats; its dying misty threads drifted lazily into the city depths. At Nahualli’s feet a sharp set of steps had become a glittering waterfall of mist, the sunlit cloud cascading in languid fashion into the city far below. Partially hidden in the mist a discordant patchwork of lamplight formed a stark contrast against the ordered ceremonial fires of the sacred city: the refugee camp. Resolute, Nahualli began to make the long descent down towards the ram-shackled settlement. A sharp cry faltered his step: “Nahualli!” Hissing to himself, Nahualli turned to see who had spied him under the humble robe. A Skink jumped down the steps to him, bone armour clunking dully with each leap. Nahualli recognised the Skink as Teotoca, a lesser member of the scouting parties and an ardent member of his former congregation. “Nahualli, it has been so long. What has kept you?” “I’ve been busy-“ “Ah, busy, of course. Busy with the works of the gods no doubt.” “Indeed. The gods wait for no-one. Neither me nor you. As such, Teotoca, I must bid-“ “I see you’re heading towards the refugee camp.” Nahualli faltered. A coolness gripped the back of his neck. Had his movements been so transparent? Concerned, he gestured for Teotoca to continue his line of questioning. “Well, you know, more of these refugees enter the city by the day. And never-mind the “children of the gods” rhetoric the High Temple keeps running, they’re a drain on our resources. I mean, even after our help, did you hear that the Elves might rescind their military support over these Skaven kidnappings? After we shelter them and all. We’re too soft. Send them back out to the jungles, see their soldiers fight back in their own lands.” Teotoca gathered himself. “Well, what I’m saying is, you going to sort them out? The Elves contribute nothing and disrespect the gods by bringing in their own idols. And, say, isn’t that an affront to, well, to all of us naturally, but to you?” “I’m sure the mage-lords have a reason for their presence: they may serve the gods in other ways yet” Nahualli answered carefully. “I wish I shared your optimism Nahualli, but even the Slann are blind to the wills of the gods. I know, say heresy if you wish – Sotek knows, you’re the one to do it – but it’s true. The sooner we open our eyes to what’s going on in this city the better. Did you hear that Skaven are sneaking plague-carriers in with the refugees? The Elves are a corruptive force, Nahualli, whatever our Lords might say.” “I heard of a few diseased Elves caught trying to enter the city, but I thought Temple Command quarantined them as is protocol.” Teotoca shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time, Nahualli. Mark my words – the Horned Rat will be within our walls in days. Only the coming of Sotek’s prophet will save us now, but where is he? I’ve seen no red-crested Skink emerge from the spawning pools, and not a smidgen of the signs they say accompany Tehenhauin’s coming. I swear the gods blessed us generously in the old days. It’s like we’re being punished. And I know you’d agree with me when I say I know why that is.” Teotoca motioned to the Elven camp below them. “Even the Temple of Sotek have increased their daily offerings” That was true at least. Puncturing the haze to dwarf all other ziggurats was the serpent’s temple, its flumes already flushed with red. At its summit small silhouettes wavered in the heat – a sharp flash of metal suggesting a new sacrifice was about to face their deity. “I told you, Nahualli: they’re desperate. Anything for the Bloody Serpent to smite his ancient enemy. Maybe Sotek is already fighting the Horned Rat in the heavenly realms. Maybe he can’t hear us over their warring. Who knows with the gods. It’s not like we seen much of their divine providence.” “Often the gods send rot to wounds they could heal” Nahualli advised. “Take it as a test of strength – the hottest flame purifies even the most tainted flesh.”” Teotoca laughed “now you’re sounding like an Elf! For sure, Nahualli, the Temple was wrong to suspend you. I say you were a needed voice, unafraid to say and do what was needed. Will you return soon?” “Whenever the Temple deems it.” Nahualli said. Assured that Teotoca had just been using the opportunity to rant, Nahualli deflated conversion. “I must attend to by business.” “Of course, the gods wait for no mortal. Sotek bless you, Nahualli.” “Indeed.” Eager to avoid any more attention Nahualli hurried down the steep steps into the city proper and made his way to the camp. Saurian guards and Skink artisans exchanged gestures of goodwill with their Elven neighbours: palms open and raised in a symbol of passivity. Pushing through the unnatural racial confluence the city quickly adopted a façade of squalor: a labyrinthine market of the dispossessed welcomed Nahualli into its cramped and clammy innards. Furtively moving his hand into the satchel he consulted the Azyrite orb once more. Noting the small changes made to the Elven patrols Nahualli adjusted his direction for the least probable path of confrontation. Head down, he weaved his way through the market. The Elves had brought many curiosities with them, and their ramshackle market reeked of arcane potency. Stalls lined the streets, hanging from them ivory trinkets and alabaster amulets. Potions of rich and sweet scents were brewed from familiar ingredients ensorcelled in foreign ways and fermented using odd equipment. Scrolls clustered the decks of each stall, their exotic and elegant symbols pricking at Nahualli’s sorcerous instinct. However what he needed was far more precious, far more potent, and lay deeper in the Elven camp. Following the route through numerous alleys of hastily constructed wood and stone, Nahualli finally came across his destination – trailing ribbons floated ethereally from an infirm house. Cautiously Nahualli approached. His body ached with tension; weight leant heavily on the balls of his feet. He had to be discreet and effective. The door was likely to be secured and any sign of attempted entry had to be reduced. Instead he grasped one of ribbons in his claws and, slowly, winched himself up. His arms ached still from gripping the pestle, but he had become well accustomed to entering buildings through such unconventional means. Reaching a window he placed his palms against its roughshod surface – locked. It was of little matter: the buildings were hastily constructed and joints weak. Delicately balancing his toes on the frame, Nahualli placed his shoulder against the window and heaved upwards. It lurched open. Nahualli slipped inside. A strong mingling of smells greeted him. Dust drifted lazily through the air, winking in the many colourful motes of light that penetrated the fluttering ribbons. Nahualli flared his nostrils: one odour was familiar. Tracing the scent, the Skink found a room scattered with half-eaten foods, trailing charms, and rough icons of the Elven gods. Small carvings, like that of toys, were strewn across the floor, chairs, and cot. A sudden shift startled Nahualli. From out of the gloom a long and slender figure had suddenly risen. The Elf looked as startled as he did. “You weren’t supposed to be here…” Nahualli cursed himself. He had relied too much on the orb for guidance. Nahualli noted that the Elf was without armour. The next step would be considerably easier. Stepping forward Nahualli made the gesture of goodwill to the Elf. The Elf was clearly perturbed but, as Nahualli had anticipated, the Elf was also clearly aware of their delicate situation as guest in the city. The Elf returned the gesture, flourishing his palm outwards. Nahualli made his move: as the Elf raised his hand the Skink turned on his heel and threw his cloak. In the same moment Nahualli unsheathed his blade and thrust it into the confused cluster of robes. Leaping backwards the Elf cast off the robe with a decisive motion. Nahualli felt his heart begin to thunder – the odds would’ve been against him given the Elf’s superior agility. Would’ve been, had Nahualli not found his mark: a red curve had traced itself across the Elf’s thigh, the stain spreading as he eyed his assailant up and down. Nahualli pushed forward, confident in his holy blade. But, though wounded, the Elf was still far more agile. With a deft sweep Nahulli’s arm was caught. Pain flared in his wrist. Nahualli’s blade dropped to the floor. Locked together the pair struggled. Dust swirled in eddies about their heads. Shards of colour cut across them as the ribbons fluttered in distress. With a sudden bend in the Elf’s knee Nahualli found himself on his back. He scrambled to right himself but already the Elf had leapt on top him, Nahualli’s dagger in hand. The Elf’s grip resisted any of Nahualli’s attempts to escape. With every moment the blade slowly pierced the air, arduously closing the gap between the dagger’s tip and Nahualli’s throat. Eyes bulging, Nahualli grasped frantically for something, anything. The Elf’s eyes were peeled and wild, and he pushed his weight down on the dagger. Nahualli’s claws touched something cool and hard. He flung it against the Elf’s head. Nahualli felt a hard smack and the Elf was briefly stunned. Nahualli hit the Elf again, knocking him to the floor. Jumping upon him Nahualli locked the Elf between his thighs and grasped the object in both his claws: the Azyrite orb. Raising it above his head Nahualli threw it down with all his strength, smashing the blunt orb into the Elf’s face. He brought it down again. And again. And again. Bone cracked, blood pooled, and azure fractals danced across the room. The sound changed from crack to a wet crunch; the panicked flailing became a twitch. When Nahaulli finally stopped all that remained was a fine chunky red paste, all distinguishing features erased. Shakily Nahualli dropped the orb, its azure surface winking between thick red smears. Picking himself up Nahualli reminded himself of his objective, and made his way over to the cot. A delicate light shrouded the small, chubby features of the babe inside. Likely a blessing made under one of their false gods. Such wards were effective against the malevolent chaotic powers, and the common Skaven soldier would find little success in trying to break it. The Elf’s father had made much anticipation of a Skaven attack, but such magics neglected those powers sourced from that other to Chaos. Nahualli swept the babe up into his satchel: the thick scale and leather easily muffled the babe’s cries. The child may acquire some bruises on the way back to the shrine, but fortunately nothing considerable – Nahualli couldn’t do with the babe being too damaged or even killed on the way back. He needed it pristine, relatively. ** Shadows danced erratically across the walls, violently fracturing and merging in the flicker of the rejuvenated fires. Nahualli briefly stopped his churning and reached into the red vase, full once more. He poured the viscous slop into the basin. Nahualli was satisfied: he had been able to grind a considerable amount of the mixture. Soon the lather would be complete. Feeding off the rising excitement, Nahualli couldn’t help but reflect on the next few steps. He imagined himself dressed in dripping red, the final incantations of Sotek echoing about the spawning chamber. As the ancient rites would end he would enter the spawning pool and receive the god’s majesty. Tehenhauin would return and the ratspawn would be purged from the land once more, as in the days of old. Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk. Spoiler: Text and Tea with Slanputin - "Serpent's Brew" I find thew most interesting characters those who struggle with moral decisions in order to achieve their goal. Heroes are the great for emphasizing this struggle, with bold champions once firm in their belief that they were a force for good realising the world isn't as black and white as they'd hoped. This story plucked at that struggle, but instead of the character finding their decisions abhorrent I wanted the audience to feel it. I could of course do both, however by having a character so gripped by his ideology that they're remorseless in the pursuit of the goals, that the means justifies the end, creates an alienation from the audience and sharpens the level of discomfort with the "means". Thus, I chose to follow an antihero along the vain of "shoot the dog". This manifest in a simple conundrum: a city is under attack. To save the city, innocents must be killed. It's a classic "lose few to save many" moral conundrum dressed in scales. The main character believes he's doing something good, that will save his people and others, but it involves doing something many would find abhorrent. I don't think killing babies would be past any Lizardmen - a "lose few to save many" isn't a conundrum for them: they identify what's most valuable to the Great Plan (e.g. saving a Slannn) and they act. However it is a conundrum for the audience, and I hoped the alien nature of the Lizardmen would be empaphised and create additional layer of discomfort. Interestingly, a few of the audience comments on this piece assumed the character was mad, and had thought the ending would be improved with other Lizardmen finding Nahualli in his moment of insanity. This was interesting as I hadn't considered Nahualli to be insane at all. He was a priest with a divisive opinion, whose fringe ideology had pushed him underground (this was approached in his conversion with Teotoca.) As above, infanticide was just a tool. Leaving the success of the ritual ambiguous meant that the story itself was focused on the means, that which i wanted to challenge the audience, than possibly justifying his work. Inspiration: a scene in the not-horror-but-supernatural-family-drama 2015 film "The Witch" inspired the book-ending scenes, making me appreciate the use of repetitive sound to push a point.
I love the Author notes! I alreafy gsve my review of the story, which I can transport here, but it is interesting that people believe he had gone mad. I suppose it's our first reaction to assume that the guy working buy himself in a small lab is somewhat crazy. That and stealing something he knows to be precious from an ally, you may see him as being mad, or driven. The fact that the potion might not work occurs to the audience, as this is not a first attempt, this is a work in progress really does get you to focus on the means of making it. Once again brilliant work on this, and thank you for sharing your thoughts and notes.
Glad you reposted this. It got one of my votes along with my heartfelt desire that you move onto lighter material. Mostly I'm happy because I get to re-post this, of which I am inordinately proud (mostly of my depiction of the ripples)
Kin and Master “Your brother’s in trouble. And I mean real trouble." “What’s he done now?” “Damn you. He’s your brother. There’s some very bad people after him.” “That’s not unusual for him.” She answered with a pause. “Reps” she said, finally. “Holy Morr. Reps? Really? Reps? Holy - what’s he done?” “I need you to get him back to me.” “No way, I’m not gettin-“ “I need you, to get him back, for me.” “I ain’t in that line of work anymore, mom.” “The hell you ain’t, Jahns. Whilst you were out murderin’, your brother was working his business-“ “Business? He’s a dealer.” “Working. His. Business. Morr saves, why you boys so competitive? At least Bjorn gives me that gold, helped me get the manse, got me a life: what did you do? Murdered for petty cash. Spilling blood ain’t good for gold, it ain’t helping your family. Family’s what matters here. You can’t escape your blood. You help your brother, you help me.” … Bright slices of fluorescence painted their own geometry across the plaza: pinks and blues redefined temple angles, merging step and sculpture within fierce neon glare. Giant text scrawled across the shuffling bodies, faces briefly highlighted by projections of the daily news. Above, great psionic plaques disseminated propaganda: “report foreign products, friend and family”, “report all heresy, friend and family”, “report all criminal activity, friend and family”, “your life is your city, your city is ours”. Jahns hurried out of the plaza. Hidden under his jacket his old long-knife and pistol were feeling worryingly comfortable at his side; he was going to escape this city one day. Jahns followed the narrower streets to the Red Quarter. Reps didn’t usually go there: an old artisan quarter, it was far enough from the sacred and martial regions to be ignored by most Reps. If it didn’t bind to their religion the Reps usually got rid, but the bosses out here paid enough tithe to keep it running. Reps were smart but they were narrow-minded: as long as the piece fitted it didn’t matter how many grubby hands it had to pass through first. Bjorn had few hangouts his people didn’t know, and none would be safe from the Reps for long. They were efficient and resolute, especially in murder. They were methodical though, and if Bjorn shared as much brains as he did blood then Jahns knew exactly were his brother could hide-out the longest. Overhead lights blazed from the ancient watchtowers, their red glare swallowing the Quarter’s narrow streets. Red walls, red clothes, red eyes. Only the doorways offered some escape. Glinting eyes and the burning nubs of cigarettes followed Jahns through the street from their shadowy refuge. Occasionally one would step out, sometimes selling food, sometimes spice, sometimes the vague promise of fun. Jahns slowed, tasting the air: the faint tang of salt. He turned and hurried down a curving alley, its narrow walls yawning into a small square. On the other side was an old salter’s cabin, built from when the first traders were allowed to settle on the Lustrian coast. Jahns cautiously clambered up to a small window. Nudging its old frame it popped open and, gingerly, he clambered inside. Shafts of red light intersected the attic, exposing its furtive contents: furniture, old clothes, and mounds of poorly wrapped-paper packages. Jahns felt like he was peering through the slats of a wagon, or the bars of a prison. Something bounded of the shadows, caught piecemeal by the red light before vanishing again: suddenly a torso, a flash of leg, the glint of a knife. Closer and closer. Jahns whipped the pistol out from his jacket and stepped into the light. “Bjorn” he hissed. The person stopped, wavering with momentum. “Jahns. The hell you doing here? ” Jahns lowered his pistol, still uneasy he kept his thumb on the hammer. “Bjorn, we need to go.” “Woah now, buddy. I ain’t heading nowhere. These guys after me-“ “The Reps.” Bjorn paused, stepping forward, a red shaft illuminated half his face, the other half still lost in shadow. Dark lines of concern creased his features. “Reps?” Jahns returned the look. “Yeah…?” “Holy Morr, you serious Jahns? Reps? Oh, Sigmar’s mother. Reps? I’m going to die. I’m going to die” Jahns swore. How did he not know? “I’m going to have my heart on an altar.” “Listen, Bjorn.” Jahns gripped his brother by the shoulders. “Listen…” “Morr take me, I’m not ready to get cut up like that.” Jahns grabbed him by the chin. “Look at me Bjorn. You’re not going to die. I’m taking you to mom.” Bjorn paused again, incredulity spreading across his face. “You’re joking?” Jahns shook his head, he hadn’t the time for this. “We’re going to mom. You’ll be safe. That place is like Altdorf. And mom’s got her claws into so many guys high up - you can hide out in luxury, right?” Jahns could see the cogs slowly whirring: fight or flight, freedom or family. Jahns knew his brother wouldn’t survive long without help, and so did Bjorn. “Fine. Let me grab my gear.” Bjorn scurried over to a dim corner and hastily threw on a satchel, scooping up the many loose coins and pouring them in, the gold catching the crimson glare. “Bjorn, we don’t have much time.” “Yeah, I know. I know” Bjorn mumbled as he stuffed as much paper packages in his bag as possible. “If I lose this spice I’m dead. Well, even deader.” He chuckled nervously. “Jahns, you know she’s using you?” Bjorn asked, “She even paying you?” Jahns ignored him and slipped out of the window. Carefully they eased their way down the cabin, Bjorn taking his time to steady his satchel as he reached the bottom. “Oh, holy…” In the middle of the square stood a tall figure, taller than any man. It was still save for the rhythmic flick of its tail. Its shadows spreading as compass points, clawing up the sheer buildings. “Listen, Bjorn” Jahns whispered, so quiet he was barely making a sound. The square was so silent he was sure the Rep could still hear him. “Bjorn, you won’t die here. I won’t let you. When I run, you get the hell out of here, yeah?” “Yeah, no worries Jahns: I can run fast even with this.” Bjorn patted his satchel. “You know a safe path?” “I ain’t survived this long without a good few escape routes.” “Alright.” Jahns’ hand hovered over his jacket: he had enough distance for one good shot, but no doubt the Rep would sprint as soon as he unholstered his pistol. He could easily miss. Rep scales were like armour too, he couldn’t even guarantee the shot would wound. No, he’d have to go straight to swordplay. Jahns drew his long-knife and launched himself at the Rep. The sound of Bjorns feet echoed across the square. Blue scales flashed as the Rep lunged in response, its toothed blade unsheathed and flashing through the air. The Rep ignored Jahns’ threat and thundered straight for Bjorn, its monstrous shadows mimicking the violent motion. A crescent flashed and red glittered. Gold span and chimed across the square. Gutted packets emptied clouds of spice. Bjorn’s steps still echoed about the square, the only corpse the tattered remains of his satchel. Jahns covered his mouth from the loosed clouds: now was not the time to get spiced. The Rep, unaffected, stood still – the spice billowing over its body as a shroud – its head turned to eye the human dashing towards him. Jahns leaped, throwing his momentum behind the knife. Then a sudden movement: Jahns’ blade locked in the teeth of the Rep’s blade. The Rep quickly twisted his arms, arcing the blade and wrenching Jahn’s long-knife free. Jahns watched in blooming terror as his weapon spiralled away from him. The Rep, knife still spinning through the air, lunged forward and ran its fist into Jahns’ head. Jahns blinked. Red. Red walls. Red eyes. He wiped the blood trickling from his forehead and pushed himself up, head spinning. The square was empty. But he was alive. Somehow. He needed to catch up to Bjorn, he needed to beat the Rep. … Towering above the Red Quarter and straddling one of the cities bridges rose mother’s manse. Its sharp edges were highlighted by blues shafts as if presented by the adoring river below. Only the ancient temples rose higher. The image was spoilt by the Red Quarter, its glare bruising much of the manse. The manse’s walls were patrolled by private militia, intimidating all but foolish men and the resolute. There was no frenzy of activity. Wherever the Rep had gone, it wasn’t there. Unnerved, Jahns itched to reach his family. The threat of the Rep would’ve been disseminated throughout the security and paranoid guards would only slow him. There was a secret passageway under the bridge used for covert business. It was used only sparingly in case some pragmatic or murderous rival caught notice, but Jahns couldn’t risk delay. Near the peak of the manse was mother’s office, positioned at the confluence of corridors and antechambers. Doused in ambient blue, it gave Jahns the uncomfortable feeling of descent, of sinking through deep oceanic tunnels. Even the windows were tinted to block out the Quarter’s light. Mother’s office was shut by old, bronze doors adorned with writhing figures. Supposedly a celebration of life, the contorted bodies were hellish in the light – souls tortured in icey depths. Jahns caressed the firm handle of his pistol. Family reunions were never pleasant. He entered. Letters fluttered about the room. Chairs were knocked over. Mother lay sprawled, her abdomen bloodied. Her eyes open and still. Bjorn jumped to his feet, tightly gripping a wet knife. “Sigmar’s – the hell have you done Bjorn?” Jahns whipped out his pistol and slammed down the hammer. Bjorn raised his hands, still gripping the knife. “Woah, Jahns, let’s not – listen. I had to. You saw – that Rep sliced up my gear: all that gold, the spice- the revenue. I’ve already got people after me-“ “Morr’s name, she’s your mother Bjorn!” “I didn’t want to, Jahns. I didn’t. Please. I gave her all this: this house, her life. Everything. I made her a tycoon. You know her – she used you Jahns, she always has – and she wouldn’t give me anything. Trust me: nothing. I need gold. I need it.” Jahns’ arm trembled and he cursed under his breath. He took aim. Bjorn moved forward. “Morr’s – Jahns. Listen to me. I lost so much gold. I need to survive. We need to survive-” Shoot him. Bjorn took another step. “I’ve got a Rep on my tail, I got people expecting pay. I’m big league but I need to keep people happy-“ Shoot him. Another step. “I can make it go away. She has so much stashed. It was mine anyway-“ Shoot him. One more step. “Gods, Jahns, I’m your brother!” His finger was frozen on the trigger. Jahns swore and pushed the hammer back in place. Mother was right after all. Jahns was knocked down, pistol spinning away. Bjorn was thrown across the room, knife clattering to the floor. His body flung against a window. A web of jagged light spun across the glass, cutting up the room with shafts of red. Bjorn crumpled forward, a glittering spray of glass cascading about him. Jahns stared at his brother, wondering if such inhuman strength could kill so easily. Bjorn coughed up some blood, a shallow breathing followed. Not quite. Jahns scrambled at his pistol and pointed it at the assailant: emerging from the doorway was the Rep. Its cobalt scales magnified in the ambient blue light. The Rep had become the colour. The pistol shook in Jahns' hand. Pathetic. He was frozen, eyes locked on the Rep. He glanced out of the shattered window. It was a long way down, but he could escape. The Rep moved. “How did you get in?” Jahns asked in reflex: keep him busy, keep him away. The Rep passed Jahns without looking, wading through the neon shafts: blue then red then blue again. Its gaze fixed on his prey. “Vigilance” it replied, coolly. Jahns found himself lowering his gun. His muscles ached. He was tired. “What you going to do with me?” Jahns replied. The Rep hoisted the bodies over it shoulders. Blood spilled down its scales. “You? You’re nothing. A hired killer, one of a million in this city. Now these-” the Rep patted the bodies, “these will make news: an infamous dealer and corrupt tycoon brought down in a night. A spice family imploding. Chaos from humanity. Your kind are going to be shaking tomorrow.” The Rep cocked its head in something Jahns suspected was akin to satisfaction. “Didn’t even have to wet by blade either.” The Rep nodded at the letters fluttering across the room. “Your spawn-queen didn’t even question the tip. No hot-blood is going to ignore that kind of threat, especially to their spawnlings. You hot-bloods and your vices: this is why you’re bottom rung.” It turned to make for the door, before pausing and titling its head slightly in Jahns’ direction. “Family, right? That’s what you call it, your spawn-brood?” Jahns nodded. “You’re going to have a tough one: guilt by association. You can’t escape your blood. Expect a call from the Temple Inquisitors tomorrow. If you’re lucky they’ll get you working some life debt: you’re going to be in this city a while yet hot-blood. Remember: you are the city, and the city is ours.” The Rep started walking. The red light creeping down its head, back, and tail until it had left the room. Its cobalt silhouette blurred with the ambient light, disappearing like some oceanic monster. Only the bloodied bodies of his family were visible, floating in blue void. Jahns looked back out of the shattered glass. It was a long way down, but he could escape. All the Reps in the city would be after him, but he could escape. Bjorn was alive, but he could escape. Jahns stood up and swore to himself, clicking the hammer down on his pistol. Spoiler: Text and tea with Slanputin - Kin and Master Here I wanted to explore abstract themes of slavery. Social bonds, for example, can chain someone in a way physical manacles can’t. Here I had three themes: family, capital, and society. Family was the main theme, hence it was the main character’s “chain”. Frequently invoked as wholesome or sacred, in reality family is complex and ripe for vague morality – easily to abuse, a vector for cultural hierarchies, and often a medium for transactions which may present individuals with unpleasant but necessary actions which they would feasibly otherwise ignore outside of the family unit (a mundane example: dinner with unpleasant relatives may be socially unacceptable to spurn, whilst the inverse is true with wider society - it’s not expected for people to tolerate unpleasantness in strangers.) Additionally, as much as one might not have been asked to be born, family is an involuntary social structure most people a joined with. In this sense it erodes individuality. This erosion of the individual is what undermines Jahns in the end: he accepted no payment, he allowed himself to be cajoled out of retirement, he rushed and used the manses’ secret entry rather than the secure route (the Rep got in through ‘vigilance’, implying it entered using the same method), he couldn’t avenge his mother due to brotherly ties, and similarly he couldn’t escape and leave his brother in the Rep’s hands. (This being the internet I feel I should add I'm not anti-family in anyway, but everything has a dark side worth exploring!) Capital was the second theme of slavery, and was the secondary character’s shackles. I thought there was a nice conceptual face-off between money and family here: where family removes the sense of individual by shackling them to an externally enforced construct, money cements the idea of individuality as material wealth becomes directly associated with ones actions. I.e. Jahns’ story was one of external drivers, whilst Bjorn’s was internal – it was about preserving his life and identity. The mother was less of a character and more a narrative motor, however she completed the family drama and so represented a union of both themes: her death was brought from the two themes of family and money working to together; both her love for money and her sense of family drove the events which led to her murder. Society was the final theme, however how it was presented it could be easily exchanged with municipality. This theme book-ended the entire piece – the world was introduced as authoritarian regime where citizens are constantly exposed to propaganda, dedicating large paragraph to show how propaganda was the main tool of control. As with most of my writing I like my environments to by psycho-geographical, so a merging of geometries and people under artificial light was supposed to mirror how the city, and its people, where shaped by the propaganda machine. It wrapped up the story by showing how the whole drama was a ploy by the Lizardmen to create propaganda, a spectacle to leave the humans “shaking.” In the end, Jahns was enslaved to a far greater chain than family – the Lizardmen-governed society. His commitment to family forged even greater chains to this society by how the Lizardmen presented his family through the media. I thought the ending was bittersweet: Jahns was left in a worse position socially through the Lizardmen’s use of his family chains and, despite his option to escape, his commitment to family pushed him to chase the lizard into what we can assume would worse circumstance. However he also used the chain of family as a tool to rage against the Lizardmen, unwilling to bow down to the Lizardmen’s will – by clicking the hammer on his gun it’s implied he’s willing to fight, to chase the Rep. I left the ending vague however, as I wanted the reader to make up there won mind what choice he'd take (for example, there were some suicidal overtones which I accidentally discovered on a re-read after leaving the story to bake for a week.) Influences: Suspiria (1977), Akira (1988), J.G. Ballard, Nicolas Refn. Bonus: original draft My original story was different from the final entry, focusing on slavery to pre-destination and the mind, particularly it's ability to become myopic and focused on a particular though process. It followed the journey of a Skink Priest looking for the final two first generation Slann in Lustria to save them from the impending Chaos invasion. Going into their temple he enters a life-sized replica of the real-world, discovering it was built as an experimental model through which the Slann could simulate the best way to fight off Chaos. For it to be a true replica and account for all parameters they also made a replica-world within the replica-world. The story followed the Skink Priest going through tautological replica-worlds representing different futures. This was primarily inspired from watching the films “Children of Men” and “Synecdoche, New York.” The story itself far was too large a scope for a short story, but the surviving elements of a) an abstract notion of slavery, and b) the description of a futurist plaza made it through (then a representation of the last vestige of the Lizardmen's techo-magical height before their fall.)
This is the part that got me, the story was brilliant and fascinating, and this line showed not only a corrupt society, but that kind of thought process that runs like a maze to really destroy someone. That is what makes the reps in this story great villains.
I'm glad it did! The filling of the story was really the family drama, but is was the lizardmen's machinations that sandwiched the whole thing together. What did you think of the ending? I couldn't decide how to end it for a long time.
The ending is in my opinion absolutely brilliant. It's the best kind of open ending, as it leads the reader to come up with their own version of what happened next. In movie terms this would be an amazing way to leave it. Possible sequel bait, but with the added bonus of 3 possible means of death for the protagonist sparking the internet fan theories.
Gun cocked, Jahns jumps through the window. He's a loose cannon with nothing to lose. He may not be able to take down the Reps, but he'll get blood for blood and a swift death, before the inquisitors get to him.