chopper
Steven Poore - Epic Fantasist & SFSF Socialist
Ok, here's another slice of the pie. This may seem a little confused, so here's the background: Cassia's father, Norrow, is telling a story to an audience gathered in the town square (so you have a story within a story, really). Cassia's job is to take money from the audience.
what i'm after here though, as much as anything else, is your feelings on the two characters introduced near the end of the piece - Meredith & the old man.
realistic? good descriptions?
(oh, and does the tale-inside-a-tale work? because as it is a book concerned with stories, the truth behind stories, and storytellers, i'm going to be telling a lot of tales....)
Sometimes Cassia wished she had been born a boy. Perhaps then she could try her hand at storytelling - at the very least she could shake this damned bowl without needing to disguise herself.
And maybe, just maybe, her father might actually like her.
He was done describing the fall-out of the Council of Lords now, moving on to Jathar’s desperate search down in the terrified streets of Stromondsea for a hero to lead the city’s armies against their besiegers. This gave him plenty of opportunity to digress into scenes of comedy or romance, inserting new, transitory characters as he wished; rehashing jokes or giving blow-by-blow accounts of gutter brawls. There could be a mysterious, doom-laden encounter with a disguised god, foretelling Jathar’s eventual end, or even a chance meeting with a fair maiden who would seek to woo him from his purpose. This was the meat of Norrow’s tales - the setting might change, the characters may differ, but if he really wanted to he could keep a story going for hours using his incidental scenes, never once losing the narrative thread or his audience.
Cassia hoped he wouldn’t stretch his tale too much tonight - she was hungry, and even though the invitation had to be double-edged she had started to look forward to Ma Almoul’s dinner.
One circuit of the crowd brought five small coins. Not a greatly encouraging haul so far, she thought. People did tend to be freer with their money towards the climax of a tale, perhaps because they thought they’d had something of value by then, but this was still disappointing by Keskor’s usual standards. She pushed her way between a pair of men deeper into the audience, working her way back around in the opposite direction.
“‘I shall lead your armies!’ cried a man who sat in the farthest, darkest corner of the inn, at a small table crowded with emptied tankards. The stools around the table held huddled, drunken figures, asleep in their reek, hiding behind their fears and cowardice.” Norrow strode around the cleared space at the centre of the crowd, his uncertain gait only half an act as he took on this new character.
Cassia was a little surprised by how quickly he had progressed his tale - a lot faster than usual, even given the meal he had been promised. She didn’t feel too unhappy though, even though she herself would now have to work with more speed.
“Jathar Leon Learth laughed heartily at the man’s words, for the man was unkempt and ragged, and he was clearly no hero. ‘You?’ he exclaimed. ‘But sir, what is your quality? You are a vagabond, sir! How will you lead even a latrine detail beyond these gates, let alone an army?’
“The decrepit old man rose from his seat and flung back his holed cloak, and now Jathar saw that he wore armour underneath. Battered and plain it was, with gouges and dents and scored lines that spoke loudly of the man’s long experience on the field of battle. And now that he looked more closely at this man, as he came forth into the light to make clear his challenge, Jathar saw too the scars upon the man’s flesh. And there, deep within his eyes, were older, more ancient wounds, that Jathar judged had never healed.”
Norrow stared fiercely into the crowd, as though daring each man to meet his gaze. “‘Look upon me, Jathar Leon Learth,’ this grizzled warrior said quietly. ‘I will not recite my pedigree to you, for this city would fall ere I finish. I can see the demons that war within your soul, that demand you surrender your courage to them. I can lead this army, sir; I can lead them into places where you will not tread. Look upon me, and tell me that this is not truth.’”
Cassia realised that she had not paid attention to her wanderings - she was close to where Rann Almoul and Hetch stood, and she ducked her head even further, hoping to avoid being seen. But both were hooked too deep within the tale and seemed not to notice as she passed just behind them.
Her eyes came to rest on a fine pair of leather boots: almost new by their look, low-heeled, and rising high up their owner’s legs, they bore the dust of the road but very little mud. She lifted her gaze, surprised to see such good workmanship here - why would anybody so wealthy stop in Keskor’s town square to hear a storyteller?
A narrow, emotionless pair of brown eyes stared penetratingly back down at her. They were set into a strong, chiselled face, with high cheekbones and an impressive aquiline nose. The man’s mouth and chin made her think of paintings of Pyraete she had seen in the few temples still dedicated to the god. His shoulder-length brown hair had been tied back in a tight tail to emphasise his decidedly noble features.
His clothing only reinforced his air of nobility: a clean white cotton shirt underneath his leather jerkin, and new breeches tucked neatly into the tops of his boots, with a thick woollen travelling cloak from which protruded the hilt of a large sword.
Cassia blinked and shook herself, suddenly aware that she was staring directly at the young lordling. She did the first thing that came to her mind, and presented her bowl, ducking her head again.
After a long moment in which nothing happened, she peeked back up again. The man’s eyes were still upon her, that slightly blank look unnerving her.
A faint chuckle came from the old man next to him - his companion, it seemed, but an odd pair they made if that was so, Cassia thought.
A full head shorter than the young lordling, the old man was weatherbeaten and lined, his hair thin and fading from grey to white. His nose had been broken several times, and a thick scar cut down his left cheek and through his lips, twisting his smile. His cloak was wrapped tight around him and he leaned on a thick staff, but something about the way he carried himself made Cassia think he had once been a soldier. His boots were certainly those that a cavalry officer might have worn, but they were just as weathered as the man himself.
“The girl seeks a coin, Meredith,” he whispered, his tones seeming to mock her.
Meredith turned his head slowly to regard the old man. “Why?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. Several men nearby half-turned at the interruption and Cassia winced, dreading hearing her father’s tale falter into one of his terrible tempers.
The old man opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind with an exasperated sigh and dug into his own purse, dropping two small coins into the bowl. Cassia bowed, relieved, and turned to hold the bowl out before the man on Meredith’s far side.
“And they always get it so wrong…” she heard the old man mutter under his breath as she hurried away.
what i'm after here though, as much as anything else, is your feelings on the two characters introduced near the end of the piece - Meredith & the old man.
realistic? good descriptions?
(oh, and does the tale-inside-a-tale work? because as it is a book concerned with stories, the truth behind stories, and storytellers, i'm going to be telling a lot of tales....)
Sometimes Cassia wished she had been born a boy. Perhaps then she could try her hand at storytelling - at the very least she could shake this damned bowl without needing to disguise herself.
And maybe, just maybe, her father might actually like her.
He was done describing the fall-out of the Council of Lords now, moving on to Jathar’s desperate search down in the terrified streets of Stromondsea for a hero to lead the city’s armies against their besiegers. This gave him plenty of opportunity to digress into scenes of comedy or romance, inserting new, transitory characters as he wished; rehashing jokes or giving blow-by-blow accounts of gutter brawls. There could be a mysterious, doom-laden encounter with a disguised god, foretelling Jathar’s eventual end, or even a chance meeting with a fair maiden who would seek to woo him from his purpose. This was the meat of Norrow’s tales - the setting might change, the characters may differ, but if he really wanted to he could keep a story going for hours using his incidental scenes, never once losing the narrative thread or his audience.
Cassia hoped he wouldn’t stretch his tale too much tonight - she was hungry, and even though the invitation had to be double-edged she had started to look forward to Ma Almoul’s dinner.
One circuit of the crowd brought five small coins. Not a greatly encouraging haul so far, she thought. People did tend to be freer with their money towards the climax of a tale, perhaps because they thought they’d had something of value by then, but this was still disappointing by Keskor’s usual standards. She pushed her way between a pair of men deeper into the audience, working her way back around in the opposite direction.
“‘I shall lead your armies!’ cried a man who sat in the farthest, darkest corner of the inn, at a small table crowded with emptied tankards. The stools around the table held huddled, drunken figures, asleep in their reek, hiding behind their fears and cowardice.” Norrow strode around the cleared space at the centre of the crowd, his uncertain gait only half an act as he took on this new character.
Cassia was a little surprised by how quickly he had progressed his tale - a lot faster than usual, even given the meal he had been promised. She didn’t feel too unhappy though, even though she herself would now have to work with more speed.
“Jathar Leon Learth laughed heartily at the man’s words, for the man was unkempt and ragged, and he was clearly no hero. ‘You?’ he exclaimed. ‘But sir, what is your quality? You are a vagabond, sir! How will you lead even a latrine detail beyond these gates, let alone an army?’
“The decrepit old man rose from his seat and flung back his holed cloak, and now Jathar saw that he wore armour underneath. Battered and plain it was, with gouges and dents and scored lines that spoke loudly of the man’s long experience on the field of battle. And now that he looked more closely at this man, as he came forth into the light to make clear his challenge, Jathar saw too the scars upon the man’s flesh. And there, deep within his eyes, were older, more ancient wounds, that Jathar judged had never healed.”
Norrow stared fiercely into the crowd, as though daring each man to meet his gaze. “‘Look upon me, Jathar Leon Learth,’ this grizzled warrior said quietly. ‘I will not recite my pedigree to you, for this city would fall ere I finish. I can see the demons that war within your soul, that demand you surrender your courage to them. I can lead this army, sir; I can lead them into places where you will not tread. Look upon me, and tell me that this is not truth.’”
Cassia realised that she had not paid attention to her wanderings - she was close to where Rann Almoul and Hetch stood, and she ducked her head even further, hoping to avoid being seen. But both were hooked too deep within the tale and seemed not to notice as she passed just behind them.
Her eyes came to rest on a fine pair of leather boots: almost new by their look, low-heeled, and rising high up their owner’s legs, they bore the dust of the road but very little mud. She lifted her gaze, surprised to see such good workmanship here - why would anybody so wealthy stop in Keskor’s town square to hear a storyteller?
A narrow, emotionless pair of brown eyes stared penetratingly back down at her. They were set into a strong, chiselled face, with high cheekbones and an impressive aquiline nose. The man’s mouth and chin made her think of paintings of Pyraete she had seen in the few temples still dedicated to the god. His shoulder-length brown hair had been tied back in a tight tail to emphasise his decidedly noble features.
His clothing only reinforced his air of nobility: a clean white cotton shirt underneath his leather jerkin, and new breeches tucked neatly into the tops of his boots, with a thick woollen travelling cloak from which protruded the hilt of a large sword.
Cassia blinked and shook herself, suddenly aware that she was staring directly at the young lordling. She did the first thing that came to her mind, and presented her bowl, ducking her head again.
After a long moment in which nothing happened, she peeked back up again. The man’s eyes were still upon her, that slightly blank look unnerving her.
A faint chuckle came from the old man next to him - his companion, it seemed, but an odd pair they made if that was so, Cassia thought.
A full head shorter than the young lordling, the old man was weatherbeaten and lined, his hair thin and fading from grey to white. His nose had been broken several times, and a thick scar cut down his left cheek and through his lips, twisting his smile. His cloak was wrapped tight around him and he leaned on a thick staff, but something about the way he carried himself made Cassia think he had once been a soldier. His boots were certainly those that a cavalry officer might have worn, but they were just as weathered as the man himself.
“The girl seeks a coin, Meredith,” he whispered, his tones seeming to mock her.
Meredith turned his head slowly to regard the old man. “Why?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. Several men nearby half-turned at the interruption and Cassia winced, dreading hearing her father’s tale falter into one of his terrible tempers.
The old man opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind with an exasperated sigh and dug into his own purse, dropping two small coins into the bowl. Cassia bowed, relieved, and turned to hold the bowl out before the man on Meredith’s far side.
“And they always get it so wrong…” she heard the old man mutter under his breath as she hurried away.
enthralling. I will tell you my impressions at first read. Since you mentioned in advance that it was Norrow speaking, I assume that was from previous context. (Else I would be confused by the pronoun "He" at the start of the third paragraph). To answer the question about the "tale within a tale", the only thing I might do is describe the scene a little more initially from Norrow's perspective (i.e. He looked out at the faces that varied in interest from anticipation to boredom. He responded by increasing the level of drama; a little more volume, a little more energy in each character's expression.) But that's just me - I might have a tendency to over-clarify as a writer. As far as the mention of Meredith & the old man at the end, I think it's fine if subtle is what you were going for. There's just the slightest hint that they may know or even have been part of the true story that Narrow is recounting. Question: Does this go after the part of chapter one you posted previously? (The part with the "bloody mule"?) Again, great stuff. I want a signed copy of the book. 
