Glisterspeck
Frozen sea axe smith
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2007
- Messages
- 489
In the critiques of my first chapter, the majority hinted that they'd continue reading, but if the next chapter had the same feel, they'd put the book down. Naturally, I thought I should probably post my next chapter then, see how the pair works as a set!
Same basic questions: would you read on after this chapter? Does the lack of detail around newly introduced concepts put you off or pull you in? Is the description level better here? More clear? Also, any general critique is always welcome! I know it's long for a critique. Hopefully, it's not dull...
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The Ovelyn
The green honey tea, viscous and bitter, coated Myra’s throat. Her lips grew numb. Her tongue, heavy. Her body began to float, untouched by the ark built around her couch, untouched by the couch. She floated above the fleece coverings and embroidered pillows that covered the couch, above everything, apart from everything. She floated in blackness, unknowable, unknown.
Why had she drunk so much? The executor who had prepared the tea before Myra left the capital had told her never to drink so deeply, but once she had started, she could not stop. The itching had grown unbearable. Her belly itched, and her palms itched, and the soles of her feet itched. The executor had told her not to scratch, to drink the honey tea instead. So she had.
Myra sighed. The itching had passed, but another sensation lingered, far away, inside her belly. The Ove fluttered there. Myra touched her rounded belly.
What should an itch matter to an Ove-bearer? Myra should not dwell upon such trivial discomforts, but recall, instead, the awe that had swept over her in the convent when she had first felt the Ove move. The marvel of a living thing living inside her, sharing her breath, her blood. Could she be worthy of such a gift? The Ove kicked again, harder than before.
"The Ove speaks,” whispered Myra.
With an unsteady hand, she reached for the wall of her ark. The Ove’s kicks were strong. Where was the executor? If Myra were to be blessed with a vision from the Ove an executor would be required to interpret. Myra could not. It was not an ovenlyn’s place to do so.
The carved wall of the ark fell away at her touch. Each of the ark's paneled walls fell away. The gilded panels and silk roof were whisked into a whirlwind that carried the couch up into the sky.
Myra shaded her eyes. For six months, she had been cloistered inside her ark. For six months, she had not seen the full light of day. But it was not day. The army had camped for the night. The Ove’s boundless sight, it had taken her somewhere. Where?
Beyond the whirlwind's blur, ice-bound mountaintops vanished into clouds that weighed heavily upon a bright, still sky. The Ove turned inside Myra, and Myra knew where the Ove had brought her. Her couch hovered near the Celestial Pillars, the twin lords of all mountains and home of Brackmeer, the demon city. Where was the executor? He would want to know that the Ove had brought her to Brackmeer.
The whirlwind stilled. The circling walls fell. Myra pulled herself to the edge of the couch. Like a leaf floating on the wind, the couch spiraled down after the plummeting walls. Myra looked from Brackmeer, far below, to the peaks of the Celestial Pillars above, and she saw both the city and the mountains at once, as though there were no limit to her vision and she could see what lay before her, above her, below her, and even behind her, all in one great, sweeping view.
She had to remember every detail, for she could not possibly know which facet of the Ove’s vision might help the executor unravel its mysteries. A river of ice as broad as any river in all the valleys of the cordillera split the Twin Lords. The river plunged down between the shrouded peaks, through a chasm that zigzagged from pillar to pillar to descend on Brackmeer like a streak of blinding, frozen lightning. Only a jagged spur, the headwall beneath which Brackmeer huddled, kept the river from crushing the city under its flow. The city's many terraces, each a tangle of alleys and tumbledown buildings, were carved from the face of the headwall, deeply undercutting the spur.
Myra knelt on the couch. She wrapped one arm over her breasts, the other, around her swollen belly. She could hardly feel her flesh, bare and trembling beneath her arms. She could barely feel her arms. Never had the tea affected her so. She had drunk too deeply.
Far below, the walls of the ark splintered against a monumental stairway of granite steps, a white, meandering scar that the city bore from terrace to terrace, then threw over a great wall and down a steep ramp of scree, into the waters of a black lake. A fort constructed of makeshift rafts and boats, each lashed to another, floated in the lake. Siege engines hurled burning pitch over the great wall, and everywhere, smoke billowed up from Brackmeer. The smoke reeked of death and death’s cry echoed from the walls of the valley.
“It is only a vision,” Myra whispered. “That I must witness and remember.”
Men charged up the wide steps, past the dead and the dying, through the gates of Brackmeer, into the fire. Myra rocked forward and stared down into the rising smoke. She had to remember it all. She was strong enough to do so. She would prove she was worthy to carry an Ove, to bear witness to Medavea’s Will.
The smoke stung Myra’s eyes. The Ove moved inside her, and a hushed song fell over Brackmeer. Myra's all-seeing vision was fading; she had to look toward the chasm above the headwall to find the singer. A gern-demon, barely distinguishable in the shadow of the pillars, stood on a treacherous path that climbed alongside the ice river.
The Ove kicked, and Myra could understand the words of the song. The gern-demon offered a lament for Gernrik, the name the demon folk used for their city. The grim melody bore a sadness not altogether unfamiliar to Myra, the longing for a home now lost, the sorrow of total solitude.
The song rang from the valley walls and became one with death's cry, a great drone that shook Brackmeer, shook the great and constant mountains, shook the very air. Myra trembled. The Ove twisted inside her. She should not care about the gern race. They were demons, formed of the Naught. Myra did not care.
Myra squeezed her belly, wiped a tear from her cheek, and toppled over the edge of the couch. She fell, and the black smoke enveloped her. The smoke thickened, filling her nostrils, and the wind whipped ashes against her bare flesh, causing her to itch. She coughed and kicked and flailed her arms. She screamed.
A white form rushed up through the blackness. Myra braced herself to meet the white steps, to smash into granite, to shatter as the gilded walls of her ark had shattered.
Her flailing arms swept aside a thick fleece. Her fists pounded against the ark's walls. Myra lurched sideways and sat up on her couch, gasping for air. Just overhead, gold torchlight filtered through the silk shroud that covered her ark.
"What is it, Om Ovelyn?" It was Hurekine’s voice. Even though she remained cloistered and holy inside the ark, unknowable and unknown, Myra covered her face with the ivory veil that hung from her turban.
"The Ove has spoken, captain. We must speak to an executor. The Will of Medavea must be made known."
Myra's fingers trembled as they played over a pearl that dangled from the hem of her veil. Why had she fallen from the couch? Was it a lingering effect of the tea? Perhaps the Ove willed it. It was not because she was weak. And not because she was moved by the demon's song or the loss of so many men on the stair. That could not be. She was not weak.
"The High Lord Executor Jacus,” said Hurekine, “has trekked through the night to announce your coming at Brackmeer, Om Ovelyn."
Hurekine stood between the torches and the ark. His bulk cast a great, black shadow across the silk shroud, which formed the ark’s ceiling. Hurekine, captain of the Tuskul Guard. Hurekine, her protector. Hurekine.
"We must follow,” said Myra. “We must go now to Brackmeer. We must deliver the Ove's vision."
Hurekine’s shadow slipped away as he turned from the ark. The torchbearers followed Hurekine, and the torchlight that had played across the sheer silk gave way to meager moonlight.
“The Ove has spoken!” Hurekine shouted to his men. “We decamp for the demon city before dawn. There, the Ove’s vision will be heard by the Grand Executor himself, Lord Gom oc Deoc, who waits for us on the shores of Lake Brackmeer."
Same basic questions: would you read on after this chapter? Does the lack of detail around newly introduced concepts put you off or pull you in? Is the description level better here? More clear? Also, any general critique is always welcome! I know it's long for a critique. Hopefully, it's not dull...
__________________________________________________
The Ovelyn
The green honey tea, viscous and bitter, coated Myra’s throat. Her lips grew numb. Her tongue, heavy. Her body began to float, untouched by the ark built around her couch, untouched by the couch. She floated above the fleece coverings and embroidered pillows that covered the couch, above everything, apart from everything. She floated in blackness, unknowable, unknown.
Why had she drunk so much? The executor who had prepared the tea before Myra left the capital had told her never to drink so deeply, but once she had started, she could not stop. The itching had grown unbearable. Her belly itched, and her palms itched, and the soles of her feet itched. The executor had told her not to scratch, to drink the honey tea instead. So she had.
Myra sighed. The itching had passed, but another sensation lingered, far away, inside her belly. The Ove fluttered there. Myra touched her rounded belly.
What should an itch matter to an Ove-bearer? Myra should not dwell upon such trivial discomforts, but recall, instead, the awe that had swept over her in the convent when she had first felt the Ove move. The marvel of a living thing living inside her, sharing her breath, her blood. Could she be worthy of such a gift? The Ove kicked again, harder than before.
"The Ove speaks,” whispered Myra.
With an unsteady hand, she reached for the wall of her ark. The Ove’s kicks were strong. Where was the executor? If Myra were to be blessed with a vision from the Ove an executor would be required to interpret. Myra could not. It was not an ovenlyn’s place to do so.
The carved wall of the ark fell away at her touch. Each of the ark's paneled walls fell away. The gilded panels and silk roof were whisked into a whirlwind that carried the couch up into the sky.
Myra shaded her eyes. For six months, she had been cloistered inside her ark. For six months, she had not seen the full light of day. But it was not day. The army had camped for the night. The Ove’s boundless sight, it had taken her somewhere. Where?
Beyond the whirlwind's blur, ice-bound mountaintops vanished into clouds that weighed heavily upon a bright, still sky. The Ove turned inside Myra, and Myra knew where the Ove had brought her. Her couch hovered near the Celestial Pillars, the twin lords of all mountains and home of Brackmeer, the demon city. Where was the executor? He would want to know that the Ove had brought her to Brackmeer.
The whirlwind stilled. The circling walls fell. Myra pulled herself to the edge of the couch. Like a leaf floating on the wind, the couch spiraled down after the plummeting walls. Myra looked from Brackmeer, far below, to the peaks of the Celestial Pillars above, and she saw both the city and the mountains at once, as though there were no limit to her vision and she could see what lay before her, above her, below her, and even behind her, all in one great, sweeping view.
She had to remember every detail, for she could not possibly know which facet of the Ove’s vision might help the executor unravel its mysteries. A river of ice as broad as any river in all the valleys of the cordillera split the Twin Lords. The river plunged down between the shrouded peaks, through a chasm that zigzagged from pillar to pillar to descend on Brackmeer like a streak of blinding, frozen lightning. Only a jagged spur, the headwall beneath which Brackmeer huddled, kept the river from crushing the city under its flow. The city's many terraces, each a tangle of alleys and tumbledown buildings, were carved from the face of the headwall, deeply undercutting the spur.
Myra knelt on the couch. She wrapped one arm over her breasts, the other, around her swollen belly. She could hardly feel her flesh, bare and trembling beneath her arms. She could barely feel her arms. Never had the tea affected her so. She had drunk too deeply.
Far below, the walls of the ark splintered against a monumental stairway of granite steps, a white, meandering scar that the city bore from terrace to terrace, then threw over a great wall and down a steep ramp of scree, into the waters of a black lake. A fort constructed of makeshift rafts and boats, each lashed to another, floated in the lake. Siege engines hurled burning pitch over the great wall, and everywhere, smoke billowed up from Brackmeer. The smoke reeked of death and death’s cry echoed from the walls of the valley.
“It is only a vision,” Myra whispered. “That I must witness and remember.”
Men charged up the wide steps, past the dead and the dying, through the gates of Brackmeer, into the fire. Myra rocked forward and stared down into the rising smoke. She had to remember it all. She was strong enough to do so. She would prove she was worthy to carry an Ove, to bear witness to Medavea’s Will.
The smoke stung Myra’s eyes. The Ove moved inside her, and a hushed song fell over Brackmeer. Myra's all-seeing vision was fading; she had to look toward the chasm above the headwall to find the singer. A gern-demon, barely distinguishable in the shadow of the pillars, stood on a treacherous path that climbed alongside the ice river.
The Ove kicked, and Myra could understand the words of the song. The gern-demon offered a lament for Gernrik, the name the demon folk used for their city. The grim melody bore a sadness not altogether unfamiliar to Myra, the longing for a home now lost, the sorrow of total solitude.
The song rang from the valley walls and became one with death's cry, a great drone that shook Brackmeer, shook the great and constant mountains, shook the very air. Myra trembled. The Ove twisted inside her. She should not care about the gern race. They were demons, formed of the Naught. Myra did not care.
Myra squeezed her belly, wiped a tear from her cheek, and toppled over the edge of the couch. She fell, and the black smoke enveloped her. The smoke thickened, filling her nostrils, and the wind whipped ashes against her bare flesh, causing her to itch. She coughed and kicked and flailed her arms. She screamed.
A white form rushed up through the blackness. Myra braced herself to meet the white steps, to smash into granite, to shatter as the gilded walls of her ark had shattered.
Her flailing arms swept aside a thick fleece. Her fists pounded against the ark's walls. Myra lurched sideways and sat up on her couch, gasping for air. Just overhead, gold torchlight filtered through the silk shroud that covered her ark.
"What is it, Om Ovelyn?" It was Hurekine’s voice. Even though she remained cloistered and holy inside the ark, unknowable and unknown, Myra covered her face with the ivory veil that hung from her turban.
"The Ove has spoken, captain. We must speak to an executor. The Will of Medavea must be made known."
Myra's fingers trembled as they played over a pearl that dangled from the hem of her veil. Why had she fallen from the couch? Was it a lingering effect of the tea? Perhaps the Ove willed it. It was not because she was weak. And not because she was moved by the demon's song or the loss of so many men on the stair. That could not be. She was not weak.
"The High Lord Executor Jacus,” said Hurekine, “has trekked through the night to announce your coming at Brackmeer, Om Ovelyn."
Hurekine stood between the torches and the ark. His bulk cast a great, black shadow across the silk shroud, which formed the ark’s ceiling. Hurekine, captain of the Tuskul Guard. Hurekine, her protector. Hurekine.
"We must follow,” said Myra. “We must go now to Brackmeer. We must deliver the Ove's vision."
Hurekine’s shadow slipped away as he turned from the ark. The torchbearers followed Hurekine, and the torchlight that had played across the sheer silk gave way to meager moonlight.
“The Ove has spoken!” Hurekine shouted to his men. “We decamp for the demon city before dawn. There, the Ove’s vision will be heard by the Grand Executor himself, Lord Gom oc Deoc, who waits for us on the shores of Lake Brackmeer."
Throughout the day, I've been wavering back and forth on it, so when I finally get some beta readers, I'll probably do it both ways: some literary A/B testing, I suppose. My biggest reason for leading with Unkel is because I end with him, but I also want to get a quick bit of action in before this longer, more descriptive piece. Anyway, many thanks! I'll be giving this suggestion serious thought.
