Siege of Gernrik - Introduction of the last POV character (1200 words)

[Glisterspeck]

First, thanks to all who have given feedback on the first three characters. It's provided we with some valuable insight that I'll continue acting on over the next few weeks. This, though, will be my last excerpt posted for critique from Gernrik for a while.

It's the fourth and final POV character introduction. The biggest question is still the same: would you read on? This chapter, like others, introduces world concepts without really explaining them. Is the level of detail enough? How close do you get into the character?

Of course, all other feedback is also welcome. Thanks, everyone!

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The Wizard

Anderot gazed into the orange glow of Gernrik's smelting furnace. He was supposed to be doing something. What was he supposed to be doing?

The furnace. A hollow dug into the stone wall of the foundry. The furnace proved that the gern creatures knew nothing of engineering. The smoke from the furnace, having no flue to escape through, billowed in the low ceiling vaults. The fumes stung Anderot’s eyes and filled his lungs, causing him to fall into terrible fits of coughing.

The gold. Anderot was supposed to melt the gold, yes, to roll wire for stitching. That was what he was supposed to be doing. Anderot held a gold kelesh, the last of the coins, in his hand. The crucible. There it was, on the edge of the furnace.

How idiotic must a race be to build a foundry, especially one beneath a mountain, without a flue? A better question: how could it be that a race so simpleminded and obtuse, how could it be that this race alone knew the craft that the Few must learn? A still better question: how was it that they of the Starlit Few, the vessel of the star, Virlanderotto, how was it that they had not yet learned the craft from these simple creatures?

It did not matter. They would learn. To do so required only that Anderot study the science of the creatures, yes, study their art, if it might be called such.

And time.

Yes, it would require time.

Time that the Few may not have, boy.

Anderot peered into the shadows of the foundry. How could a room so cramped have so many dark corners? It was all so poorly conceived, yes, so crudely built, the rat nest of tunnels and chambers the gern creatures had dug beneath Gernrik.

A sudden cough shook Anderot, and the gold kelesh slid from his palm. The coin clanked against the edge of the furnace and bounced to the floor. Anderot was supposed to be melting the coins, yes, rolling wire. Not fretting over the others. The stitcher needed gold wire, and the keleshe were the last of the gold, the final payment made by the Order of the Faith, or the Imperial Body, or whatever it was they now called themselves.

The College of Executors.

It was the voice again, the other.

“Yes,” mumbled Anderot. “The College of Executors.”

The executors. They had sent an army to negotiate new terms. An army. To negotiate terms! Most of the Few had been skeptical. Most were not surprised that the negotiations had failed.

"So far," mumbled Anderot. "The negotiations have failed so far, yes. But they will accept our terms. An empire cannot survive without salt."

And we, boy, can we survive without gold? The voice was less than a murmur. Take what gold they offer and be done with it. They will never surrender the Blind Eye, not for salt alone.

Anderot stared into the darkness that lay on all sides of the little room, just outside the orange glow of the furnace.

“They will bring the eye,” said Anderot. “They will give it to us, yes, for the salt.”

Will they?

Anderot located the source of the voice, the naysayer, the conscious thing inside his mind that was not his own, and he forced the thing back below the surface, back down with the rest of the Starlit Few. It would not be so hard to keep control of the others, yes, if he were not so weak. Hungry. Anderot had sent for eggs. Where was that foul creature with his eggs?

Anderot bent to pick up the coin, and great age bit at his back, at his knees. With some effort, he stood as straight as the Few’s ancient corpse would allow. A golden face stared up at Anderot from the kelesh he held in his palm.

"Ulpa oc Sarsut. So this is what they think you looked like, yes? You were never so handsome, Ulpa."

Memories of the first executor, memories formed nearly two thousand years before, surfaced. They were memories of memories, broken and unclear, belonging not to Anderot but to one of the others in the Few. Anderot’s hand moved to run stubby fingers through a long white beard, as it had for three millenia. The fingers fell, instead, against his scraped jaw.

"Accursed creatures," Anderot muttered. "How much we have sacrificed to be trusted by the gern, yes. Our dignity, our pride, our power."

A remnant of another surfaced. It was only a beard. Only a beard.

“Only a beard? Only a beard!”

Beneath his fingers, Anderot’s face twisted with rage. He seized the remnant, yes, held it below the surface until it slipped away, into the depths. Anderot's rage slipped away with the voice. He had dug his fingernails, grown long like gern claws, into his jowl. Now he ran his fingers up over his weighted earlobe, across his scalp.

"You would not know us either, Ulpa, if you lived to see us now. We are joined with our brethren in this imperfect vessel, yes, this fragile corpse. We have grown old and frail, and worse yet, made to look like one of these foul gern creatures."

The Few’s shriveled corpse was wrapped only in a loincloth. The corpse was too big to be mistaken for the body of a simple gern, yes, and it did not bear the extra limbs of the larger, engineered creatures. Still, Anderot had done all he could to appear like his hosts.

Both little fingers he had chopped off to make his hands look like gern hands. He had endeared the pain, yes, the agony of total castration. He had pulled out all but his back teeth. His earlobes he had stretched with weights until they nearly touched his shoulders. And he was shorn, completely, and covered in green tattoos. Not the swirling figures that covered most gern hides, but sharp, geometric forms, patterns of dots and lines, the alphabet of the Quickening, the stitches of the gern shaman, the stitcher, Anderot's master.

No! A different voice shouted. That ape is not our master. Our master is Virlanderotto, and Virlanderotto alone is our master.

“Yes,” said Anderot. “Yes.”

To your task, boy. The gold.

Anderot had forgotten. He was supposed to be melting the gold, yes, rolling wire. Anderot stretched out an arm that trembled uncontrollably, as it had for nearly a century. He opened his hand, and the gold kelesh fell into the crucible. The coin clinked against others like it, the last of the gold. Anderot’s gnarled hands wrapped around the rough surface of the crucible.

"You are no perfect vessel," Anderot said. "Yet, what perfection you produce, yes. What glory, what brilliance."

Anderot took a pair of iron tongs that leaned against the furnace, and with a grunt, he lifted the crucible and nestled it down into the coals. The crucible's color turned an ashy white. Anderot stared into its bowl. Ulpa oc Sarsut returned the stare.

Long ago, boy, Ulpa looked at us like this. With eyes glowing red-hot and fiery.

I too remember, thought another. I remember.

“Yes.”

 

[Bowler1]

The Wizard

Anderot gazed into the orange glow of Gernrik's smelting furnace. He was supposed to be doing something. What was he supposed to be doing?

The furnace. A hollow dug into the stone wall of the foundry. The furnace proved that the gern creatures knew nothing of engineering. The smoke from the furnace, having no flue to escape through, billowed in the low ceiling vaults. The fumes stung Anderot’s eyes and filled his lungs, causing him to fall into terrible fits of coughing. Furnace description No1

The gold. Anderot was supposed to melt the gold, yes, to roll wire for stitching. That was what he was supposed to be doing. Anderot held a gold kelesh, the last of the coins, in his hand. The crucible. There it was, on the edge of the furnace. – Gold description No1

How idiotic must a race be to build a foundry, especially one beneath a mountain, without a flue? A better question: how could it be that a race so simpleminded and obtuse, how could it be that this race alone knew the craft that the Few must learn? A still better question: how was it that they of the Starlit Few, the vessel of the star, Virlanderotto, how was it that they had not yet learned the craft from these simple creatures? Furnace description No2

It did not matter. They would learn. To do so required only that Anderot study the science of the creatures, yes, study their art, if it might be called such.

And time.

Yes, it would require time.

Time that the Few may not have, boy.

Anderot peered into the shadows of the foundry. How could a room so cramped have so many dark corners? It was all so poorly conceived, yes, so crudely built, the rat nest of tunnels and chambers the gern creatures had dug beneath Gernrik. Furnace description No3

A sudden cough shook Anderot, and the gold kelesh slid from his palm. The coin clanked against the edge of the furnace and bounced to the floor. Anderot was supposed to be melting the coins, yes, rolling wire. Not fretting over the others. The stitcher needed gold wire, and the keleshe were the last of the gold, the final payment made by the Order of the Faith, or the Imperial Body, or whatever it was they now called themselves. – Gold description No.2 – More gold later but was mixed with actions so they didn’t bother me so much.

The College of Executors.

It was the voice again, the other.

“Yes,” mumbled Anderot. “The College of Executors.”

The executors. They had sent an army to negotiate new terms. An army. To negotiate terms! Most of the Few had been skeptical. Most were not surprised that the negotiations had failed.

"So far," mumbled Anderot. "The negotiations have failed so far, yes. But they will accept our terms. An empire cannot survive without salt."

And we, boy, can we survive without gold? The voice was less than a murmur. Take what gold they offer and be done with it. They will never surrender the Blind Eye, not for salt alone.

Anderot stared into the darkness that lay on all sides of the little room, just outside the orange glow of the furnace.

“They will bring the eye,” said Anderot. “They will give it to us, yes, for the salt.”

Will they?

Anderot located the source of the voice, the naysayer, the conscious thing inside his mind that was not his own, and he forced the thing back below the surface, back down with the rest of the Starlit Few. It would not be so hard to keep control of the others, yes, if he were not so weak. Hungry. Anderot had sent for eggs. Where was that foul creature with his eggs?

Anderot bent to pick up the coin, and great age bit at his back, at his knees. With some effort, he stood as straight as the Few’s ancient corpse would allow. A golden face stared up at Anderot from the kelesh he held in his palm.

"Ulpa oc Sarsut. So this is what they think you looked like, yes? You were never so handsome, Ulpa."

Memories of the first executor, memories formed nearly two thousand years before, surfaced. They were memories of memories, broken and unclear, belonging not to Anderot but to one of the others in the Few. Anderot’s hand moved to run stubby fingers through a long white beard, as it had for three millenia. The fingers fell, instead, against his scraped jaw.

"Accursed creatures," Anderot muttered. "How much we have sacrificed to be trusted by the gern, yes. Our dignity, our pride, our power."

A remnant of another surfaced. It was only a beard. Only a beard.

“Only a beard? Only a beard!”

Beneath his fingers, Anderot’s face twisted with rage. He seized the remnant, yes, held it below the surface until it slipped away, into the depths. Anderot's rage slipped away with the voice. He had dug his fingernails, grown long like gern claws, into his jowl. Now he ran his fingers up over his weighted earlobe, across his scalp.

"You would not know us either, Ulpa, if you lived to see us now. We are joined with our brethren in this imperfect vessel, yes, this fragile corpse. We have grown old and frail, and worse yet, made to look like one of these foul gern creatures."

The Few’s shriveled corpse was wrapped only in a loincloth. The corpse was too big to be mistaken for the body of a simple gern, yes, and it did not bear the extra limbs of the larger, engineered creatures. Still, Anderot had done all he could to appear like his hosts.

Both little fingers he had chopped off to make his hands look like gern hands. He had endeared the pain, yes, the agony of total castration. He had pulled out all but his back teeth. His earlobes he had stretched with weights until they nearly touched his shoulders. And he was shorn, completely, and covered in green tattoos. Not the swirling figures that covered most gern hides, but sharp, geometric forms, patterns of dots and lines, the alphabet of the Quickening, the stitches of the gern shaman, the stitcher, Anderot's master.

No! A different voice shouted. That ape is not our master. Our master is Virlanderotto, and Virlanderotto alone is our master.

“Yes,” said Anderot. “Yes.”

To your task, boy. The gold.

Anderot had forgotten. He was supposed to be melting the gold, yes, rolling wire. Anderot stretched out an arm that trembled uncontrollably, as it had for nearly a century. He opened his hand, and the gold kelesh fell into the crucible. The coin clinked against others like it, the last of the gold. Anderot’s gnarled hands wrapped around the rough surface of the crucible.

"You are no perfect vessel," Anderot said. "Yet, what perfection you produce, yes. What glory, what brilliance."

Anderot took a pair of iron tongs that leaned against the furnace, and with a grunt, he lifted the crucible and nestled it down into the coals. The crucible's color turned an ashy white. Anderot stared into its bowl. Ulpa oc Sarsut returned the stare.

Long ago, boy, Ulpa looked at us like this. With eyes glowing red-hot and fiery.

I too remember, thought another. I remember.

“Yes.”

Would Gern not be a capital G if your referring to a specific creature?
The over used character name drove me to distraction, someone else has asked why you don’t use “he” more often. As it was just Anderot in this section, we really didn’t need his name used so much. Ditto furnace.
I’m not sure, but there doesn’t seem to be any mention of heat – none from the character I’m sure, which felt odd to me.
I’m not sure what this character is and this may be the point at this stage, but the repeated furnace and gold meant you had a slow start to the section. The ending had me wondering who he was etc. so the hook gets there, but by a confused route.

I really like the ideas you put on display, you show great imagination that keeps drawing me in. But more often than not I’m left baffled by all the information imparted. Good writing as ever, interesting in a confused way, but I’m not sure what’s going on if I’m honest. I think you need to be a little tighter, but achieve a lot more clarity and watch for repeats – all at the same time! I think you show flashes of style that are wonderful, but the whole picture is still not pulling together for me.

 

[Brian G Turner]

Echoed Bowler1's comments.

I'm also struck by the lack of immediacy. It seems the start of the scene especially can be interpreted as:

"Here I stand with nothing to do. What shall I do? What shall I think of? I know, I'll think of information that might be useful for the reader while I don't do anything."

Which is a real shame because there's an excellent attention to detail in there I tend to see only from quite advanced writers - which suggests that perhaps the character is lacking focus here because you are lacking focus on any kind of event to introduce them. And if you address that, should have a much stronger piece of work.

It doesn't need to be high drama - just not a sense of standing around - and more immediacy - and drop the info dumps and put them in later.

 

[Jo Zebedee]

So, I really like your writing style. I like that it's crisp, that there's a nice economy of words. But, I have really struggled to come close to any of the characters apart from the first one. I've also struggled to get a coherent sense of the world. I think I'd have been happier staying with one of them for a longer period and learning about their world. Having said that, I seem to be having more trouble with shifting povs than I used to. For me, reading on at this stage would be unlikely. I'm only bought into one of the characters, I am confused about where they all fit in the world. But I like the writing very much, so if you could get me to the point of caring a bit more about the characters, I would.

 

[Glisterspeck]

Thanks everyone!

Bowler, gern are a race of creatures. Unkel is a gern. I've also made gern both the plural and singular, like sheep, which may not be helping things. I have a ton of issues with when to cap things though. Particularly religious titles, like the Ove and the Ovelyn. Not sure if they should be capped or not.

I really don't have a reason not to use pronouns here. I'm probably just blind to the name, so I'll go through and thin it out. Thanks for opening my eyes to it.

Ayos has so many "Ayoses" because his prose has a very tight sentence pattern, with sets of three sentences. The first uses the proper noun for subject, the second, the pronoun, and the third omits the subject. Like so: Ayos fell against the rocks. He rolled down the slope. Tumbled through the ants. - Still, I could thin some of those out without breaking up that pattern. Each character has a prose hook like that, meant to align the narration to their thoughts. Anderot's prose uses "yes" throughout, almost as a conjunction.

I like the idea about having some overwhelming heat going on, but I'm not sure he'd notice the heat as he has a star trapped inside him.

Brian, thanks for having a look and the kind words about attention to detail. This character gets very fussy about details, in a way that I think would drive some readers batty. (I'm thinking of Springs here.)

You're actually really close in your interpretation of "Here I stand with nothing to do. What shall I do? What shall I think of…"

I need a way to get it from that, to: "Here I stand with something to do. What was I supposed to do? Oh, look at that, there's something that makes me think of how stupid the gern are, so I'll think about that until I remember that I have something else to do."

Basically, this character is a take on the forgetful wizard (in this case, he's also spiteful), and I'm trying to show that in the prose. He knows he's supposed to be doing something, but then he sees something that triggers a blurt of thought, and he isn't brought back to it until he sees something else. These triggers are those one word mentions. The furnace. The gold. (He has others inside him who have to remind him of what to do.) For me, he dwells on the stuff that feels expository because he disdains the gern, and yet, he must live among them. He's basically wallowing. Does the disdain come through at all?

A lot of his chapters involve tedious preparations for magic that follow this pattern, where he's doing something that is detailed, forgets what it is he's supposed to do next, and argues with the other personalities (for lack of a better word) that he carries inside. That bit becomes clear in the next chapter, but if I had a way to move your interpretation closer to the one I wrote above, I'd consider the chapter successful.

Springs, I've been worried about the shifting POVs. In this book, I max out at under 3,000 words per chapter, which is great for pacing the action, but I worry that you only start to get comfortable with a voice before it switches, sometimes to something radically different.

I kinda think of these four chapters as a unit, each giving details that should let the reader start to piece together the world. The valley and a wide view of the city are pretty well described (too much so for some ), but it happens in an unreliable vision. The appearance of the gern are described in this chapter, when Anderot considers what he has had to do to look like one. And so on.

What I don't have is a Watson. http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheWatson Without a Watson, I struggle to better define the world, because none of these characters would have a motive to do so: they're all in their normal habitat, dealing with their typical day to day.

With Unkel, the reason I believe the hook sinks in, is that I put his pet in danger and then show his reaction to it. Show he cares. With Anderot, I was hoping to do the same but the opposite, if that makes sense, by focusing on his disdain for the gern. (Anderot is my villain.) Is there a reason (a mechanic or approach) why you connect with Unkel and not the others?

Thanks all, for helping me with these characters. I've a lot of insight to act on (though, if you've not posted yet, I could always use more!). I'm going to be editing Unkel's chapters, but after that, I may let this simmer for a few months and move to another WIP. If so, perhaps I'll post the start of one of those sometime in the next week or so. I'm very curious now to whether those characters are more engaging.

 

[sknox]

If he's absent-minded, maybe you could have him acknowledge that. "Oh, I'm always forgetting things." You do it better though, okay?

You might also have much of the narrative be him talking to himself. He's talking himself *through* it. He does this a lot because he's forgetful and easily distracted and that's how he brings himself back to the task at hand.

You could also have him actually do something. Smelt the coin, rather than drop it. Even draw out a bit of wire. But always interrupting himself with extraneous details, eh?

 

[sknox]

Wait. Anderot's the villain? Sorry, but when I see absent-minded, I'm tended to smile and be tolerant and sympathetic, not pull back in fear. Is there a reason why he needs to be a forgetful wizard? A wizard with a steel-trap mind is scarier.