D-E-M-Emrys
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2012
- Messages
- 73
Hey all,
Sorry to bother you again. Thanks for the critique on the original chapter. I took everything you said on board, the main points being:
1) Hint at something larger even this early in the story (I struggled to get it in the first 1500 words before).
2) 'Cancer' as a disease. Not cancer itself, but the name.
3) Lack of emotion.
4) Lack of conflict.
5) Heavy on the telling side.
5) Routine - as priests they should have some sort of structure to their day (I didn't elude to this at all, though in my head it was there, d'oh).
So, I went back to the drawing (read: writing) board and threw something new together.
I hope you don't mind me posting this reworked piece, and yes I did cut it fine at 1500 words, but I hope that you'll forgive me!
Many thanks,
D.
“If I die today, will you still come here to watch the phoenix?”
“Psst, mother. You won’t die today.” Standing behind her, Osar draped the shawl around her frail shoulders and kissed the top of her head. What little hair she had left was plastered to her scalp, the sickly sweet aroma of medicinal herbs clinging to it.
Wheezing, she twisted on the stone bench and looked him in the eye. “Ossy, we all die. That’s why life is so precious – it passes us by in the blink of an eye.” Her clammy hand cupped his cheek. “Why look at you, all grown up, handsome and strong. I can still remember the day I gave birth to you. Sixteen years seems like just yesterday. I was the same age as you are now.”
Turning back to the horizon, red dawn before the sunrise, she chuckled to herself. “You were an ugly baby.”
Osar circled the bench, hiking-up his yellow vestments to step over the rubble of a collapsed sandstone pillar. “You are a wicked woman,” he scolded, failing to hide the ghost of a smile as he knelt before her.
“I look like an old crone, and I’d hate to disappoint by acting any other way.” She winked. “Besides, if not for this disease, I’d still have the looks of my age and the other priests would’ve long forsaken their vows.”
This time her mirth was strangled by a wet cough, wracking her entire body. Gasping for breath, tears tracing her hollow cheeks, she clutched to her chest, lost somewhere beneath the folds of her threadbare gown.
When at last the fit subsided, Osar offered his hand to her. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine. Too dry a day.” She rasped, shrugging the shawl from her shoulders and balling it in her lap. “Why’ve you wrapped me in this anyway? Have you forgotten that there’s a desert outside the walls of this city?”
Osar gestured with his extended hand. “Mother.”
“Too curious for your own good.” She rolled her eyes, but reached out to him all the same. “Fine, but don’t tell me what you see. I’m better off not knowing.”
Their fingers met, and as he closed his eyes the barriers of flesh faded away. Around them the world turned an absent shade, somewhere between black and white, but not quite grey. The stone bench, the fountain to his right, the pillars circling the ruins, even the monumental ziggurat that housed the temple itself – all lost their colour on the manaplains. The sounds of the priests waking for morning prayer echoed from a world away. He could see them moving through the gardens around the ruins, their silhouettes aglow with life, like stars in the night. Those with magic shone all the brighter, their manaseeds a lantern in the nether.
Harnessing a strand of magic from the light of his own manaseeds, Osar extended it towards his mother. The tumour in her breast was no larger than his thumb, but it cast a shadow over her heart that muffled its erratic beat. Probing the tumour with the mana strand, as a surgeon might with his fingers, Osar sighed with relief.
‘No better, no worse.’ The thought was somehow comforting. ‘You’ll see the phoenix again tomorrow.’
“Ossy, look!”
Her voice pulled him back to the present. She pointed to the east as the sun broke over the horizon. “Here it comes.”
Over the temple’s outer wall a shape took to the sky. From where Osar sat at his mother’s feet, he watched the phoenix spiral ever higher, its song drifting through the heavens. As it reached its zenith, no more than a faint outline before the sun, it burst into flames, golden feathers showering the city below.
“Now, I can die happy.”
Before Osar could reply, the gong boomed from the fourth level of the ziggurat, shaking very the earth. Dust plumed within the ruins, and a lopsided pillar shifted with the grating of stone.
“It’s dangerous sitting here.” Osar gained his feet. “Why don’t we watch the phoenix from the rock gardens, tomorrow?”
“Because there’s a bench here – and if we sit in the rock gardens I’ll have priests pestering me with well wishing.” She shooed him. “Go on, off with you. I want peace and quiet without you fussing over me.”
Osar snatched the shawl from her lap and cloaked her legs with it. “Stay here, I’ll take you back to bed once I’m finished.”
She pulled him back as he turned to leave, beckoning him close.
When she smiled, colour blossomed on her lips, cheek swelling with new life, and the ravages of the disease gave way to the woman he remembered her from when he was a child.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, pointing to his chest. “I’ll always be here.”
* * * * *
Osar joined the priests shuffling through the Vault’s doors. A pair of beardless, shaven-headed novi manned the way, swinging incense lanterns and chanting in hushed tones. Subconsciously his hand went to his own head, feeling the short bristles in much need of a razor. As a meji he was permitted a single-point chin beard, but so far his efforts to grow one had produced only whiskers.
Rubbing at his chin, deep in thought, his gaze roamed up the ziggurat to its highest point, the greened-copper dome. Five tiers of sandstone blocks, each larger and wider than Osar was tall, made up the ziggurat, navigated by steep steps. A testament to the Golden God’s splendour, the levels were lined with statues of former Archsaji and Kings. Over the large double doors leading into the Vault, the temple’s banner stood watch over the priests – a five pointed golden star on a white background.
As the last of the priests filed into the Vault, the novi pair laid down their incense lanterns and heaved the doors closed, though careful to leave a definitive opening. Osar smiled to himself. ‘The doors to the house of the Golden God are always open.’
With ritual familiarity, everyone took their place around the Vault. Not for the first time Osar marvelled at the inner workings of the temple. Though the ziggurat was built on even stepped levels, the Vault within was a perfect dome, smooth walls adorned with murals of temple history at eye-level, overlooked by little yellow birds in flight. At the point where one had to look-up, the birds flew no higher, and in their place stars decorated the curved ceiling. There were no windows in the Vault, and the only light came from the opulus at the dome’s apex. A single beam of sunlight shone through the opening, striking the great amber-veined crystal that was suspended from the ceiling by golden chains. Dizzying reflections danced around the Vault, impossible to follow though Osar had tried as a child.
Beneath the crystal, at the heart of the Vault, Archsaji Ponti stood atop the marble dais, arms outstretched in welcome. Bathed in light, Ponti likened to the Golden God himself, as powerful in frame as he was in office. His vestments were thrown wide, displaying a broad chest and a wide silk sash about his middle. Like the other saji, he sported the five-pointed beard, though his was oiled and gloriously dark, defying the onset of age. In truth he looked more the warrior than a man of worship, but it was that strength that of body and faith that earned his position.
Once the priests had settled into their concentric circles around the dais, Ponti turned slowly on the spot to survey them all. Osar felt a thrill as the Archsaji’s gaze passed over him, as if the magic in his veins pulsed with fresh energy.
“Before we begin this morning’s prayers…” Ponti’s deep voice reverberated through the Vault, seemingly everywhere at once. “…I have news of the Opel invasion.”
A murmur passed through the congregation, but Ponti quelled it with a hand. In the silence the double doors creaked on their hinges.
“The city is rife with rumour. Some say the Opel horde has laid siege to Taasur. Others claim they have made it as far south as the Iaria Bridge. Whatever the fate of our countrymen, we shall pray for those outside the Golden City.”
The doors crashed open, the deafening resonance amplified within the dome. Dust clouded over Osar and those nearest the back, and he was forced to cover his eyes with a hand to see.
“Do not pray for those that are already doomed!” An unseen voice boomed through the echoes of the crash. “Pray for those you can still save, including yourselves.”
Spluttering, Osar spun around with the other priests at the ringing of steel and booted feet on stone. A rank of Paladins blocked the entrance, tower shields locked, Morningstaff polearms bristling.
One of the Paladins broke rank and stepped forward. The full-face helm muffled his voice, but the words were not lost on Osar.
“Taasur has fallen...”
Sorry to bother you again. Thanks for the critique on the original chapter. I took everything you said on board, the main points being:
1) Hint at something larger even this early in the story (I struggled to get it in the first 1500 words before).
2) 'Cancer' as a disease. Not cancer itself, but the name.
3) Lack of emotion.
4) Lack of conflict.
5) Heavy on the telling side.
5) Routine - as priests they should have some sort of structure to their day (I didn't elude to this at all, though in my head it was there, d'oh).
So, I went back to the drawing (read: writing) board and threw something new together.
I hope you don't mind me posting this reworked piece, and yes I did cut it fine at 1500 words, but I hope that you'll forgive me!
Many thanks,
D.
____________________
“If I die today, will you still come here to watch the phoenix?”
“Psst, mother. You won’t die today.” Standing behind her, Osar draped the shawl around her frail shoulders and kissed the top of her head. What little hair she had left was plastered to her scalp, the sickly sweet aroma of medicinal herbs clinging to it.
Wheezing, she twisted on the stone bench and looked him in the eye. “Ossy, we all die. That’s why life is so precious – it passes us by in the blink of an eye.” Her clammy hand cupped his cheek. “Why look at you, all grown up, handsome and strong. I can still remember the day I gave birth to you. Sixteen years seems like just yesterday. I was the same age as you are now.”
Turning back to the horizon, red dawn before the sunrise, she chuckled to herself. “You were an ugly baby.”
Osar circled the bench, hiking-up his yellow vestments to step over the rubble of a collapsed sandstone pillar. “You are a wicked woman,” he scolded, failing to hide the ghost of a smile as he knelt before her.
“I look like an old crone, and I’d hate to disappoint by acting any other way.” She winked. “Besides, if not for this disease, I’d still have the looks of my age and the other priests would’ve long forsaken their vows.”
This time her mirth was strangled by a wet cough, wracking her entire body. Gasping for breath, tears tracing her hollow cheeks, she clutched to her chest, lost somewhere beneath the folds of her threadbare gown.
When at last the fit subsided, Osar offered his hand to her. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine. Too dry a day.” She rasped, shrugging the shawl from her shoulders and balling it in her lap. “Why’ve you wrapped me in this anyway? Have you forgotten that there’s a desert outside the walls of this city?”
Osar gestured with his extended hand. “Mother.”
“Too curious for your own good.” She rolled her eyes, but reached out to him all the same. “Fine, but don’t tell me what you see. I’m better off not knowing.”
Their fingers met, and as he closed his eyes the barriers of flesh faded away. Around them the world turned an absent shade, somewhere between black and white, but not quite grey. The stone bench, the fountain to his right, the pillars circling the ruins, even the monumental ziggurat that housed the temple itself – all lost their colour on the manaplains. The sounds of the priests waking for morning prayer echoed from a world away. He could see them moving through the gardens around the ruins, their silhouettes aglow with life, like stars in the night. Those with magic shone all the brighter, their manaseeds a lantern in the nether.
Harnessing a strand of magic from the light of his own manaseeds, Osar extended it towards his mother. The tumour in her breast was no larger than his thumb, but it cast a shadow over her heart that muffled its erratic beat. Probing the tumour with the mana strand, as a surgeon might with his fingers, Osar sighed with relief.
‘No better, no worse.’ The thought was somehow comforting. ‘You’ll see the phoenix again tomorrow.’
“Ossy, look!”
Her voice pulled him back to the present. She pointed to the east as the sun broke over the horizon. “Here it comes.”
Over the temple’s outer wall a shape took to the sky. From where Osar sat at his mother’s feet, he watched the phoenix spiral ever higher, its song drifting through the heavens. As it reached its zenith, no more than a faint outline before the sun, it burst into flames, golden feathers showering the city below.
“Now, I can die happy.”
Before Osar could reply, the gong boomed from the fourth level of the ziggurat, shaking very the earth. Dust plumed within the ruins, and a lopsided pillar shifted with the grating of stone.
“It’s dangerous sitting here.” Osar gained his feet. “Why don’t we watch the phoenix from the rock gardens, tomorrow?”
“Because there’s a bench here – and if we sit in the rock gardens I’ll have priests pestering me with well wishing.” She shooed him. “Go on, off with you. I want peace and quiet without you fussing over me.”
Osar snatched the shawl from her lap and cloaked her legs with it. “Stay here, I’ll take you back to bed once I’m finished.”
She pulled him back as he turned to leave, beckoning him close.
When she smiled, colour blossomed on her lips, cheek swelling with new life, and the ravages of the disease gave way to the woman he remembered her from when he was a child.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, pointing to his chest. “I’ll always be here.”
* * * * *
Osar joined the priests shuffling through the Vault’s doors. A pair of beardless, shaven-headed novi manned the way, swinging incense lanterns and chanting in hushed tones. Subconsciously his hand went to his own head, feeling the short bristles in much need of a razor. As a meji he was permitted a single-point chin beard, but so far his efforts to grow one had produced only whiskers.
Rubbing at his chin, deep in thought, his gaze roamed up the ziggurat to its highest point, the greened-copper dome. Five tiers of sandstone blocks, each larger and wider than Osar was tall, made up the ziggurat, navigated by steep steps. A testament to the Golden God’s splendour, the levels were lined with statues of former Archsaji and Kings. Over the large double doors leading into the Vault, the temple’s banner stood watch over the priests – a five pointed golden star on a white background.
As the last of the priests filed into the Vault, the novi pair laid down their incense lanterns and heaved the doors closed, though careful to leave a definitive opening. Osar smiled to himself. ‘The doors to the house of the Golden God are always open.’
With ritual familiarity, everyone took their place around the Vault. Not for the first time Osar marvelled at the inner workings of the temple. Though the ziggurat was built on even stepped levels, the Vault within was a perfect dome, smooth walls adorned with murals of temple history at eye-level, overlooked by little yellow birds in flight. At the point where one had to look-up, the birds flew no higher, and in their place stars decorated the curved ceiling. There were no windows in the Vault, and the only light came from the opulus at the dome’s apex. A single beam of sunlight shone through the opening, striking the great amber-veined crystal that was suspended from the ceiling by golden chains. Dizzying reflections danced around the Vault, impossible to follow though Osar had tried as a child.
Beneath the crystal, at the heart of the Vault, Archsaji Ponti stood atop the marble dais, arms outstretched in welcome. Bathed in light, Ponti likened to the Golden God himself, as powerful in frame as he was in office. His vestments were thrown wide, displaying a broad chest and a wide silk sash about his middle. Like the other saji, he sported the five-pointed beard, though his was oiled and gloriously dark, defying the onset of age. In truth he looked more the warrior than a man of worship, but it was that strength that of body and faith that earned his position.
Once the priests had settled into their concentric circles around the dais, Ponti turned slowly on the spot to survey them all. Osar felt a thrill as the Archsaji’s gaze passed over him, as if the magic in his veins pulsed with fresh energy.
“Before we begin this morning’s prayers…” Ponti’s deep voice reverberated through the Vault, seemingly everywhere at once. “…I have news of the Opel invasion.”
A murmur passed through the congregation, but Ponti quelled it with a hand. In the silence the double doors creaked on their hinges.
“The city is rife with rumour. Some say the Opel horde has laid siege to Taasur. Others claim they have made it as far south as the Iaria Bridge. Whatever the fate of our countrymen, we shall pray for those outside the Golden City.”
The doors crashed open, the deafening resonance amplified within the dome. Dust clouded over Osar and those nearest the back, and he was forced to cover his eyes with a hand to see.
“Do not pray for those that are already doomed!” An unseen voice boomed through the echoes of the crash. “Pray for those you can still save, including yourselves.”
Spluttering, Osar spun around with the other priests at the ringing of steel and booted feet on stone. A rank of Paladins blocked the entrance, tower shields locked, Morningstaff polearms bristling.
One of the Paladins broke rank and stepped forward. The full-face helm muffled his voice, but the words were not lost on Osar.
“Taasur has fallen...”
____________________
) 
