Brys
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2005
- Messages
- 813
You don't need to have read any of the rest of it for this to make a difference, and it doesn't have any spoilers in, so don't be put off from critiquing on it. It's pretty influenced by Harrison's Viriconium and Mieville's Perdido Street Station, so this part is pretty much urban fantasy. It isn't finished yet, but it's at a more or less good place to stop. I wrote this today, and any advice you can give would be great (though I'll warn you now, this is mainly an atmospheric bit, so major characters aren't really involved here).
A place of grandeur, of majesty, a symbol of glory, of independence. Its great marble minarets, its exquisite palaces, the beautiful stuccoed cornices, the spraying fountains where lovers would sit idly and converse for hours, their soft, gentle laughter a song of contentment. The curving stairways that led nowhere yet went to all places, forming an ostentatious sculpture, a puzzle for intellectuals, a triumph for the people. A bright sun casting its bountiful rays, illuminating the great city. A park, green, arboreal, serene. Regal statues of heroes dominated the central plaza, the entrance to the parliamentary buildings. The great figurines of long dead heroes guarded the gates to the city, ever vigilant, swords at one side. Enter through the eastern gate, and you will see the rising noble stature of the ancient library. As you climb its spiralling staircase, you see its graceful, elegant pillars that hold up the pyramidal roof, the immense wooden doors. Inside, books on all subject matter, collected from time immemorial stand, of vellum, parchment, papyrus, slate, bark – all are used, a display of the history of writing.
Entering through the western gate will show you the grandiose sight of the national museum, a haven for the past. Visitors stream through, gazing at the incomprehensible objects that are their legacy, reading the signs below that explains, and embellishes, what these were. Flowerboxes line the classical houses which make up the streets of the merchants quarter. Aromas pervaded through the great market, foreign incenses, delicate, exotic cuisines, the musty smell of precious antiques. The ever constant melody of merchants trying to entice you, each of a subtly different tone and pitch. Guards in richly decorated uniforms, marching through the palatial courtyards.
This is Libar.
Sprawling slums, polluting factories, sewer-filled rivers, degenerate buildings, decaying mud caked paths. A dilapidated wasteland, the aging industrial centre which continues to churn out useless goods and contaminating smoke in equal parts by a slaving populace on a starvation wage. A starving, naked child twisting, turning in the cold night outside the factory, her parents still working, though dark is long past. Canals wind through the city, man-made walls trapping, taming the febrile beast that is the river. Each year, when the heavy rains come, it floods. The houses that line it are filled by the poorest. It is filled with the refuse of the city. The river splits the city in two, creating an isthmus. The rich discard their unwanted belongings into it, a ritual that takes place once a month, without fail, an offering to the gods of the city. They cast in votive tablets, praying for some gift or cursing some enemy.
It is this world the faint moonlight reveals, the dark side of the city. Small wooden canoes cruised along the wide canals, their two-sided paddles cutting into the filth of the river. At seemingly random times they would stop, reach into the water and pull out some grimy object with glee. As dawn approached they would paddle to a bridge, or small riverside building, enter the structure, and sleep. These, the scrabblers, as they were known, were a vital part to the city. When the moon was gone, and the darkness complete, they would come out, nervously, together to the great market and set out their wares, carefully cleaned. Their smell made them easy to find. They bargained with unscrupulous figures, the desperate, those wanting a quick solution to their finance problems. There was a barter system, for the scrabblers had no use of money. On those rare occasions someone wanted to clean their part of the canal, the scrabblers would be contacted, given something, often as simple as a brush, an empty bottle, a length of rope – which were great sources of wealth within their community. The next day the area would be immaculate, for a few days, before returning to its original state. The government would always claim their enthusiasm for removing the scrabblers, but they could not be exterminated. They were distasteful, but essential.
In the dark alleyways, you hear a scream, quickly silenced. A young man, throat slit, lies in the gutter. A man and a woman walk smugly away from the scene, the man wearing an expensive dagger at his side, the woman, a collection of golden jewellery across her body. Further away, in the Serpentia, a duel is taking place. An old man, wearing only a loin cloth, holds his dagger as if it is life itself. He has fought well, every night for the past ten years. His only way to survive is to kill his opponents, though that serves his employers who he hates more than anyone else. He feels age creeping up on him, and knows now that it is only a matter of time until he dies, that he must escape now to experience life’s few pleasures. But he does not.
Across from him on the opposite edge of the chalk circle is a squat, muscled man in his early thirties. He smirks, and the dagger is in his chest. Blood pours down the arrogant mans chest and he is shocked, his own dagger now lying on the ground beside him. Today is not the old mans death, though he wished it was. He was trained to survive, to kill – he could not kill himself, or let himself die. He was a great find for the employers, an efficacious murderer. Coins changed hands. Presiding over the duel, standing on a peculiarly shaped stool, was the leader of this underworld. No one knew how he gained his position, and no one challenged him. Instead, they fought amongst themselves, trying to gain his favour, to gain the ultimate position below him, and when they reached that place, they would betray him and kill him. However, none had been cunning or intelligent enough so far.
In another, nameless street a hooded man waited. He saw his man approach. A richly dressed aristocrat, wearing an incongruous dinner jacket, walked nervously, eyes flickering from side to side. As he arrived, immediately they began to bargain.
“This is good stuff. Straight from Ralas. 1000 markel for a load.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I shouldn’t be here, no, I can’t do this, I can’t. But it demands, I need it, I need it. But I need my money, I can’t pay 1000, I can’t. But I must, I must. No, I must stop, I said I’d stop. Please help me, help me to stop…”
“Shut up and pay up. I’m not here to listen to your damned problems. 1000 markel” he interrupted.
“500, that won’t be too much, I could live with 500, I could survive, no one would know …”
“800. I won’t go lower, and you have to have it, *******.” As he spoke, he filled a syringe with a tiny quantity of the black, viscous liquid and thrust it into him. His eyes suddenly lit up with pleasure and he gasped, loudly. He handed over the money, took the dose, the syringe and the tablets. He walked to a dark corner, put a tablet in his mouth and drew out languorously a huge dose of the liquid, injected it. He moaned and gasped with ecstasy as his mind was slowly obliterated by the drug, replaced by psychedelic hallucinations and a sense of perfect contentment that only the young innocents and drug addicts can experience. The dealer looked down on him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Mechanically, in an almost detached way, he placed another tablet in his mouth, injected another dose. His groans got louder. His body convulsed violently.
“****, I gave him too much” murmured the dealer. He began to run.
Behind him reality was starting to bend, the magic of the okra starting to work. The hallucinations of the noble were starting to force their way into reality. The stonework of the houses oscillated violently. A clump of brickwork hit the cobbled road loudly. The floor rose and fell, like a heart beating. A strong wind flew back and forward from the aristocrat. The air changed, colours whirled, acrid smells arose, acidic liquids dripped surreally from the walls, eroding all they touched, grass sprouted from the floor, then turned into dancing flames. The dealer was now growing, changing. Suddenly he could no longer move his legs, they became a part of the ground below him. His body was slowly changing to stone, his eyes burned with an angry fire. He died soundlessly. Then it was over. The damage was mercifully constrained to the slum. The aristocrat now snored peacefully, as if nothing had happened. This was the addicts quarter, as known to some, the artists quarter, to others. The artists worked with clay, paint, and stylus by day, with reality by night.
This, too, is Libar.
The two cities live together, inextricably intertwined. They are the epicentre of the city-state. Nothing happens that does not go through Libar, the heart. The Libari are proud, paradoxical, hypocritical – as all people are.
