Work in Progress
The temple complex was old, as old as the city itself; and the city itself was old beyond counting. In its initial expansion, Aegyptus had conquered the lands up to the Red Sea and since held them against all attempts to wrestle them away. At times, the armies of Judea or Babylon had come close and then the priests had packed up and left; but soon returned once the threat had receded.
The torches set next to the pathway flickered, highlighting the ancient hieroglyphs carved into the stone columns, whose caps were lost in the night. A gentle breeze made the flames waver and the shadows danced, seemingly alive. Weak-minded folk might have taken the spectres as the tormented souls of the long-buried builders come back to haunt the living. Such was the superstition and fear of the people of Thebes that none would dream of approaching the place of worship after sunset.
In his desire to get to the inner sanctuary, Thoth-Set hurried along the paved path between the pillars oblivious to a spectacle he’d witnessed many times. The summons had been explicit. He was required at once. It had to be grave for him to be disturbed in the middle of the night. He mentally went over the various possibilities. The hem-coven’s schemes were much like a net, if one part broke, there were other strands that could be pursued. There was one exception. Someone had betrayed them, and this had allowed Tiki to escape. He’d done what he could to repair the damage but still her flight rankled him. Despite his inquisitions, he still hadn’t found out who’d alerted her bodyguard. His spies had quickly informed him of her plans, but it had been too late by the time he’d gathered his assassins. It was but two weeks that he’d been forced to act precipitously as the ship she’d taken drifted out to sea on the current. The spell he’d cast that night had left him bedridden for three days. Treachery and being shown up to be weak were two things he’d never forgive the betrayer. When he finally caught up with him, the man would suffer a horrible and prolonged death.
His attention was drawn to the entrance to the inner part of the temple. There, two guards stood impassive. They might have been twins. Massive men with heavy staffs. He could sense their eyes were on him. He marched towards and then past them. They didn’t seek to stop him.
He proceeded into the hypostyle. After the jasmine scented night air, the interior smelled musty from the whiff of incense. Only two lamps held the gloom at bay, one near the entrance, the other at the far end. Most of his walk would be in darkness. His footsteps echoed as he made for the far glow where the pit was.
As he got nearer, a form detached itself from the ombre and blocked the door. Like the guards at the door, it held a long staff. Another guard. But the thought struck him: they weren’t allowed into the inner parts.
Thoth-Set didn’t break his stride and kept walking towards the door and the light. When he got closer the light didn’t blind him and, with a shock, he recognised the face of the individual in front of him. Theop, a wab priest who served Hem-Netjer-Tepi. What the high priest was doing sending his apprentice to meet him, he’d no idea. He knew the way intimately; he didn’t need an escort.
“Theop, what are you doing blocking my way? Stand aside.”
Theop raised the staff and commanded, “You are not to enter.” It was a threat.
Flash fiction: Fairy Lights
“If you go to the woods tonight
When winds blow, and moon is bright,
You may see a bird that is not right
Perched upon an old rowan tree.
Fireflies and fairies, it will be,
A dancing, all merry and glee…”
“Stop, Enid, that’s a silly childish song to be a singing tonight.”
“Clara, it’s true I tell you. I’ve seen it.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Come,” Enid did offer, “I will take you there.”
She took Clara’s hand and pulled her towards the dark woods.
At first Clara resisted, but then let herself be led.
Above them, the harvest moon drifted in and out of the clouds, colouring them silver.
Then beneath the trees, it was dim, but Enid led with sure foot. Under mighty oaks and past decaying trunks, they went, their feet stirring leaves, which rustled and crackled to the gentle rhythm of their stride. Deeper and deeper they went till ahead a faint light, like marsh gas aglow.
Clara tugged at Enid. “What’s that? I don’t like it.”
“That, you doubter, is what we came to find. Not a fairy ring but a fairy delight. See, they’re dancing in the moonlight.” She tugged. “Come, we should go closer.”
Clara resisted. “I’d rather not.”
“What are you afraid of? That they’ll cast a spell on you?”
“Yes.”
Enid laughed. “They’re like us.” She took a step and tugged Clara forward. “I’m going closer.”
“Oh, very well, then.”
Still holding hands, they approached the specks of light, a swarm of fireflies. Except the specks were fairies. They were dancing around a bird using intricate patterns that never seemed to repeat themselves.
How long they watched the frolicking, they didn’t know. All their attention was focused on the spectacle. It was as if they could read a story into the wild cavorting. A story of the elder races now banished from the world but given the night to return and remember when they did not have to keep hidden and confined.
The twirling grew wilder and wilder until…one of the fairies must have spotted them hiding in the shadows.
A ripple ran through the swarm, the dancing forgotten. They flew off in every direction.
“Oh!” Clara cried, “they’re going.”
“And so, must we,” Enid told her, “back home.”
They trudged through the woods, retracing their steps. The leaves didn’t rustle in the same way. Nor did the oaks seem as fine as before. The moon shone less bright.
By the time they’d got back to their burrow, the pale blue sky towards the east heralded the coming day and the rising sun.
Clara took one last look towards the forest. “I’ll miss them.”
“We must hide,” Enid urged, “the people mustn’t see us. They wouldn’t understand.”
She gently led Clara inside.
The First and Last Paragraph of the Story
We gathered in the woods on that afternoon in golden sunlight that streamed through autumn leaves turning our glade into a golden retreat. Never had it looked so beautiful, nor had Esther and Rachel. It would be a long time and a difficult journey before we once more could embrace. Each to her fate. Those fates that, the wise one says, are worse than death. Mine certainly was.
…
We hugged each other. How could it be possible? We'd survived against the odds. Against forces eldritch intent on turning us to their evil purposes. The sun speckled us in kaleidoscope colours through red, orange, yellow leaves. It was fall again, a whole year that felt more like a lifetime of pain and despair. But Esther and Rachel were there, and that's what counted. It would, however, be many more falls before we were able to look back on what had happened and not shudder.
Some work in progress
Eventually, she’d managed to acquire all the things she’d been asked to buy and, basket laden, she made her way back towards the mansion and whatever fate would befall her.
She was still within the precinct of the market when she spotted the soldiers, about ten of them and in their midst a tall negro, with his hands bound behind his back. They were pushing and shoving him forward. Many people stopped to watch. Tamarr knew what was coming. A public punishment. She wondered what he’d done to deserve such a thing.
All around her the crowd surged to see the spectacle. There was no question of her getting away as she was wedged firmly, her basket pressing uncomfortably into her bosom. She tried to shift it only to make matters worse.
The soldiers stopped at a post that had been erected as a stake to tie convicts where they could be lashed, or worse. One of them untied their prisoner and retied his hands to a ring set in the wood for that purpose.
One of the soldiers, better dressed than the others, addressed the crowd. “See today what befalls any slave who dare strike his master.” He turned away and motioned to another soldier. “Proceed.”
The man took a whip from his belt and whisked it around in the air making it snap. Then with a swing of his arm, the whip flashed across the negro’s back. In response, he groaned loudly. Tamarr noticed where the whip had flayed the man’s flesh blood was already welling up.
The whip snapped again. And again.
Tamarr could barely bring herself to look at the savagery. She closed her eyes. It was then she heard the murmur from those around her. One voice muttered, “This is Buneb’s doing. When Nefertiti ruled, she’d never have permitted this.” Another one answered, “Keep your voice down, you don’t know who’s listening.” But the first voice reposted, “Why do we put up with this?”
Tamarr opened her eyes and tried to spot who’d spoken. But she couldn’t without turning her head and giving away that she’d eavesdropped on their conversation. And what then?
The whipping eventually ceased. The prisoner had collapsed, his back a mass of torn flesh. Blood flowed freely from it, big drops falling into the dirt to colour it red. Two soldiers untied him and dragged him away.
The spectacle over, the crowd began to break up as people went about their business. Tamarr found she could move. She shuffled between the moving mass of people, using her basket as a shield to prod a path through the throng.
Arma Ultimatus cover
Arma Ultionis is the sequel to Dragoumanos. Here is the concept draft for the cover.
Like it.
Art by Anthony Moles
The start of a book idea "Beyond Infinity"
This is the first section of a book idea that extends the comic stories I have been writing to a science fiction setting:
Ah, welcome back. It is good to see you, dear faithful and loyal reader. You should be delighted by what we, and by that I mean WE, have in store for you. Hapless is reprising his role as stalwart Hero. Oh, I know he did not seem like that in his previous adventure where he was a five foot eleven spindly, anaemic, unfit and pimply youth of very little brawn and no brain.
‘I was never spindly,’ Hapless complained. ‘Just underfed.’
Of course, of course, (speaks sotto voce) we don’t want to upset our star now do we. (In a more normal voice) Hapless has been doing workout s down at the gym to put on tone. Haven’t you Hapless?
‘Err,’ Hapless blethered, ‘sure’.
You have not been skipping your training have you, Hapless? That would not look good to our readers.
‘Well, Novel, it’s like this, I had a cold and stayed in bed…’
Really, what an excuse! You should be man enough to overcome the flu. If you skulk in bed like that how are you going to be able to boldly go trekking across the stars? Uh? Tell me that?
‘Wait a minute,’ Hapless exploded, ‘I’m not going on any long walk. After my last “little adventure” as you called it. Took me months to recover. He gestured with his two fingers to emphasise the “little adventure” element to emphasise the ironic element. (Ed note: Tony, don’t you think it is taking the idea a bit too far to have both the comment after the sentence and the quotation marks in the sentence? One or both, I would think. Yours, Arabella xxx)
Arabella, you are with us! What a pleasant surprise! I had not expected you until a bit later when Tony began to lose the plot, as it were.
Novel, you should know much better than that. Of course the editor is concerned about plot integrity and all that—especially after last time—but our duties also extend to pointing out those areas where judicious editing would improve the overall effect. Notice that word ‘editing’, what an editor does, you know. Have you forgotten?
No, of course not. You are fearsomely diligent at rooting out such things, as I know from personal experience. (There is a sigh, followed by a moan.) Lovely to have you on board, Arabella, but must get back to the reader. Will catch up with you later, OK? (There is a stony silence, which some reputable hard rock archaeologist decided belonged to a heavy metal band called Motorhead, who back in Anno Dominie Eighteen Ninety Four, blew a fuse while playing the Super Bowl in Los Angeles. The two minutes silence while the roadies fixed the electrics is reputed, by some, to be the band’s finest number and would have been immortalised on vinyl, but it did not come up to scratch when performed in the recording studio. But we seem to be digressing, so will return you to Book.) It is ‘Brock’ as in Brock Lesnar, not ‘Book’ as in bouquet. Please get it right. Tsk.
Ah, reader, you are being very patient. Had some small issues to deal with but we should be able to move on now. Now, where was I?’
‘I was supposed to wait a minute,’ Hapless complained, ‘instead you have been keeping me holding on here on the page while you and that editor friend of yours sorted out something that, to be frank, should have been dealt with before we began this story.
(A scrolling up of the page. A rustle. A scrolling down of the page) Ah yes, we were just about to tell the reader about the trek you are about to undertake. And before you complain about sore feet again, let me tell you, you get to travel in a space ship.
‘I hope it is better than that boat we used to get to the Misty Mountains,’ Hapless complained loudly.
Yes, yes, of course it is. State of the art stuff it is; no relying on sails and the vagaries—what a nice word—of the wind. We are now in the future. Things are different in the future. We use, let me see, ah yes, a light sail, it seems.
Hapless asked the obvious question for a stalwart Hero just to about to embark on an adventure in a space ship, ‘So I won’t get chased, stabbed, thrown down a well, have to face my Critics, and all that?’
(Sounds of equivocation.) ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. After all, we do need some dramatic development; you know, characters facing indomitable challenges, and all that.
‘Just so long as it isn’t me doing these indomi-thingy challenges.’
You needn’t worry too much about that. You will be pleased to hear we have been able to retain Fighter for a reprise of his role as a walking death machine. As we are now in the future where everything is possible and thanks to our publisher we also have a bigger budget for this sequel, Fighter will be appearing as Grill'ek Rorg, a berserker of the Kumon Empire. Come to think of it, I think he might be around as I saw him earlier in Ten Forward. Before you ask any questions, yes, I know it’s a funny name for a mobile canteen, but the owner told me that with his foot down and a fair wind behind him, he managed to get his van to 10 mph. He did say it had done the Aldebaran Run in, I think, it was four-point-eight billion years. But I may have been mistaken. Let me see if Gorilla is around. Yes, I know it is spelt Grill'ek Rorg, but I can assure it is pronounced Gorilla, just like my name is spelt ‘Book’ but pronounced ‘Brock’. (There is a pressing of buttons and a series of sounds like someone dialling a phone: bleep, bop, bewerp; tuwee.) Gorilla, would you like to introduce yourself to Hapless and our reader?
‘nuqneH’ Gorilla thundered. For those of you not familiar with the seventh island dialect of the Kumon Empire, which is, it has to be admitted a difficult variant of an already impossible language for those not brought up in the fighting pits, translations will be provided from now on using our universal translator, Googleplex. So when Gorilla is speaking in Kumon 7ID (that is short for Kumon Empire Seventh Island Dialect, by the way), this will be rendered in something approximating English. Of course it can only be an approximation since in any translation you lose some of the nuances of the original language. But for most purposes, there is only one nuance in Kumon, which can be summarised as: I will tear you apart and feed your mangy entrails to my dear, sweet, death hound, Fluffy. So, and it is much sweeter in the original Kumon, Gorilla boomed, ‘What do you want?’
There is no need to shout down the phone.
‘I am not shouting; you should hear me shout.’
If I did, that would probably be the last sound I ever heard. Now listen up, Gorilla, we have Hapless here and a reader. It might be nice if you introduced yourself to them; after all, you will be with them for (There is a shuffling of papers.) about two-hundred and sixty five pages, it seems. My Universal Deity, is this story really going to be that long?
Novel, you needn’t worry yourself, Sweetie. After I have used my phonic screwdriver editors’ pen, a gift from you know Who, I think it will be a more manageable sixty four pages.
Thank My Universal Deity, Arabella, that you are working on this project otherwise it will go on to infinity.
Ha, ha, I like your little joke on the title there, Novel. Quite funny really.
Arabella, this is no time to get flippant about the name of the Brock. You know Tony went to a great deal of trouble to come up with a suitably catchy title and it was agreed at the fifteenth committee meeting after the working party had reported that their preferred choice, Mass Effect, was already taken by that mindless game. Most disappointing that we learned we couldn’t use it after we had already commissioned the cover and all that. What? Yes, I know it was premature of me to go ahead but we had a publishing schedule to keep and the working party took so long and then the committee deliberated for an eternity. And by the way, about the working party, I had a look at the expenses claim. I know you were a part of that. Can you shed any light on the item relating to, let me see (More shuffling of papers. Note to self to ask the special effects department whether they had anything else; this shuffling of papers was really becoming boring.), ah yes, “six pairs of knickers”?
No.
Pity, we have the Ferengi auditors in next week and I am a bit concerned they may question this item, especially since it is for six hundred galactic credits. You know how they are about money.
‘Hello there, Hapless,’ Gorilla thundered as he waved a friendly greeting. Now the reader needs to know several things about a Kumon Empire warrior. The first is their predilection for armour. Not the old stove kind of armour, but the flash silvery-black armour that would not look bad on a Samurai but on a Kumon warrior, makes them look really badass. This means you can hear them coming as even the slightest movement makes a sound. A sound like someone scratching safety glass in a desperate attempt to find a way through. The second, is that if you are addressed by said Kumon Empire warrior, you should immediately write and post your last will and testament and knell down and pray to The Universal Deity that it rains and the said Kumon Empire warrior rusts up before he gets to you. Now remember: if you hear the sound of glass being scratched, as you will, get writing.
‘Hi, Fighter,’ Hapless cheerfully replied in his idiosyncratic English, which was immediately translated into Kumon 7ID by Googleplex. Hope you have the idea now, so we can skip with the explanation as to how Hapless can talk to Gorilla while not understanding a word of Kumon 7ID, and Gorilla, etc., etc. For those of you with some linguistic talent, the exact phrase in Kumon 7ID was ‘glDoghQo’. But please do not expect translations for everything that Gorilla says or the story will, really, go beyond infinity.
Novel, dear, can you Tony to hurry up and get on with the action? I sense our reader might be getting, shall I say it, a tad bored.
Arabella, surely this is the time to use that phonic screwdriver editors’ pen of yours.
I think you will have to persuade Tony to take a break from his computer. I only have one set of batteries for my pen with me and no spares, so I need to go lightly.
Pity. I’ll see if I can catch Tony’s attention. Hey there, Tony; woo ho, Mr Author It’s me, Novel, we need to have a chat.
WHAT DO YOU WANT? I’M BUSY, CAN’T YOU READ?
Millenium Medusa
“Tiri, I did it this time.”
“It worked?” Through the headphones, Tiri’s wonderment sounded distant and synthetic.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Everyone’s experience with Tydol is different. You can believe it happened, but it could have been a dream.”
“It did! You should believe me.”
Silence.
“Listen. I can prove it.” Medusa took a sip from her chaos mug. Still Tiri didn’t say anything. Medusa glanced at the digital display. Seven forty-three. The mall didn’t close till nine. There was still time to prove her right. “Where are you?”
“Junction of Emery and Forty-Second, heading downtown.”
“You’re not far from the mall then.”
Tiri’s voice crackled over the headphones. “The mall?”
“Go and see for yourself.”
“What’s there to see?” Tiri’s voice carried her disbelief at what she must have decided was a fool’s errand.
“Proof, Tiri, of what happened.”
“Very well…but if you’re putting me on…” Medusa’s headphones buzzed. Cleared. “I’ll go check.”
“Do you want to talk as you go?”
“About what? How you’re evolving? We’ve been over this before.” She sounded irritated. The line went dead. Medusa waited. Tiri was probably scrolling her messages and didn’t want to talk.
Click.
“Well, I’m there.”
“Are you inside the mall, Tiri?”
“No. Outside. There’s a pile of cops here.”
“It’s inside. You need to go in.”
“Oh, sure. I just walk up to the cops and ask to go in.”
“You’ll find an excuse. Tell them Medusa sent you.”
“You’re having me on.” The connection went dead. Tiri must have muted her. Medusa drunk from her chaos cup and waited. She caught the stone pumpkin on the bookcase grinning at her. She grinned back in anticipation.
Medusa heard the connection activate. She listened.
“Hey, why can’t I go in.” Tiri’s voice.
Another, a man’s, replied, “Incident. We’ve sealed off the mall.”
Tiri again. “What happened?”
The man. “It’s weird. People have been turned to stone.”
“You’re kidding me?” Tiri’s voice sounded shocked.
Medusa smiled. “Told you the Tydol worked.”
“I don’t believe you, Medusa,” Tiri groused.
“You don’t? Here let me send you a picture.” Medusa took a selfie and sent it. “Do you like the snake hair?”
“What have y___” The connection went dead.
Nice quote
“Writing - imagining the world with words.”
Love the above quotation. I’ve tried to find who said it, without success, so Anon has it.
One nice thing about going into a dictionary or definitions of any kind is how they lead to imagining. Recently, I’ve been working on a short story and used the image of a blue-black sea. This is often what it looks like on a stormy day and I did some research to try and find another word for a dark blue bordering on black that had equal resonance. I found the colour easily enough, it’s called Delft blue after the very dark blue produced there. But can you imagine writing about the Atlantic and saying the character is gazing out over a Delft sea? Very confusing. Delft being a place and all that, someone who doesn’t know that Delft can be a colour will be very confused. To imagine is to find concordances with the reader that stimulate a vision of what is being written about. How do you imagine a “blue-black sea”? I know what it looks like to me—but to you?
What of writing about an imaginary place? We can’t physically touch it, or smell it, but in words we can evoke it in the reader. As a lover of fantasy and science fiction, I have always admired the way writers in the genre are able to conjure up my imagination through choice descriptions.
Here is part of an ongoing story project that I’ve been writing:
The terrace was empty when Aranck stepped out past the potted plants. At this time of day when the heat of the suns still lingered, he’d expected nothing less. He noted approvingly as he passed the last of the containers that Nuna had placed them in such a way as to provide shade for the weakest plants. These had been brought some considerable distance from the forest by supplicants knowing that by giving his wife such a gift she might influence his judgements in their disputes. He smiled at the thought. He turned to note the karek was dormant. Why the woman had chosen to include such a dangerous plant in her collection, he had no idea. Its tendrils, which it shot out like a lasso, were used to provide the thing with its prey and sustenance. He was just glad it was an immature specimen and only fit for catching small prey. Once red evening began it would awaken and pity any dragonbat that flew too close.
Hopefully, the imaging is such that you can imagine the terrace, the heat, the alien nature of the place, that plants have been collected in pots and that one of them, a karek, is a carniverous plant that actively preys on flying animals—in this case, a dragonbat.
Imagining is something, eh?
A fantasy creature, birdman, as seen in Sumerian sculpture. I like the hair. These scuptures were once in the palace and show an amazing degree of artistic ability and are in remarkable condition, given their age and all that could have happened.
On Theme
Character—Plot—Theme all go together as one in a good novel. Of course, there’s other things. Good writing. A great setting. An interesting premise.
Recently, I had an eureka moment about theme, possibly the most misunderstood side of writing. And one I suspect I haven’t really got right in past stories. But you write—and learn, as it were.
The reason for this post is really to explore what are the themes in fantasy stories. In a big book like LOTR, there may be more than one theme. What is Frodo’s “theme” and does it differ from Aragon’s? We can debate the point. The “big theme” in LOTR is, however, obvious. It is one that is a trope of the genre. Well, Tolkein invented the genre and so perhaps others followed his lead. Who knows?
Good vs. evil is certainly a major trope in fantasy. There are plenty of others, of course. However, it remains the mainstay of the genre. Perhaps even defines the genre, as such. But conflict always makes for a great story. We’ve Homer to thank for that. Think Illiad. Think Odyssey. Both triumphs of good (the Greeks) against evil (The Trojans) or Odysseus versus a whole catalogue of fantastic creatures. In a way, if the Illiad is the first story and a “historical” one, the second smacks a lot of being a fantasy, what with cyclops, a magic user, and so on.
Back to theme. I’ve been pondering the theme for a novel that I’m plotting. I’ve my main character, a sort of policeman in that he is commander of the city watch. He’s up against various challenges: political discord, the enmity of a number of patricians, and a monster. It isn’t necessarily a good vs. evil story, though. Is my character a goody-two-shoes? I don’t think so. He’s prepared, at times, to break the law in pursuit of his goal.
I’ll share more in a subsequent post.
Writing a pandemic
A lot of fantasy is written in something that approximates to a medieval world. Not all, but a goodly amount. And has the usual tropes.
The medieval world was overwhelmingly one where life was nasty,brutish, and short. More often than not, people died from the various infections they got. There were no antibiotics, no proper understanding of how infections and diseases were caused (“miasmas”!). A great many died young. It was noteworthy when someone lived much beyond what could be considered a normal lifespan given all the ways (physical, ailments, accidents) could kill people. There were few “old people” as we interpret the term in such worlds.
It’s no surprise that the four horsemen of the apocalypse are pestilence, war, famine, and death. A merry combination indeed. War and death are often featured in fantasy. Famine occasionally and there’s some inclusion of pestilence.
However, I’ve yet to read a story set within a pandemic environment like the one we’re going through. Taht said, I’ve a great French comic book that sets the story at a time of plague and this influences the plot in myriad ways without taking over. And the story is a good one.
To be fair, writers have addressed the issue of disease in their stories. Disfigurement or disability is one possibility. I’m thinking Song of Ice and Fire here where greyscale can leave a person disfigured (a kind of limited leprosy in a way). Incapacity at a critical juncture is another. Dysentry, cholera and other “war” diseases are often referred to but seldom seem to affect named characters. Fevers are used as an obstacle or delayer.
Yet when we read history, we discover that some ailment often either incapacitated a critical actor or killed them just at a critical moment.
Perhaps the current pandemic will lead writers to include more medical aspects to their stories. I know I will.
A cast of characters
Bloomi’ ‘eck, that what I say. Have a cast of characters that is diverse and interesting. No duplications, mind you.
How many? you ask.
Well, there’s our hero (protagonist), his enemy (antagonist), the companion/sidekick, the joker, the love interest, the sage/mentor…and any more you care to name. It’s like the question: How long is a piece of string? If it’s too short, it doesn’t do the job; if it’s too long, the length is a darn nuisance.
Then there’s the minor characters and those that simply appear in a scene or two. And the redshirts.
Can all these people really be different? Perhaps one should give them all a slightly different hair colour.
* * *
Edmund came into the room. He wore a battered suit of armour. His pale-green hair stood up in ill sorted spikes, as casual as the wild grasses of the tundra. He smiled. Or at least attempted to. It came out more like a silent snarl.
“Greetings, Protagonist, I’ve just returned from the north.” He did a double take. “What have you done to your hair?”
Protagonist self-consciously raised a hand to finger the dreadlocks. The witchdoctor had insisted in dying his hair with henna, so now it was the colour of mahogany. “Just keeping up with the latest fashion,” Prog explained. “Do you like it?”
“Well, it’s definitely different, if that’s what you’re asking.” Edmund tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice but could still hear the negative vibes he had about Protagonist’s new hairstyle. It might be different, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t derivative and a very bad cliche. There was no getting away from that.
“It’s the author,” Protagonist explained in a lame sort of voice. “He’s trying to make us all different.”
“Typical. Doesn’t he realise different comes from what we do, how we talk, and behave?” He swished his sword out of its scabbard and waved it in the air. “For King and Country.”
“Err, do you mind putting away that overblown cocktail stick and telling me what news from the north,” Protagonist suggested.
“Oh, if you say so.” Edmund sheathed his sword. “Now I’m just like you.”
“I’m not wearing any armour.”
“Not now, silly, I can see that. What I meant to say is that apart from our hair and clothes, we are exactly alike. You jive to the left. I jive to the left. It’s so boring.”
“What can we do about it, then?”
Protagonist sat down on the convenient chair near him and rested his elbow on his knee and supported his head on his hand. He remained silent looking absentmindedly at the floor.
Eventually, bored at waiting, Edmund prompted, “Well?”
“We’ve got to do things differently.”
“Ah, well, maybe I should take your place. That would be different.”
"Protagonist got to his feet. He gave Edmund a come on gesture. “You try.”
Concept art for the cover of "The Sorcerer's Lackey"
There are some advantages to being forced to stay at home. I’ve been indulging in a bit of electronic housekeeping and found some preliminary sketches of various characters from The Sorcerer’s Lackey that I want to share with you.
Derek Companion, the “wise one” who is, yeah, Hapless’ companion on his adventure. I like the slim moustache and supercilious look with the lowered eyelids he is giving us. Compare this version with the final cover.
Well there’s no mistaking the pointy ears and proud demeanour of Elf, one of the rable that goes with Hapless on his adventure. I like the fact he isn’t looking at you and the braided hair beside his ear is a nice touch.
Elfin, the pretty elvish sister to Elf, is well captured by this drawing. She has the same braided hair and is demurely looking down at the ground, avoiding catching one’s eyes, in a most endearing way. I also liked the hairstyle.
This, of course, needs no introduction. No good fantasy adventure would be complete without the requisite dragon. I love the rather shabby wings, the enormous talons and the snake tongue. A fitting problem for a hero, no?
And here we have an early concept art for the cover with Hapless in a characteristic pose. You need to read the book to understand some of the illusions. The masked woman on the right is Assassin, by the way. I love the idea of her eyes on the lookout for trouble.
Another cover version with some colouring. I like the fact that Elf is looking down with some annoyance or perhaps worry. He seems to have acquired a headress and lost his tresses. Elfin is more of a waif in this version, but the tresses are evident. Hapless is also looking a bit worried as if he’d done something wrong. Derek’s expression is like that of an irritated butler. Compare the composition and layout to the final version.
And here is the final version. Not too dissimilar to the earlier versions. There’s Dwarf added as well as Fighter. It has lost either Elf or Elfin, depending on how you see the elven on the left. Derek is now looking supercillious and Hapless is mouthing: “Not my fault, gov, really.” Well, it was.
I hope you like these drawings and how the cover evolved from concept to what is the published cover.
This is a cool castle. It is partly set in a cave and would make a nice hideout for a pretty devious character.
The builder of the above castle was a nasty piece of work ravashing and pillaging his neighbours. But the stronghold was hard to assault. It is up a steep hill and nestled partly in a large cave. Hence, hard to besiege. The only way to do so was to starve out the defenders. But what the besiegers didn’t know was that there was a secret exit around the back that allowed the inhabitants to replenish their supplies. Consequently, the seiges failed.
Cool idea, eh?
Anthony art. A warrior monk
A fighting Friar Tuck will need a suitable weapon. A scythe blade is an interesting concept.
What kind of role would such a warrior monk have in a story? Would they be part of the hero’s team, an outsider who might on occasion come into contact with the hero? Perhaps the hero’s mentor. Certainly, they would be an interesting substitute to the mentor character having to be a mage or wizard or some such.
If one wanted to be somewhat cliched in their character, they could be at odds with their order or unwilling to accept the orders of their superior.
Umm, maybe I should be thinking of including such a character in a story. Or making them the protagonist in a story? There’s an idea.
The Witcher TV Series
There is lots to admire in the Netflix Witcher series if you like fantasy. At one level, it doesn’t stint on the nastiness of medieval society and the bruttishness of it. At another, it follows all the required tropes for the genre. The way magic is portrayed is really good and its use also has some interesting consequences, so using magic without consideration is not something the various mages do.
One thing I disagree with many reviewers is when they have complained that the production values aren’t as good as those from GOT. It does, on occasion have spectacle and the CGI is well done and the sets are fine if you like the close angle lens and captures the feel of the books. I personally like the smaller, more intimate feel of the series.
In the early episodes, I found myself noticing the number of cliches or tropes that are present. Not that I find this is to the detriment of the series, it’s just that there’s a lot of them. However, they are generally used in a good way.
Just to consider some of the more obvious ones. Spoiler alert! I will be discussing aspects of the plot below.
A medieval kingdom under attack by dark forces that are not well explained.
A beautiful daughter who has to escape via a secret exit, helped by a loyal retainer.
The Witcher himself is a bit of a cliche character of the outcast hero, broody, with a shady past (High Plains Drifter, anyone?). An outsider, a tough guy, but with a heart of gold. A cold man who is drawn to Yennifer, perhaps recognising in her something of himself. And one could go on here.
Then we have the irritating bard who is intent on glorifying the Witcher’s life in music. He gets into all sorts of trouble and has to be rescued. I think we’ve seen this one before.
Or, there’s a secret grouping of mages that is trying to influence events working in the background.
A kingdom that is intent on conquering the whole continent. Oh, that’s not a cliche, is it? Every kingdom wants to expand its reach and build an empire. That’s history.
All evil/conflicted characters wear dark colours.
A kind hearted, jolly prostitute.
Magic items.
A curse that is lifted by love.
And one could go on. Dwarves are gruff, elves are in tune with the environment, etc.
But you know what? It works and for an afficiado of fantasy, it’s a great visual spectacle and a decent plot, generally well executed. My only beef—and this is one shared by many reviewers—is in the way they handled the many switches in time and place.
I can’t wait for the second series!
More plot generation
As I’m working on a—let’s just call it less than serious—whodunnit, and needed respite, I returned to this wonderful plot generator for some fun. I actually quite like the title and it would fit with my story. Who knows?
The story has some rough edges. Who would want to kidnap a cat? Still 10 murders in ten weeks. Quite scary if it is a small village, don’t you think?
Medieval fantasy
While this is not directly related to the medieval fantasy story I have been working on, I like this image of a fantasy queen.
Interestingly enough, in the sotry, the queen is not a good character; but then again when she’s also a stepmother, it’s to be expected.
Painting is by Anthony Moles
I really liked it so much I had to do another one
I really like the idea of the mangled fingers; it’s the kind of ghoulish behaviour one expects from a serial killer.
Also the coffee addiction? Know about that.
