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2014/05/02 16:24:25
Subject: The Geomides Affair [Sequel to Hand of the King - a novel by Ailaros - Chapter 9 complete]
StewRat wrote:Excellent pair of Chapters. Looking forward to the next instalments.
Thanks!
I wrote over 12,500 words in the last two days, and I'm going to try and keep up the pace today again, which (hopefully) means even two more installments.
Paradigm wrote:The short chapters work well with something like this that is, in essence, a serialised story, as it keeps it fresh and easy to read. There are certainly benefits to longer chapters, but at the same time, I wouldn't worry too much about length. There's no point adding in filler for the sake of it if it doesn't help the story.
To be fair, I'm not actually intending this as a serial - the intention is to write a novel. I had a good long think about it before writing as to whether I should just sit down and write it, and then be like "here you go, dakka," or whether to post chapters up as I wrote them.
For various reasons, I chose the latter. In part, for people who would be interested in following along (though I now fear this will go on for such a short time that it won't generate much buzz), and in part because the dakka fine print includes such things as "you can't just advertise on this site through forum posts", and I think it will all run over more smoothly if I also give dakka members a chance to read it for free as well. Plus, this thread will probably be my only inlet for comments.
Paradigm wrote:Good (and bloody fast) stuff.
Thanks. At this moment, I'm at ~38,500 words, which is beating my initial expectations. I guess I've become a somewhat faster writer since last time I wrote a book. Perhaps it's nothing more than because it's my second time around. In any case, the writing itself is pretty easy once you've done the pre-writing. Once the plot and characters are sketched out a bit, all I've got to do is say "this plot point + this character + this one new thing I want to say about the plot/characters/setting" and then spend a bit of time imagining up some imagery.
In a way, I'm approaching writing this guard story the way I approached painting my guard army. Do some work in advance, and then it's just sort of plugging in the pieces.
Paradigm wrote:Very interesting to see the plots moving on.
Yeah, now that the intros are over, I'm making a stronger effort to get the characters in the same room at the same time, so that they interact with each other, rather than just interacting on the same plot.
Also, I'm starting to come to the end of part 1. There's going to be a damien chapter, and a melchoir chapter, and possibly a gilbert chapter. I haven't quite decided on that one, yet, though given how easy it is for me to clip things short, I've been pushing myself to add in extra length where I can. I have already added in two whole extra chapters from what my pre-writing has sketched out.
Anyways, once the first part is done, then things will get more tangled and messy. At least, I hope.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/05/02 16:29:43
She opened her eyes slowly. A kind of fuzzy glow filled her body.
On her left was the window, blinds half-closed. On her right, stripes of soft orange light on the wall. It was nearly sunset. How long had she been napping for?
The gentleness of awakening relaxed her, despite the pain. It hadn’t even hurt that badly after the first couple of days. They told her that lasguns wounded clean – they either killed you there and then, or they healed almost on their own. Mostly she just felt tired, but she could sleep it off back at home.
No doubt there was a massive pile of paperwork waiting for her. Cupercourt didn’t run itself. In a wistful way, it was nice to get a break. All the work, all the drama. Here at the hospital, all she needed to do was to get well.
But that was done now. She should have been sent home a few days ago, but she didn’t want to leave, and her father had pulled rank for her. It was an easy favor. After so much death in the past few years, one couldn’t be too careful with one’s progeny. Certainly not a man as prudent as the great Hugo Rochefield.
She snuggled a little deeper into her soft pillow and looked towards the window. There was a small vase on the sill with a flower in it. They changed the blossom every other day to keep it fresh. How thoughtful.
“No, no. I’m serious,” the voice stammered through hoots of laughter filling the small room. “It was... It was this whole wave of conscripts! Just, psssssshhh! Just like that. It just... It just went over everything!”
The speaker broke down amid the ruckus. Even Melchoir had to chuckle, though he’d heard this story several times before.
“And then,” the officer began again, trying to compose himself. “And then Marshal Tacho turns to me, and says... and says... ‘Well,’ he says, ‘what am I going to do with the rest of them?’”
The room exploded in laughter.
Melchoir surveyed his crew with a smile. The dingy front room of his official apartment was small, and its furnishings lacking, but the room came to life when filled with his general staff. With his friends. It was so nice to be able to just talk with people for a change. People with whom he had a shared set of experiences, and a shared language – literally, as well as figuratively. His kind of people, who he could always rely on.
The laughter began to die down, and Melchoir reached for a small glass of a lightweight liqueur that the locals called gupertan. He still hadn’t figured out if it was made from a local flora similar to apples or if it was, in fact, just made from apples. Attempts to learn the truth from the locals had proven, so he liked to say, fruitless.
A knock came at the door.
“Vogel!” a few of the officers shouted as Damien entered the room with a smile.
The grand marshal sat perfectly still in his chair, scowling slightly. Doing his best to project an aura of grim authority. Of a father disappointed with misbehaving children. It didn’t seem to be having much of an effect.
The Council meeting had been going badly, even for a Council meeting. The magistrates were starting to retrench, and the gallery was flat unruly. It had taken all of the governor’s force of will just to keep things in order. Damien, on the other hand, had completely lost patience about half an hour ago, so he just sat there, seething.
“I have heard your concerns, yet again, Rossa,” Melchoir almost had to shout. “Nothing has changed, so the answer is still no.”
“Our people will be heard!”
“Your people have been heard,” Melchoir yelled. Damien swallowed hard. He had never seen Melchoir this close to losing it before. The governor looked to be on the verge of a tirade, but settled on “When things are different, you will get a different reply.”
“Things are different!” came another shout over the sea of harsh mutters and angry grumbling. Someone in the gallery stood up, pushing his ridiculous glasses up his face.
“What do you want, Bokko?” Melchoir called out.
“Marshal Tellis, my city is on the verge of revolt! I came here last month and I told you about this, but you wouldn’t release any Fauleighra or servicemen.”
“I told you to take care of it!” the governor replied hotly.
Gilbert leaned towards the window, gazing out into the vastness beyond. The great plain was a mottled swirl of gold and brown. Lazy, blobbing shapes winding their way across the remnants of farm fields.
He watched the rippling pattern course by in the midmorning sun. All it had taken was two failed plantings, and the fields were completely obliterated. Instead of neat rows in square plots, it was a waving sea of different grains, splotched with dots of legumes and whorls of weeds and wild grasses that had bounced back from the plow as if the land had never been tamed. Just a year and a half, and the sweeping vista was one of endless meadow. Just how fragile man’s achievements, that they could be undone by so short a lapse.
The mag-train whirred along almost noiselessly, elevated from the scene below. The car a hushed quiet, a calming soundtrack to the placid backdrop. Gilbert stared down at his timepiece. The train would arrive shortly.
He turned and looked out the window again, down at the waving sea of tan. The drought seemed to be no better up here than in Boroughcourt. Usually, the grasses would still be green, not the vast, almost beautiful desolation.
Thin, wispy clouds hung high in the deep blue of sky. There probably wouldn’t be any rain again today either.
His footsteps landed softly, almost timidly, rippling through the near-perfect silence. It was hard not to feel humble here, to feel the austere power of holiness. The air almost shimmered with a sense of the sacred, of a carefully balanced spiritual order, into which he felt almost an intruder. As if his mere presence would somehow pollute the space around him.
He walked forward slowly, the sounds of his feet echoing slightly despite his caution. The cathedral around him was a man-made cave, its stone walls and marble floors darkened in shadow, the low ledge of the choir loft above pressing down towards him. The well-worn pews were outlined in reflected light, hymnals resting in their slots. A small fountain sat low to the ground, a basin of perfectly still water, creating an unblemished mirror before its water spilled out over the edges into catch-channels below.
Outside of this dark enclave stretched the rest of the sanctuary. It glowed a pale yellow from the lights strung above, shining on rows of seats neatly processing towards the altar. The light gently caressing the stone pillars, round surfaces fading to shadow. The ceiling was hidden from his vantage point beneath the loft, but he easily recalled the graceful arches lifting high up to the vaulted ceiling, lost in the gloom far above.
Melchoir gazed into the mirror pool as he quietly made his way forwards, watching the upside-down pillars stretching towards him on the perfect surface. He stopped when he arrived, staring down into his own reflection, shrouded in shadow, barely able to see his own face.
He reached out with his right hand and touched the water. His fingers passed in as if moving through an illusion. As if he had touched air, the temperature of the tranquil water undetectable. As if his fingers hadn’t even gotten wet. The image of the church quivered slightly as he removed his hand.
He turned towards the sanctuary, alight before the cool darkness. The vast space was empty. He was the only one here. He had been counting on it.
Last sunday, I made it to 50,000 words, and in two weeks have landed at 52,076. In week two, I wrote 26,157 despite having to take basically the last two days off, thanks to a weekend visit by in-laws and real world encroachment (signed a new lease on an apartment, for example), and a day spent off doing nothing but pre-writing (moving from the introduction to getting really into the plot). I also blew by a quarter million characters, and passed 100 pages in my office software format.
As mentioned, things are going to get a little bit more plotty now, as Jaines rises and Melchoir declines, as well as more intrigue. The one thing I'm starting to become worried about is how long this is going to be. Up until now was supposed to be just sort of setting the stage, but I'm already nearly halfway through my original word count target. Based on just my rough pre-writing, I should be about 2/7ths of the way through. If that is true, then it means that I'll probably wind up at 180,000 words, not 125,000. Even at this pace, it might take longer than I'd originally planned.
I guess there's just nothing for it but to keep plugging along. I hope you've enjoyed it so far!
I shouldn't worry about word counts/limits. At the end of the day, the purpose of this is to tell a story, and if that takes longer/is longer (Word-wise) then so be it. No point in compromising on plot or character to satisfy limits you aren't being judged on.
Looking forward to more.
2014/05/08 05:49:13
Subject: The Geomides Affair [Sequel to Hand of the King - a novel by Ailaros - Chapter 18 complete]
A blinding flash split the haze. It strobed again, a burst of light in thick and smoky air, and then again, again, and again. Blasting sound hammered out the beat, bass rhythm pounding at the floors and walls, though concrete, steel, and flesh. The table buzzed, vibrating uncontrollably, flashing in the harshly blinking spotlight.
The writhing pulse of bodies thrashed, jerking wildly in the light, dancing to the crushing noise.
Jaines staggered forward, the experience obliterating. She floated over the ground, awkwardly, stumbling on unsteady feet, a scarcely cohesive sentience disembodied from reality. She could barely feel anything, not the pressure of blood pumping through her veins or her lungs sucking in air.
The table skipped over as she bumped into it, her hands slapping down to brace herself. Empty bottles clanked amid the riot of noise. She looked up, but there was only one person at the table, slumped backwards over his chair, passed out, partly open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his flickering form unmoving.
Jaines reeled around and stumbled towards the door. She collapsed onto it, then pounded twice with the palm of her hand. A moment passed. Nothing.
“It’s me, you fether!” she shouted.
The door swung open suddenly, causing her to stumble in. The bouncer caught her as she lurched forward, helping her to her feet. She smiled back at him, reached up, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, followed by a giggle.
Damien Vogel fumed as he barged through the door, bashing it into the wall. He scowled, storming out into the bright afternoon sun.
“Sir,” called one of the guardsmen, snapping a salute as Damien stomped towards the infantry fighting vehicle. The pistachio-gray camouflage radiated heat as he passed by the exhaust, stomping around to the back hatch. He slapped away a hand reached out to help him up, grabbing a tow lug and vaulting into the vehicle by himself.
The heat washed away from him as he entered the passenger compartment. The metal box was dimly lit by small hatches above the seats, wire mesh allowing hot air to escape. At least Folera was a desert planet, or the sweltering heat could well have killed him, trapped in a vehicle less prepared for the climate.
He ripped his hat off and threw it angrily at the seat before stomping after it. Two guardsmen piled in quickly behind him, taking up places at the other end of the cabin nearest the door.
Damien slammed his fist on the wall. “Drive!” he bellowed.
The transmission groaned and the engine revved before taking off at a jerk, trundling slowly down the street.
The marshal seethed angrily. He turned, furiously staring down the other two guardsmen in the cabin. They both studiously poured all of their attention elsewhere, both trying to out-meekly-disinterest the other. Damien leered at them through slitted eyes, teeth clenched. Daring one of them to look at him, feeling them crawl uncomfortably beneath his gaze.
Deafening shouts ripped through the air. Cries of anger clashed with pleas of desperation, outstretched arms pushing and shoving. The massive crowd crushed forward. Howling and gnashing at the one small island of order in the chaos.
“Get...” Gilbert shouted over the raging storm of people. “Get back! We will get... We will get to you all, each in turn!”
“Please!” a woman screamed in front of him, eyes frantic, desperate. “Please! Let me in! I have children! Please!”
“You will get your turn!” Gilbert shouted back.
He paced back and forth under the awning, the one bit of shade in the ruthless summer sun. Trying to command the writhing throng from the open air of the platform. A dozen servicemen and Gilbert were all that stood between them and the mag-line behind them. One tiny plug stopping the mob from overrunning the track.
Servicemen pushed back on the makeshift barricade. Others with truncheons lashed out at anyone trying to climb onto the platform. Only a few had tried, but they were getting more frequent. They were getting bolder.
Paradigm wrote:I shouldn't worry about word counts/limits. At the end of the day, the purpose of this is to tell a story, and if that takes longer/is longer (Word-wise) then so be it. No point in compromising on plot or character to satisfy limits you aren't being judged on.
So, I just did a little research that makes me feel a bit better.
I'm setting this book to be at "epic" pace. A vague emulation of Tolkein or Martin. That is, things happen rather slowly, but that's in part because there's just so much going on. In fact, I designed this book to have roughly as many main characters as I did based on Game of Thrones.
And so I did some research on word count. After all, if I'm pacing things at epic speed, it would make sense that it would take me as long to tell the story as other epic-speed books. What I found out was that the (non-uber-long) Ice and Fire are all about 300,000 words long. That's about as much as you get from two of tolkein's artificially-shortened books. And, let's be honest, if you cut out all of that garbage at the beginning, you'd wind up with about that same number. Other books in the range consistently meet or break 200k. Really, the only problem is when you start getting towards the ~450k range. Dance with Dragons was too long. Cryptonomicon was too long. So is Lord of the Rings when you keep the junk beginning in. Not fatally too long for my ability to read, but that's really pushing it.
So, my concern that I'm going to make the book too long if it gets near 200k is, in fact, completely unjustified.
Which is good, because I just hit 60,000 words, and I still have one more chapter before the next big event that was plotted to be like, 1/3rd of the way through at the absolute latest, but could easily wind up being 1/4 of the way in.
I guess I'm just going to have to abandon the notion that I'll get this done before June, I guess. Before July... perhaps.
Lucas breathed in deeply. Far above, the canopy sighed in the breeze. Sunlight sparkled through a brilliant kaleidoscope of green, the shifting verdant light dancing in the treetops. A domed mosaic of stained-glass leaves shimmering above.
A certain fragrance drifted through the forest air. A week ago, the breeze was filled with the smells of moss and leaves, of life and growing things, but it was different now, changed literally overnight. The trees had just begun their long, slow crawl towards dormancy. The air was no longer filled with water and green, but the scent of bark and drying grass. The visceral mulch evolved to a delicate odor, wafting subtle and complex.
There were other signs as well, for those who were looking. It was still hot out, but there was less sopping heaviness. The wind blew in from the east, now, and when Lucas lay down at night, the faint clicking sound of katydids called to him gently from the treetops.
There was no question about it. It was now late summer in the wooded hills of Cupercourt.
The crowd chanted, a chorus of voices strong in unison, arms pumping the air in time. Drums beat the rhythm, a whistle blowing counterpoint. Shoes pounded the pavement as the mass of people marched up the street. Handmade signs thrust above the crowd, jabbing slogans into the air.
“No Fau-leigh-ra! No Fau-leigh-ra!”
The protesters marched forward, filled with courage and anger and an overriding sense of rightness. They walked in ironclad solidarity. One unbreakable column stretching up the street.
This was it. This was the time when the people spoke with one voice, shouting that they’d had enough. This was the time they were standing up to demand change. Time to rise up and fight for their basic human rights. A simple moral stand against the barbaric tyrant and his illegal thugs.
“No Fau-leigh-ra! No Fau-leigh-ra!”
In the middle of the column, an armored car rose above the crowd. Two large flags stuck out the rear windows – on the left, the sigil of Bellemonde, a fish against a yellow background, and out the right, the aquiline device of the Emperor.
Out the top hatch sat Jaines, tan uniform belted over her petite frame, pistols lashed to her hips. Her fair face and small features completely engulfed by a huge pair of sunglasses, coated with a mirror finish. She had also finally found a beret, which sat at the jauntiest angle on her head, hair pulled up into a bun. She cut an implacable figure, riding her chariot among her army of supporters.
“No Fau-leigh-ra! No Fau-leigh-ra!”
She sat as still as she could, swaying slightly as the car trundled over the brick pavement. Trying to exude the aura of perfect command. Completely unfazable.
Melchoir frowned. He stood firm atop his infantry fighting vehicle, leaning against the tank’s turret to his right, surveying the scene in front of him.
They were pouring in. Shouting, fists in the air, placards raised. The riot of drum beats and whistles and harsh, repeated slogans echoed off the colossal concrete structure of the Central Granary. Hundreds, perhaps thousands funneled into the large paved space.
He stood on the tank, a rock awaiting the waves. Gray armor solid beneath his feet, angled front plate holding a hull-mounted flamethrower next to the driver’s hatch. Two more transports flanked him left and right, their imposing presence cutting off the mob’s advance. Before them stood a line of guardsmen, lasguns and bayonets at the ready. Braced against the force sweeping towards them.
Melchoir looked around. Every avenue of escape was sealed off, choked with soldiers. A wall of white awaiting the worst, whatever that might be.
The rolling wave of fire burst through the crowd, an open furnace slamming into the armored car. The mob broke into a screeching wail as flesh burned. Jaines shielded her face with her hands against the inferno.
“Drive! Drive!” she screamed. “Get the feth out of here!”
The driver slammed the armored car into reverse and floored it, bumper smashing over the terrified crowd with a sickening crunch. Trying to turn around through the flaming anarchy.
Machine-gun fire ripped through the flames, zinging bullets flung through the air. Jaines flinched down as a round smacked into angled steel.
“GO!” Jaines screamed. “Just drive!”
The wheels spun on the pavement, the car jumping forward, whipping Jaines into the back of the top hatch. They plowed straight ahead, smashing the metal grill guard through half a dozen people. The car bucked on its suspension as it ran over limbs and bodies.
“Get out of the way!” she shouted, holding on for dear life.
This week went pretty poorly, as those half dozen of you following along will note. I ended at only 71,933 words, which meant I only managed just under 19,000 over the last week, a quarter shy.
Probably the biggest hinderance was a failure in pre-writing. There wasn't good contiguity between the end of part 1 (the last Council meeting) and the beginning of part 2 (the granary scene). A day spent in pre-writing last week helped fill in this what would wind up being a 14,000 word hole. The end result was somewhat akin to pulling teeth.
Also, of course, some rather important stuff happened in these last few chapters. Things that I wanted to make sure happened in a certain way, and for certain reasons (I'm sure I could give you a several page essay deconstructing why Melchoir's appearance at the granary all but guaranteed the outcome). This meant more pre-writing by-chapter before I could write, which clipped my ability to write two chapters on any given day.
Another interesting note about last week's work is that the chapters are getting longer. The average word length of the last 8 chapters is 2803 which is up from the average of the whole document (minus the last 8 chapters) of 2750, which may not seem like much, but it does mean more breaking the 3k mark.
Story-wise, we've now had the two main events of the beginning take place. As I hit the 1/3rd mark wordswise, I'm also at roughly the 1/3rd mark storywise. From now on things are going to be much more echoes and reverberations and interactions based on what has happened. I've thrown my stones into the pool, and it's time to watch the waves spread out and disrupt each other.
By now, you should be able to start predicting what will happen, based on a knowledge of the characters. Damien is up next, and you know what he's going to have to do to avoid a potential disaster after the massacre, and, Damien being Damien, how he will try to accomplish it.
The only thing I have left to decide is if I need to open up a new narrative line or not. I'd like to keep it just the 6 main characters, and adding in a 7th now would be a bit awkward, but the scope is starting to expand too much, and I think I might just need to have a voice from someone directly on the Council. We'll see.
Anyways, I hope you like the work so far. It would be great to hear from someone other than my one loyal follower (thanks paradigm!). Over the next week, I'm going to redouble my efforts, and try to hit 100k words / the halfway point of the story by this time next week. Wish me luck!
Good stuff as usual (and I'm sure there are plenty of people reading, it's a fact of life down hear in Dakka Fiction that the views-vs-comments correlation is generally lower than elsewhere on the forum).
I particularly liked the (presumably deliberate) symmetry between the Janies and Melchoir chapters, both of them leading their forces, both of them watching as the gak hits the fan. The mistranslations really gave the impression that Melchoir is out of his depth, you can just see the situation slipping out of his grap every time he opens his mouth.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/05/14 19:59:18
2014/05/14 22:41:22
Subject: The Geomides Affair [Sequel to Hand of the King - a novel by Ailaros - Chapter 25 complete]
There is actually a lot of repetition and parallels in this story. I'm actually hoping, once the story gets far enough, to be able to achieve chiasma.
You've seen some back-to-backs, like the jaines/melchoir/jaines at the granary and the gilbert/melchoir/gilbert of the Council meeting, but it stretches out beyond that as well.
For example, compare the most recent melchoir chapter to the first gilbert chapter. The two characters are actually rather similar (as explained in the bringing jaines to bellemonde chapter), but their differences are writ large in the way they handle their situations. In both cases the main character (melchoir or gilbert) is confronted with a hostile mob that they are forced to try and placate, and in both cases, they are attacked outright by agents of Jaines charging in and trying to take control of the situation by force.
Both characters try and respond with the best intentions, but faced against such a blatant adversarial response, both have to fall back on their instincts. Gilbert, who doesn't have an idiosyncratic understanding of power, and who wants more than anything else to do what is best for his people decides to flee and regroup. Melchoir, who, being an officer has a very keen understanding of personal power and the willingness to accept casualties to achieve victory, stands and fights, even doing so personally.
And are you ready for the chiasmus? Between the first gilbert chapter and the most recent melchoir chapter, there was one in the middle. Again, it was a mob of people, again, gilbert was gilbert, and he failed to take control, and then, right at the apex, the Folerans (a proxy for melchoir) show up, and take control of the situation by force, lasguns firing over the crowd a foreshadow of them firing into the crowd later (the difference being that melchoir was actually present later, whereas he wasn't in Boroughcourt).
The grand marshal pounded on the door. This was the third time!
His mustache twitched as he ground his teeth, standing before the large slab of studded oak. The great brick house stood uncaring against his demands for entry, dimly lit by the glow of the nearby working streetlight.
Damien seethed, a storm of anxiety and rage. Things were bad enough already, but now they dared to keep him waiting?
He heard a rustling, and a small wooden peephole swung open behind an iron grate, a pair of squinting eyes peering at him from within.
“I am Grand Marshal Vogel!” Damien barked, scarcely below a shout. “I insist on speaking with Magistrate Rochefield at once.”
“I must apologize, sir, but it is past evening, and Lord Rochefield does not wished to be disturbed after dark.”
“Pfft!” Damien seethed. “This... This is an urgent matter of state! You will open this door at once, or I will get my combat engineers to blast it open. I’ll rip it off its hinges myself if I have to!”
“Certainly,” the servant replied, unimpressed. “I shall make Lord Rochefield aware of your request.”
The tiny hatch slammed shut, leaving Damien alone once more.
Melchoir is far from a bloodthirsty tyrant, but in the end it is his fault that the granary massacre happens, and not just because he was the highest ranked person there are the time.
The first cause is one that is so tacit that it's not even mentioned, that is, that Melchoir showed up at all. His original plan only called for them to arrest the protesters - there was no reason he couldn't delegate that. He could have chosen subordinates (in which case he could always save face by punishing whoever was responsible), or he could have appointed the Defense Service to the task, making the massacre less likely in the first place.
But instead he showed up, in person, to handle things. This is typical of the man. It's not exactly explained why (it's not that he doesn't trust his subordinates - indeed, he trusts them with his life as he demonstrates later in the chapter), but it is explained that he has this almost compulsive desire to be in the thick of it. In any case, his mere presence was the start of the downward spiral.
One of the continuing threads to Meclhoir is that he is a good officer, but not very good with people (one of the reasons he's been stuck at a relatively low rank despite his military genius). His attempts to placate the crowd are awkward and clumsy, and it doesn't take long before he falls back on just giving orders, which the hostile crowd was particularly ill-favored to accept.
On top of this, of course, you have the language barrier which obviously plays a key role in the meltdown. It's a common trait for all Folerans, but somewhat moreso with Melchoir. Plus, other officers might have had a local speak for them to iron out any problems, but, once again, Melchoir had to handle this personally. To let his own voice of command be heard.
Another character trait of Melchoir is his naturally trusting stance that other people will always approach him with the same good faith he approaches others. It wouldn't make sense to him that people would come to air grievances, but were in fact there to just cause a riot and to behave in a destructive way that ultimately serves no one's best interest. They were there angry, but there to be reasonable, not mindlessly thuggish.
This premise becomes damaged before the encounter even starts when Damien informs him of the explosives plot. Now, the idea is implanted in his mind that he is not dealing with equals, but with inferiors - with mere criminals. As this good-faithfulness is a rather core principle to Melchoir, so he takes it badly when it becomes less true, almost taking it personally, as if he was being lied to by the crowd. This causes his coarse, language-barriered manner to deteriorate quickly.
Both of these character traits combine in the fact that, in the end, he is a simple soldier. He has little appreciation for the "delicate" nature of politics. Power is wielded chain of command style, and people, whatever their reluctance, would eventually obey. He wasn't there to negociate with a mob, he was there to disperse it, and handle the problems that caused it in the first place one by one, later.
And its that soldier instinct which triggers in the end. He has faced down greater demons and battle tanks. He was armed, and with a fully armed retinue (which might not have been the case in Melchoir's absence), and he was under attack. There was nothing for it but to stand and fight. Once again, personally if needs be. It was a matter of life and death, of victory and defeat. By attacking him, the crowd became his enemy, and enemies are handled with power fists.
Even then, though, there wasn't an indication that what Melchoir wanted was a bloodbath. His pleas for help could well be explained in the lense of simple self-defense.
But he was the commander of the army. He had personally struck down those who were opposing him. Covered in blood, the poorly-phrased cry for help could easily be interpreted as an order to attack, and no one disobeyed the orders of Melchoir Theleos. He was in charge, after all. Not only of them, but of the whole planet. His word was law, and must be obeyed, to the fullest.
As a result, just because Melchoir showed up, things went badly. Not from any particular malice, but just because Melchoir was Melchoir, and that's the way things were going to go in this situation (especially vis a vis Jaines). Placed in a similar situation, things would likely happen the same way again.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/05/15 14:23:48
Also, I seem to hate Damien more each time he opens his mouth. I don't know if I'm alone in thinking this, but I reckon it's actually harder to write a character that successfully repulses the audience than one who engages with them.
2014/05/15 15:20:16
Subject: The Geomides Affair [Sequel to Hand of the King - a novel by Ailaros - Chapter 26 complete]
I don't know if it's a release of the subconscious donkey-cave, or if it's just an interesting challenge, but I find writing the Damien chapters kind of fun, or at least no harder than the others.
I mean, the point of fiction is to allow us access to things we wouldn't have in real life, and that's especially true of bad guy characters. Good bad guys aren't just those who are evil terribad muahaha. They're people that you're repulsed by, but secretly envy a little, and that repulses you even more. (it's sort of like why darth vader is such a good character. He's evil, and you know that, but a part of you secretly wishes you could have that kind of power, and without restriction).
The idea is to trick the brain into the "uncanny valley" as it were, where the character isn't so over the top ludicrously evil that you can just dismiss him as yet another bad guy, but at the same time, pushing things as far as they will go, to test that sense of envy in the reader.
Would you want to have that kind of power over women? Have that kind of power to do whatever you want with them? Including completely dominating them to you? Including forcing them in awe of you and your strength? Including taking them against their will if you knew for certain you could get away with it? How far would you go if you could go anywhere? Why stop there?
The ultimate goal is to make a bad guy that makes the reader afraid of themselves. Not that I've achieved that, but I find the puzzle to be more than a little interesting, which draws me enough to write those chapters.
Plus, there's a little bit of envy for me as the author. I wish I could get away with a fraction of what Damien can. And on top of that, there's a little bit of vindication for me as the author as well, knowing that the farther I puff him up, the harder will be what must be his inevitable downfall.
To let him think he's won while sowing the seeds of his own undoing.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/05/15 15:22:17
I entirely see what you mean about it being fun to write badguy characters, I just personally find it harder. I suppose it's because, with a good character, there are certain things that are almost cliches, but that you can get away with (sacrifing themselves for others, taking the moral high ground, doing the 'right thing').
With baddies, you kind of have to walk the line between making them do evil things, but to some extent, justifiying it. It's easy to get a character that people will look at and think 'oh, he's a bad guy', but to actually get the reader into that kind of repulsed fascination takes more work than making a character endearing, for me at any rate.
2014/05/15 16:21:25
Subject: Re:The Geomides Affair [Sequel to Hand of the King - a novel by Ailaros - Chapter 26 complete]
I suppose a part of it is taking things that are good, and then spoiling it.
Everyone wants to be right, and to win an argument, and Damien represents the thrill of winning... but it's ruined because he did it by shouting the other person down. Everyone likes getting what they want from someone else, but here it's ruined because he did it by making crude threats and through extortion. Everyone understands the idea of wanting to have sex after you're triumphant, but it gets spoiled by the impending vision of abuse and door locks.
Unlike you, the character gets whatever he wants, but then, unlike you, the character is awful, irresponsible, and, well, evil. You want what he has, but are repulsed by how he chooses to behave once he has it, or the means by which he got it. That combination of jealousy and judgementalism.
Or, to put it another way, the bad guy makes the reader a bad guy themselves. And then things get really meta.
It is kind of fun to write, though. Writing something and being all like:
The office was a flurry of activity. Scribes dashed back and forth between the desks – some with stacks of paper, others scribbling frantically on data scrolls. The ponderous machine of government spitting out official records at overwhelming speed. The entire staff had been called in except, frustratingly, the superior and his subordinate, leaving Claire to handle the entire operation by herself.
The Fauleighra leaving Cupercourt had jumbled everything, well-established routine whisked away literally overnight. A vast mountain of paperwork had been left behind, unfinished inventories and half-completed transfer forms abandoned, as if to spite her. As if to say, “You thought it was difficult while we were here? Fine, we’ll just be on our way. See how you like it without us.”
But it wasn’t the extra work that was on everybody’s mind.
“There will be a bloodbath, that’s what he said. Everybody knows it,” one of the workers stated, sorting through a pair of filing cabinets.
“I don’t believe it, the governor would never actually say something like that. Sounds like just a rumor to me.”
“What, you’d only think it was true if it were on the news? That’s the least reliable source of anything. It’s just an empty mouthpiece for the Tellis administration.”
Claire stared blankly at the stack of A-80 forms in front of her. Silent. Numb.
The small porcelain cup rattled lightly on its saucer as he walked out of the cafe. It was a hot day out, like it had been for months now. Not a trace of cloud in the sky. Not a hint of rain. He could remember what rain was like, of course, but only abstractly. The intuitive understanding was gone. The ability to recall that present, visceral sensation of the event. It felt so strange. How could someone forget rain?
The awning gave way as he passed the row of wire chairs and tables huddled up against the dirty building. He entered full into bright sunshine before passing into the shade of the parasols blossoming from the row of tables near the street. The place was packed to bursting, a small piece of the great mass of Boroughcourt refugees.
The outskirts of the city were still a security disaster, even with the soldiers in charge. Fewer than half of the ag-fabs were still operational, and all open farmland had parched into a tangled mass of brown. The fields looked like a house destroyed by a windstorm – all the parts were still there, but twisted and collapsed on itself. Total desolation.
Now his poor, sorry, miserable people were just stuck. They could no longer board the trains, at Marshal Archon’s insistence, and there was no work for the flood of dispossessed. And so they congregated at places like this, desperate for a bit of companionship.
Gilbert worked his way up the narrow aisle between the tables, finding an empty seat next to the low metal grate buttressing the street.
“May I sit here?” he asked politely. The plump woman in her mid-fifties looked up at him with a smile, eyes crinkling with a warm grin. She brushed away a lock of dark-gray hair.
“Well of course you may,” she replied, scooting the wire table back towards herself a little. Her own cup rattled slightly. She had been nursing a cup of re-caf, now long since gone cold.
“Thank you. I’m Gilbert,” he said, working his way into the small chair.
It was nearly pitch black. Lucas hunched down in the darkness, alone.
It had to be a trap, there was no other explanation. Somehow, a stranger had broken into their network of civilian informants and gotten a message through to their secret camp in the forest. He claimed to be a high-level official who was a friend to their cause. A Bellemonde bigwig who had gone soft on the rebellion.
Nobody liked it, least of all Lucas. No one, that was, except the general, who felt the need to explore every opportunity, no matter how absurd. Lucas and a few others had argued for sanity, but it was only a matter of time before it boiled down to who was going to do the deed and meet with their new, shadowy ally. Who had the most experience sneaking into Cupercourt. Who was Lucas.
He furrowed his brow. This was beyond damned crazy.
He squinted, peering through the chain link fence, trying to see into the shadows on the other side. There could be a dozen soldiers out there, waiting for him. It would be more than easy for them to rush out and capture him. Or worse.
A thin line of men in tan uniforms raced down the cobblestone street towards the waiting supply truck. Boots clomped on pavement as they scurried forward. In broad daylight.
No, this was beyond crazy.
Lucas watched his comrades from the passenger’s seat, his crisp new Defense Service uniform chafing at the collar. It had come with the random assortment of weapons, explosives, spare fuel for committing arson, and other supplies for making mayhem found in the back of the truck. The military supply vehicle had been left conveniently unguarded.
This was absurd. There was no other way of saying it. He couldn’t believe he’d signed up for this in the first place.
The rebels from the depot team broke out across the parking lot and ran for the truck, the leader giving Paul a thumbs-up as he rushed past. The medic-come-driver waved back. A moment later, a half-dozen men jumped aboard, ducking into the canvas cover draped over the flatbed. The sounds of boots scraping on metal filtered through the back of the cab.
Lucas could only feel even remotely comfortable about this if he, at least, was the one who got to drive the truck. Unfortunately, he had never learned to drive anything bigger than a motorbike. Paul, on the other hand, had revealed a hidden side of himself when he confessed that he used to race quad buggies in his youth. Lucas still couldn’t imagine a man as smooth and unflappable as Paul racing anything.
Though perhaps that’s why he was so cool all the time. Once you were involved in a flaming buggy crash or three, everything else seemed mundane by comparison. It also made sense why he was the only one at the beginning who knew first aid. Hopefully the experience had made him as good of a driver as he was a medic. Wait, actually, a better driver.
