Commune Hands raised against the night sky Emman imagined cupping the stars and holding them to his ear like a conch; he would listen to the astral whispers that they fed to him. Learned with a wisdom craved by all the others he would stand on the altar and preach their celestial truth. The flagellants would whip in agreement. He imagined the Prophetess’s face set with shock. Drive me out, he said. Persecute me. But remember it was I who delivered the Seraphon’s eldritch knowledge. Emman was snapped from his fantasy by the door shutting. The Prophetess glided across the engraved floor, each step considered. Her chin was raised and her shoulders pushed back. Her head was straight and tense in a silent conflict with her tall, precarious hat. Whilst her robes were impeccably fashioned, and designed to flow about her body so as to hint at her figure whilst maintaining a reasonable defense for modesty, her hat was an ungainly ornament that persisted out of tradition than any practical sense. Her eyes were wide and restless. “Emman,” she said, with all the tone of a zealous woodpecker. “Where is your hat?” Emman rolled his eyes to the stars. The Prophetess explained to him the significance of image, and how it silently and constantly communicated your character. This was important to the Prophetess. “We must maintain a graciousness at all times” she said. “The temple is brimming with those who aren’t our type of people, don’t argue - you know it’s true, but that doesn’t mean we should stoop. We should give them something, something to look up to.” “I don’t give a damn about looking good for others,” Emman replied. The Prophetess waggled her finger. “Your father was an outstanding cleric, and he certainly would have cared; he governed and liaised between all the local dioceses.” “There are no more diocese,” Emman mumbled. “It’s just us: everyone here, together.” “Well we were better off when we weren’t if you ask me. I don’t mind helping them out but not in our own home. We’ve got our own problems: charity begins at home, you know.” She paused and Emman swallowed the silence greedily. “And put on your hat, Emman, for Tepok’s sake. Are you trying to embarrass me? If you won’t do one little thing for me, after all I’ve done-“ Emman put on his hat, but did so with a laboured display of sullenness. Emman didn’t care to encourage her dialogue with any stubbornness on his part. He knew too well how she’d react: a list of tired points of generosity that Emman could predict perfectly, like a Duardin counting the coffers of his prized trinkets, each item delicately placed and examined. The Prophetess swished over to the altar and cast an eye over the ritual. Flagellant’s blood slowly sluiced their way from the nearby libation chambers and pooled around the altar. The altar chamber was open to both the stars above and the rest of the temple compound, providing a precipice to look down on the rest of the congregation. Looking from their perch Emman could see the flagellants, bodies shiny in the starlight. He made an effort to enjoy their chanting, titling his head with a faint smile. The Prophetess ignored him: she had long planned for the summoning ritual to be her legacy for the Order, but the number of flagellants needed for the appropriate libation had only been achieved through the Order’s merger with the Sons of Sotek. The Prophetess had unsuccessfully protested this. Emman took great pleasure from her chagrin and showed his appreciation as often as he could. “What is this?” she was expecting the tip of her finger. Emman didn’t respond, unsure of how to introduce another’s digits to themselves. Catching his silence she ran her finger along the altar and showed him her finger: “what is this?” Emman inspected the finger but saw nothing. “Dirt, Emman: it’s dirt. Filthy. Would you clean it up for me please? I simply cannot be having anything slip up with the summoning; the stars will be aligned soon-” Emman acquiesced, keen for her not to open the coffer. He grabbed a cloth in one hand and jammed the other firmly in his pocket. Carefully moving the sacrificial dagger to the side he began to clean the altar. He doubted very much that the Seraphon gauged the power of a summoning by degrees of cleanliness. Part of him wished that they’d just route out a daemon instead, then the Seraphon would come running and he’d be free from such petty work. He checked himself: no, better to suffer in the temple than be a martyr in the field. He leaned over the altar in his chore and imagined himself already a martyr. “Imagine if something went wrong: maybe it tainted the flagellant’s libations or slowed the ritual, or whatever else?” the Prophetess wittered on. Her eyes were wide and wanting, like a child’s. This irritated Emman: he had been educated in the Collegiate Arcane and yet he was the one wiping altars. Age and experience doesn’t matter when you have wisdom on your side, he thought. No, she hadn’t the vision to understand that. It struck him that she was the type of person who would see a forest but could only observe it tree-by-tree. The comparison pleased Emman; he could see the forest. If only she could understand the limits of her vision. Instead she spent her time making petty talk whilst setting him mundane tasks. He’d show her. He’d clean this altar with absolute precision, so clean she couldn’t critique him in any way. She’d praise him. The door opened again and in walked a tall, placid priest carrying a silver platter. Emman stared at the man: he strode precisely, his neat robes gently skirting the floor. On his head was a tall, perfectly balanced hat bearing the emblem of the Sons of Sotek. The imagery wasn’t lost on Emman. Emman looked over to the Prophetess, dressed in his brightest smile. Don’t you see? The Prophetess didn’t look over to him, merely accepting the platter from the priest with an air of sterile transaction. The man turned away to leave. The Prophetess was inspecting the heart on the platter: fresh and still beating. No hello, not even a thank-you. She needs a lesson, Emman thought, dropping the cloth. Emman chased the priest. He had fantasised about this much: of an engaging and gleeful conversation in front of their brethren, laughing at clever jokes and discussing the arts, society, even the famine. Anything that was clearly above the Prophetess’ myopic interests. He had to say something insightful but warm. He had to say something. “Do you know how long until the alignment?” he asked the priest. Out of the corner of his eyes Emman could see the Prophetess staring. The priest’s hand halted on the door. He glanced at Emman, then to the Prophetess, and then up at the stars. The priest looked back, brows furrowed. “I mean, I know it’s soon,” Emman hastened to add. “But exact timings are important: imagine if something went wrong and we, you know, summoned the wrong thing or something.” The priest gave a pointed look back at the Prophetess and left. Emman was sure the priest would’ve talked to him if she wasn’t there. He looked back at the Prophetess. Her face had turned an unnatural red. Emman adopted a stoic look; it didn’t matter what was said, only that she had seen him talk. He crossed back to the altar with a marked stride, chin raised and eyes on the abandoned cloth. He imagined the Prophetess at the altar, knife raised over the heart, only for the star’s light to fall on him. A voice from the stars would say “Emman, you are the chosen one, for only you united your brethren”, and he would summon them and the lands would be purified by their light and the crops would engorge. He imagined ranks of Seraphon called to arms as they sensed the presence of daemons and that he would be invited to ride with the starhosts as they purged. Emman was disturbed from his fantasy by a hiss: “What was that about?” The Prophetess stalked over to him, her eyes even wider. “Are you trying to embarrass me?” Emman ignored her. He stared at the cloth and cleaned the altar with exaggerated precision. Couldn’t she see the contrast? How different he was to her: precise and controlled. “I try really hard, Emman. I really do. But I see you stropping about the temple, always rolling your eyes when I talk: criticising me. Well I’ve had it up to here - look at me!” She knocked the cloth from Emman’s hand and wielded her finger to a point above her hat. “-up to here. I did a favour to your father, been like a mother I have, and this is the thanks I get-” “It’s not my fault you can't face reality.” Emman tensed. He hadn’t meant to say it but he felt no remorse; this was a lesson long time coming. “Time moves on. We need to come together, and we can’t be having with your old opinions and condescending atti-“ “Condescending?” she shrieked. “Coming from the altar boy? I don’t know why I’ve put up with you this long. Your nothing like your father: you’re lazy, throwing about your strops like it’s anything important. Now, now you listen to me-“ She jabbed her finger at his chest. He could feel his cheeks flushing. “You will not ruin this night for me. Leave, now, or you’ll be scrubbing the latrines. In fact, you will be scrubbing the latrines after this show. You’ll never be anything-“ “That’s what you’ve always wanted,” Emman jabbed back. “Always, never recognising me for what I am. Wasted on you and your short-sightedness-“ “Short-sighted? I’m a prophet!” “We’ll see!” Emman leapt onto the altar, snatching the heart from the Prophetess and the dagger from the side. The Prophetess gasped. Now she would see. “Stop. Emman, what are you doing?” “What I was born to do.” Emman raised his hands. The Prophetess shouted at him, one sentence, again and again. He didn’t care, it was his time. He stabbed the heart. A glow bloomed through the heart’s fibre. A fiery tingle marked the blood that ran down his arms and dripped on his face. The flagellant’s blood gurgled and flowed about the altar. Churning, it flickered. Soon starlight would burst from the libation, from the altar, and from him: a light that mirrored the god’s. The libation boiled and roared; red flame tore about the altar. Emman had barely noticed before crimson fire spiralled out from under him. He was flung from the altar and rolled across the floor. Pain raked his body. His nose stung from a smell that made his stomach cramp. The Prophetess was still shouting, but now panic strained her voice. She was still repeating herself, like a child grasping for comfort: “It’s not time. It’s not time. It’s not time.” Clutching himself, Emman looked back to the altar. Hot tears blurred his eyes, but he could see the heart glowing on the ground, dagger still stuck within. The room was drenched in red, highlighting the graven floor in flickering crimson as fiery tongues leapt into the heavens. From inside the pillar of fire something took shape. Something like the shape of man. Something like a man but far larger. Even through Emman’s tears, even though the blazing red, he could see new lights within: two, constant and peering. The Prophetess screamed. She ran around the altar and leapt at the heart. Her robes billowed about her, burning. The peering lights flickered, drawn to her. The flames parted. An arm reached out, clawed and smoking. It grabbed the Prophetess and lifted her up. Her screams pierced Emman’s skull. Struggling, she pulled the dagger from the heart. The fires vanished, their roar echoing in Emman’s head. He pushed himself up, new tears streaking down his face. The Prophetess lay on the floor. “Please…” he mumbled. His heart beat hard as a wave against an unmoved shore. “My Prophetess.” He stumbled over to the Prophetess and gently rocked her. “Wait, stay. I’ll get someone.” He raised his voice. “Help, help!” he tried, but blood gurgled in his throat. A tide seemed to swell within him, carrying him away. His feelings dissolved into the deep darkness beneath. His dreams became unanchored, broken on the tide. He could see each dream crumble into smaller and smaller parts as waves broke them against staring eyes and accusing voices. Above the constellations shifted. Streaks of light rained down from the sky, falling towards the temple. Where they touched the earth great flashes bleached the landscape: the barren fields, the temple sculpture, and the blasted altar. The flagellants had stopped chanting. Bursts of starlight silhouetted their figures: standing, their hands raised to the sky. Emman’s hands dropped to his side.
Text and tea with Slanputin: "Commune" Commune, as in a) a religious community, b) to communicate, c) a religious rite celebrating the divine. I tried to change up my writing, focusing more on the internal than the external, with less environmental description/imagery. I think I ended up having one foot in the old and one in the new. Themes Vengeance Originally I started a couple of more violent stories. Both had the Seraphon cultist theme, and both looked at the cult sacrificing their own members out of desperation. The first was a single POV from a cultist being forced to sacrifice their lover; the second looked at shifting allegiances between three characters as the cult split over their new fratricidal direction. Eventually I decided to eschew the violence for pettiness; I loved the idea of petty revenge. I thought it more relatable to day-to-day life, and wanted to explore the psychology behind it. I think @thedarkfourth ’s eye for parody made me realise I was being a little heavy handed (/the dark ¼ is just very good.) Hope Hope here was Emman’s ambition. Everyone daydreams, and it’s easy for people to project the dissonance between what they want and what they have in real life. The story was on Emman’s inability to cope with this dissonance. This was inspired by a few psychological concepts, namely (and reductively) the “hero syndrome”, in which the individual creates an unfortunate situation which they can resolve as a way to attain recognition and self-worth; a “victim mentality”; and “spotlight syndrome”, in which the individual over-estimates their social presence. Essentially, I wanted Emman to be relatable in his mentality, whether the audience related it to themselves or their experiences, if not in with Emman’s actions. The grass is always greener on the other side, and when you get there you realise the green was probably from warpstone and you’ve trampled over your lawn in the process. Hence his regret over the Prophetess. Even at her demise I wanted his regret to be introspective – he messed up and feels guilty, but his ambition has been culled by her death. Dissonance has peaked, now what does he do? Character This was my greatest struggle: how to characterise the dynamic between the two central characters. I wanted it to be about the characters, that they’d be robust characters in-of-themselves, where you didn’t need to know their backstory as you’d glean their motivation from their psychology. Talented authors can make a compelling character whose actions you understand because you know their mentality (Flannery O’Conner springs to mind as I type.) Obviously, I still need to work on that approach. I wanted the relationship between the Prophetess and Emman to be almost familial, adding another layer to why Emman regrets how his decision affects the Prophetess. People can have blistering arguments and deep-rooted friction with their parents, but still love each other. I tried to underscore this familial link with with the Prophetess directly referencing her pseudo-mother role, and with references to Emman’s absent father - although I think this inadvertently opened up unsatisfied lines of enquiry. The Ending The ending drew the most critical attention. I left it ambiguous because, firstly, the cultish aspects weren’t central to the story, which I had intended to be more character-centric than my other pieces (i.e. internalised, rather than more projected psychology.) Once the character arcs closed the rest was superfluous in my mind. Secondly, the characters would have no idea what was going on and I didn’t want to detach the narrative from their internal voice. Incidentally, I didn't mean the Sons of Sotek to be good or bad - they were just a canvas for the Prophetess to project her xenophobia on; a catalyst to intensify the dialogue between her and Emman. I did leave hints which I thought would lead readers to understand: @spawning of Bob was the most on target: I’m uncertain if my ambiguous ending worked given the range of interpretations, however clearly it drew a lot of attention which is probably my failing at making the character’s denouement the focus of the ending, rather than the summoning itself. Extra: The ending was a frame to the beginning: Emman’s arms were raised to the sky, holding the stars between his palms. This was a reflection on his hubris and lofty ambition. At the end his dreams are shattered and his arms fall to his side, himself now very much grounded by the event. The flagellant’s still have their hands raised, fixed so much in their devotion to think their destiny awaits them with the Seraphon. The Seraphon probably don’t care about any of it.
Guilty of both focusing on the ending, as well as projection of where it lead my imagination. I think that the ending worked better than intended though, as the character arcs were finished, and a vague ending, we the readers were able to continue the story in our mind. It also left us wanting for a next chapter or a sequel. On a side note I drew the same conclusion as Bob, just worded slightly differently, and with a projected outcome of the cult.
I very much enjoyed this story. My vision of what happens at the end is a little different. I'd say the Seraphon show up and kill all them for summoning a daemon, even though the ritual was incomplete. Chaos taint must be destroyed at the roots. The only critique I would have is about the mentality of Emman. I think you've clearly shown your intentions with him, but my first thought was, "Why is he following in his father's footsteps?" He's so resentful of everything, yet still tied into tradition and duty. Though I guess that's not all too uncommon in the real world. Beyond that, your descriptions in this story were perfect. I could clearly imagine the room they were in, the lighting, the temperature, and positioning of each character. The flow was smooth and sensibly paced making it play out like a movie. You are quite the wordsmith.