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Fiction Spawning of Bob - Short and Sweet

Discussion in 'Fluff and Stories' started by spawning of Bob, Jul 27, 2015.

  1. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Looky! I am getting around to collecting my short story comp entries into one thread.

    As it seems to be the flavour of the year, at the end of each one, I will add some author's notes, invite corrections and suggestions, pretend to ignore them and then sneakily go back and edit the originals.

    You are also permitted to read for enjoyment, if you prefer.


    Edit - I am doing a lot of deconstruction of my stories below - as if they were classic literature! I've got reasons for this.
    1. It helps me to be a better writer if I analyse what I do.
    2. I am just about arrogant enough to think that I might have acolytes who can learn from my diffused wisdom.
    3. I am just about realistic enough to think that throwing light on my literary stumbling might help someone else to avoid the huge traps I have fallen in, or possibly show them that you don't need grand ideas or killah skillz to write something that other people will enjoy.
     
    Last edited: Aug 5, 2015
  2. spawning of Bob
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    Back to the Past
    (Entry in the Underempire short story competition Nov-Dec 2014. The themes were Clan Eshin or Time)



    Warlock-Engineer Dokemmett almost leapt out of his skin when the door of his laboratory was kicked open. His guilty terror turned to annoyance as soon as he realized the intruder was his slave-apprentice.

    "Marteek, you klutz-thing! Why did you kick-smash the door-barrier? You foul-stink this glorious day with your oaf-clumsiness!"

    Marteek didn't bother to answer. Having both of his claws laden with condenser coils, focussing crystals, and assorted other arcana should have been explanation enough.

    In any case, Dokemmett had already forgotten his complaint, so pleased was he to have a witness to his genius.

    "No, Marteek! Don't store-dump it yet. You must see-taste the big-greatest creation in science-engineering!"

    Dokemmett indicated a pendant which swung from his scrawny neck. At its centre was a dull chip of green glass from which sprang three crystal rods. To these were attached three heavy copper cables which led to a humming warp reactor which glowed sullenly to one side.

    Marteek knew his role well, not that he performed it with any enthusiasm. His own scorched and tattered pelt gave a cicatrixical history of many similar creations which had exploded, imploded, burst into shards or done nothing at all.

    "Marteek is amazed," he mumbled as he tried to decide where to cower. "What does the science-thing do this time?"

    "This," Dokemmett pronounced dramatically, "is the Warp-Capacitor-Thing! When it is charged-empowered with one-point-twenty-one-Gigawarps it will make history, over and over again!"

    Dokemmett threw a large switch and the warp reactor's hum rose to screaming intensity. Marteek decided he might as well stand still behind his armfuls of apparatus, because no amount of benches, retort stands or parphernalia was likely to save him from this one. There was a blinding flash.

    "Is this what death-sleep smells like?" Marteek whispered after a time, "Burnt-scorched hair?"

    Dokemmett coughed and lifted his goggles. The copper cables and their clamps had burnt away along with a fair amount of the warlock-engineer's fur. The fully charged warp-capacitor-thing glowed with piercing intensity.

    "Death-sleep? Ha! I fear no death-sleep now!"

    Marteek was transfixed.

    "One-point-twenty-one Gigawarps. From whom did you steal-acquire so much warpstone to create-make such power?" The slave's voice seemed oddly changed, Dokemmett assumed because of his awestruckness..

    "The Libyeek Warlord," the warlock said dismissively, "the fool-tunneller wanted me to make a warp-bomb-thing."

    "Can you pay-recompense them?"

    "Of course not. The warpstone is spent-depleted. But when I activate the charged warp-capacitor-thing like this, I set-establish a waypoint in time." he pressed the glowing crystal and the room was cast into darkness for an eyeblink. The crystal began to pulse rapidly. "The Warp-capacitor-thing is tuned to my heartbeat. If his assassins kill slay-me, I will scurry-return to this glorious moment to dodge-evade them!"

    Marteek dropped his burden into clattering heap on the floor of the chamber.

    "Schmuck-thing, why do you..."

    The apprentice slid slowly forward off the poison-slick blade which had transfixed him and slumped untidily on top of the clutter.

    Dokemmett licked his lips nervously as he watched the blade disappear into the folds of a black cloak. With the immediate threat now hidden, his eyes tracked higher to find a pair of glittering eyes in the shadows of a black Eshinite hood.

    "If you cannot pay-recompense the Warlord, then he will pay-recompense my trial-assessors."

    "Let me pay-recompense them instead!" Dokemmett squeaked shrilly.

    "But you said you cannot. I shall complete my trial."

    The blade reappeared, this time in the warlock's neck. As his lifeblood spurted before his fingers he reflected that, seeing as how he had been pierced with a poisoned throwing knife in the carotid artery, it would take him a little longer to bleed to death than it would have for the poison to stop his heart if the blade had penetrated a vein. It gave him just a little more time.

    Just a little more time for regret.

    Just a little more time.

    Just a little more

    Darkness.



    Marteek dropped his burden into clattering heap on the floor of the chamber. The apprentice slid slowly forward off the poison-slick blade which had transfixed him and slumped untidily on top of the clutter.

    "If you cannot pay-recompense the Warlord, then he will pay-recompense my trial-assessors."

    Dokemmett didn't waste his second chance on words. He feinted left then dived behind a bench. He heard the throwing knife this time. It whistled through the space he had occupied an instant earlier.

    The assassin-candidate swore softly and padded clockwise around the bench. There he found his mark staring up at him and clutching the pulsing amulet around his neck. The second knife stabbed through one of the bulging eyes and into the mark's

    Darkness.



    The assassin-candidate swore softly and padded clockwise around the bench. There he found nothing. His mark had scuttled the other way and was now closer to the door than his assailant. However, in his effort to move silently, the fugitive moved too slowly.

    The Eshinite looped his garrotte around the crouching warlock's neck. With a savage twist he very nearly

    Darkness.



    Abandoning all thoughts of stealth the mark broke from cover and scampered directly for the gaping door. The envenomed throwing star struck him directly between the shoulder blades, and before he had covered half the distance his legs gave way and ceased to obey his frantic commands. Paralysis crept up his body and soon affected his breathing. As he slowly asphyxiated, his bladder and bowels voided and there was nothing he could do about his shameful

    Darkness.



    Darkness.



    Darkness.



    Warlock Engineer Dokemmett had tried sneaking, sprinting, weaving, leaping and every combination of the above. He had shielded his body with laboratory equipment only to succumb to poisonous gases from a glass orb. He had vied for survival by throwing himself head first into the ventilation-waste shaft, but even that gambit had brought him to a sticky end in the accumulated effluvium which seethed and bubbled below Skavenblight. He had charged at the assassin making what he hoped were menacing snake-like hissing noises only to see his intestines coiling like lazy serpents at his feet.

    Darkness.



    Lots more darkness.



    During this painful, terrifying yet somehow monotonous process he made several important discoveries. Not the least of these was that a mass of sixty kilograms which accelerates at a uniform rate of thirty-two feet per second per second over a distance of some eighty yards falls for a duration of fifteen heartbeats and penetrates Skaven excreta to a depth of eighteen feet. The subsequent recording of the duration required for loss of consciousness due to asphyxia merely confirmed several previous observations.

    Perhaps his most useful discovery was that even an apprentice Clan Eshin Assassin in the midst of his death-trials has at his disposal a near infinite collection of imaginative, and indeed, artistic means of dealing death. At least one for every possible escape route that could be contrived from a warlock engineer's chamber which was only three hundred square feet in area and had but one door.

    As he slowly roasted inside the not-quite-spent warp reactor which, on one occasion, became his refuge and tomb, Dokemmett decided to take a new tack.

    Darkness.



    Marteek dropped his burden into clattering heap on the floor of the chamber.

    "I smell-hear you, Eshin-one. And I see-know your task-purpose."

    The apprentice slid slowly forward off the poison-slick blade which had transfixed him and slumped untidily on top of the clutter.

    "My scent glands were cut-removed before my trial. I was silent. How did you smell-hear?"

    Dokemmett desperately attempted to flatter something other than his own warp-inflated ego.

    "I knew I showed too much boldness by my TEMPORARY sneak-borrowing of the Libyeek's warpstone. I knew he would send the most famous-notoriousest assassin-candidate to retrieve pay-recompense for his petty-mouse clan."

    "Most famous-notoriousest assassin-candidate?"

    The warlock was sure he could hear the killer's whiskers twitch with pride under the deep shadow of his hood.

    "Yes-yes! But the most famous-notoriousest assassin-candidate must leave-spare a witness in order to become MORE famous-notoriousest, and Marteek has shamefully disqualify-invalidated himself..."

    "Being even more famous-notoriousest will make sneak-killing more difficult-hazardous..."

    Thwocka-thwocka-thwocka-THUNK!

    Darkness.



    Warlock-Engineer Dokemmett tried flattery, bribery, threats, outrageous begging and every combination of the above in his desperate ploy.

    More darkness.



    Lots and lots more darkness.



    Dokemmet had lost count twenty times over before he became resigned to the certainty that he could neither evade nor corrupt this gutter-sneak-who-had-commendable-pride-in-his-work.

    If only the assassin would die-perish.

    If only I could kill-slay him.

    How? I kill-slay with warp-tech. I have nothing.


    I have my laboratory-den and I am a genius-rat.

    I will kill-slay my nemesis and flee-escape this hamster wheel of death-mortality.

    Or die in the attem

    Darkness



    Given an uninterrupted week, the engineer could produce something which MIGHT not explode in his face. Under the present trying circumstances, he rated himself an optimistic one in ten thousand chance of killing his assailant, and then one in one hundred and sixty-six chance of not being killed by a malfunction of the weapon itself.

    However, he reasoned, one in one million, six hundred and sixty thousand was still better than his current odds of ze

    Darkness



    The warlock spent his next several lives inventorying his equipment, the next weighing his options and still more on devising a depressingly simple design.

    Then he began his intricate dance of survival. Every step needed to be one heart beat ahead of the Eshinite's dance of doom. While the assassin was content to hurl bladed objects, the warlock-engineer could weave and duck, with seeming prescience. In reality, each move had to be learned the hard way: with a painful death followed by darkness and starting again from zip.

    The assassin-candidate swore softly and padded clockwise around the bench. There he found nothing. His mark had scuttled the other way, but instead of heading for the door he dodged left to the fallen slave-meat.

    The mark tugged a copper coil, like an outsize spring, from beneath the body and then scampered into the shadows of an alcove.

    The irrational move surprised the Eshinite, but the dead end was as good a death chamber as any. He lobbed a fragile glass sphere into the void.

    There should have been the tinkle of shards and the whoosh of released gas. Instead the mark reappeared with the intact globe coiled in the tip of his tail. He scuttled to another bench and seized another copper artefact with a squeak of triumph.

    The assassin had closed the distance, thus Dokemmett needed to flee-dodge while he jammed the copper funnel into one end of the condenser tube to buy some space and time.

    Dokemmett retreived a tiny intact shard of warp stone from inside the warp reactor. It burnt his paw but he ignored the pain as he wedged it into the funnel. As he danced away from harm again he snatched a patch of soft leather which he then drenched in a pail of greasy water.

    The gas globe was wrapped in the leather and the open neck of this pouch was tied over the end of the condenser.

    The crude device was complete, and not a moment too soon.

    The Eshinite had tired of the game of dodge and was advancing to grapple with his arms spread wide. Palm needles glittered in each paw.

    Warlock-Engineer and Genius-Rat, Dokemmett stopped running. He directed the funnel with its glowing shard at the assassin and crushed the death globe with his other paw. The thick gas was constrained by the wet leather pouch and whooshed into the condenser coil. At the other end it ignited as soon as it came into contact with the warpstone.

    As far as warpfire projectors went, there were none cruder or less efficient. Rather than streaming a narrow jet of green flame, this one put out a diffuse cone. Dokemmett advanced on his foe, forcing him back until he was pinned beside the door. The Eshinite robes combusted, as did the assassin's black fur. The flames persisted until he was little more than a charred rat-roast.

    Dokemmett dropped his spent weapon and crowed in triumph. "So will I kill-defeat all who oppose me! First let me gather-steal enough warpstone to lock-set a new-better waypoint...what?"

    The triumphant engineer fancied he had heard a weak voice interrupt his speech.

    The crisped assassin's glittering eyes blinked open in the midst of his fire-ravaged face. "I have failed the trials. Clan-masters...will you avenge me?" he croaked.

    Three more hooded Eshinites glided silently into the room, their paws holding bizarre and painful looking instruments of slaughter.

    "What the copulate-

    Darkness.
     
  3. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Back to the Past - notes

    Like most of my things, I start with one little idea, (sometimes a line of dialogue) and work around it - create the characters, setting and action until I sort of have a story.

    In this particular case (and almost everything else I write) I took a familiar thing as a starting point (Back to the Future) and then apply a generous bit of "but what if" treatment.

    But what if Doc Emmett Brown was a nutty skaven professor? What would be different? What things would stay the same?

    Differences with a skaven prof:
    • uses warp tech
    • purpose of time travel changes from "for science" to "selfish reason"
    Staying the same:
    • needs a non scientific sidekick
    • steals plutonium from Libyans
    • Libyans want him dead
    • uses warp (flux) capacitor
    • needs one point twenty-one Giga-warps (Watts) - I was probably sold on doing this story when I realized that 1.21 GW was exactly the appropriate amount of warpstone power to make a time machine go.
    At pre-writing phase came the decision point - is this a free story which hangs off the scaffold of some ideas from Back to The Future, or is this a groan inducing parody?

    There was no chance I wasn't going to parody this, because:
    • I like parody
    • Parody is efficient. If the reader knows the pop-culture source, 80% of the exposition is taken care of. With that comes the risk that the reader doesn't know the source intimately, therefore I still need to write it like it is all original and unknown, (which is important) also important so a source familiar reader can spot what is different to canon.
    • I knew my audience. Skaven are a silly faction. Queekish is a silly language. Skaven readers know that the hero has no actual heroic traits beyond the ability to self justify anything, and plans always come unstuck. They like their characters to be abused and defeated over and over. It is like Scalenex, just there are more of them more of them.
    Between the expectations, source material, the 'what ifs' and the themes I was corralled into using the following plot elements:
    A nutty professor, an assistant, a time machine, a credible killer, and an ultimate comical defeat.

    Off I went. I chose to keep the Skavenized names (Dokemmet, Marteek, the Libyeek) which turns out to be the most groan worthy thing I did. I did that because I didn't trust the reader to figure out the parody source without help.

    The 'warp capacitor creating a way-point in time' was an idea I am still toying with in my longer story arc (to get around the Empire timeline not suiting the needs of a future character - Vlad von-Something).

    Tuning the time machine to the heartbeat, using darkness to indicate a reset, calculating the odds (based loosely on dice probability, I will have you know), the layout of the lab, the warpfire thrower - and therefore Chekhov's warp gas globe, and the reveal of the even worse peril were all things that I came with on the fly and then went back and wrote the set ups for.

    Did you groan at the finished product?

    It could have been a lot worse - after writing "schmuck-thing" I thought to myself - "what if he was a YIDDISH nutty skaven professor?"

    I rewrote the whole thing in Yid-Queekish and got SOOO close to submitting it like that. The only thing that stopped me was that - for the price of only one gag - not only did it not advance the plot, it would potentially confuse what the story was about, Oy veh!

    Here is a sample of what could have been:

    "I knew I showed too much chutzpah-boldness by my TEMPORARY sneak-borrowing of the Libyeek's warpstone. I knew he would send the most famous-notoriousest assassin-mensch to retrieve recompense-gelt for his petty-mouse clan."

    "Most famous-notoriousest assassin-mensch?"

    The warlock was sure he could hear the killer's whiskers twitch with pride under the deep shadow of his hood.

    "Yes-yes! But the most famous-notoriousest assassin-mensch must leave-spare a witness in order to become MORE famous-notoriousest, and Schlemiel-Marteek has shamefully disqualify-invalidated himself..."

    "Being even more famous-notoriousest will make sneak-killing more difficult-hazardous..."

    THWOCK!


    For the record, I haven't abandoned the idea of Yiddish WHFB Skaven, but if I was going to use them it would be on a scaffold of Shakespeares' 'the Merchant of Venice' (which would be risky) or based on Seinfeld (which would seem like genius) - this commentary is very interesting. The most interesting thing is that you could remove all references to Seinfeld characters and replace them with the word "the skaven character" and it makes perfect sense.
     
    Last edited: Aug 1, 2015
  4. spawning of Bob
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    The Hazing
    (Entry in the Underempire short story competition Feb-Mar 2015. The themes were Initiation or A Lesser Clan)



    Chair Trellik tapped his wooden hammer on the goblin skull. It made a hollow clack-clack sound which echoed in the stone chamber. “I squeak-call this extraordinary meeting of the Clan Haze Intake Committee to order!”

    As most of the others in the room settled, Secretary Slechar looked at Trellik. "What?" he said in a loud voice.

    Trellik repeated his declaration slowly so that that Slechar could read his lips.

    “Oh!” the secretary quickly scratched a series of messy characters onto the draft minutes, read over what he had inscribed, nodded and tucked the stylus to the side of his head. Given his lack of ears, the stylus clattered onto the floor of the chamber and he spent the next few moments retrieving it.

    Chair Trellik continued. “Thank you, Slechar. Brothers, President-for-Life Kalveen has invite-requested me to arrange-call this emergency meeting to examine-scrutinize a matter of concern. Therefore, we will not be observe-follow the standing agenda. To save time we will dispense with minute scribble-taking for the time being."

    Slechar’s face fell and the Chair hurried to add, “But we will still need to scribble-record a summary of discussion and action items at the end of the meeting.”

    Having placated the scribe, Trellik addressed the committee in general. “It has come to the knowledge-attention of Dictator-for-Life Kalveen that the membership of Clan Haze has been dwindle-withering rather than increase-expanding over time. Indeed, this intake there are only twelve applications for membership.” There was a startled murmur from the committee. "This is obviously of concern…”

    “Why?” asked a voice.

    “What?” asked Trellik.

    “What?” asked Slechar.

    “I don’t see why dwindle-withering membership is a concern.”

    The dissenter was Norbiss, as usual.

    “With rethpect, Norbith,” interjected Cleeten, “you don’t thee anything much do you?”

    “The hallmark of our Clan is its exclusivity; if just anyrat was accept-admitted we would….Wait! Was that some sort of “Norbiss-has-no-eyes” joke-wisecrack? I oath-swear if you had teeth I would….”

    “Order!”

    “What?”

    “ORDER! Now, Cleeten, we are NOT here to make snide joke-wisecracks about our Clan-Brothers, and I believe that Norbiss has assert-raised a valid point. However,” Trellik nodded deferentially toward Norbiss and continued, "Dictator-for-Life Kalveen did mention that while exclusivity is obviously desirable it is to be weigh-balanced against the risk of clan death-extinction.”

    “I see.”

    There was a loud snigger from Cleeten. Trellik cracked his hammer down on the goblin skull. He did not even need to say a single additional word and order was miraculously restored. As he looked at the tiny gavel in his seared claw he marvelled at the authority he wielded through its judicious application. Authority was just one of the benefits he had acquired through membership of Clan Haze.

    There had also been associated costs. His arm was hairless from claw to shoulder, and the shiny skin looked like wax which had been partially melted. He had very limited movement at elbow, wrist and fingers due to the scarring and, even after all these years, the pain disturbed his sleep. However, he was certain that he had gained more than he had lost.

    The same was true of for all clan members. In an intangible sense, each had gained the grudging respect from those outside the clan and the loyalty of those within it. In more concrete terms, many owed their continued existence to the altruism that existed only within the Haze.

    Mor, for example, had never had two warp tokens to click together. There was no way under the earth that he could have paid for his respirator or his wheeled chair, but the Hazed stood by their oaths and covered the cost. A dozen similar tales could be told about the rats in this very chamber.

    One of the newer committee members respectfully raised a stump.

    "Yes, Daen. You may squeak."

    "Thank you, Chair, brothers. We must do-take immediate action to revive the clan!"

    "We must do-take nothing until we find out the cause of this fall-slump in successful initiate numbers,” Norbiss interjected. "If we do not grasp-understand this thing, our efforts will be wasted-misdirected at best and misdirected-wasted at worst!"

    "Tho," mused Cleeten," Brother Norbith thqueak-thuggethts that we do nothing?"

    "I did not squeak-say that, Cleeten. Use your ears!"

    “What?” asked Slechar.

    "Oh! My apologies, secretary! It was just a figure of squeech. I suggest that we look-examine the intake records over the period to see-find what has gone awry."

    "That seems a good place to start-begin. Thank you, Norbiss.” Trellik tapped on the secretary's shoulder to get his attention. "Secretary Slechar, read-recite out this year's preliminary intake report, if you please."

    Slechar shuffled through a large wad of documents until he found his prey.

    "Applicants - twelve,
    Candidates - twelve,
    Successful Initiates - pending."

    Another concerned murmur rippled across the group.

    "Have we ever had candidate numbers below thirteen before?” asked Norbiss .

    "I don't believe so.” Chair Trellik shook his head. "Slechar! What about last intake?"

    "What? Yes, ah...

    Applicants - seventeen,
    Candidates - thirteen,
    Successful Initiates - zero."

    "And the intake prior?"

    "Applicants - twenty-seven
    Candidates - thirteen,
    Successful Initiates - zero"

    Daen raised a stump. "The intake before that was the year of my initiation. I think there were forty-three applicants, which were cull-narrowed down to thirteen candidates for initiation. I was the only successful initiate."

    "Which makes you our newest member. Hmm. Slechar! The record for four intakes ago?"

    "Applicants - an even fifty-two,
    Candidates - thirteen,
    Successful Initiates - zero.

    "Before that was sixty-eight, thirteen and two, and then prior to that was seventy-six, thirteen and zero."

    "What do the figures tell us?"

    "There is a unsettle-worrying trend,” noted Norbiss. "Year on year, fewer young rats seek-apply for membership."

    "By the Great One's Tail, you are right!” Trellik stroked his chin, "What under the earth would induce-cause each successive generation to disengage? Clan Haze's values have certainly not changed. What is it Daen? You don't need to raise a stump every time you wish to speak."

    "Thank you, Chair, brothers. There might be something else happening-going on. The applicant pools are dwindle-shrinking, but did you smell-notice the other important figure?"

    "Is it that only that only one in eighty-four applicants survive the cull-initiation, leaving the number of successful initiates averaging less than one per intake?"

    "No, not that. I mean the number of candidates is always exactly thirteen!” Daen waved his stumps enthusiastically, “Unless you count-consider this year."

    Trellik blinked at him. "You do realise that we have a limit-cap on candidate numbers, don't you?"

    "Do we? What is the limit-cap?"

    "Thirteen."

    "Oh. Yes... I see.” Daen's face fell for a less than a heartbeat and then he smiled anew. "We could raise-increase the candidate cap from thirteen and then..."

    "What?” exclaimed almost everyone else.

    "What?” asked Slechar.

    "Brother Daen,” said Trellik sternly, "we are not about to offend-insult the Great One and become a laughing stock by choose-adopting some other holy number. If there is a solution to be found it does not lie there. Our path forward remains a puzzle-mystery."

    "It ith leth of a puththle-mythtery than you thuppose,” stated Cleeten with a vehement shower of saliva. "We cannot make outthiders want to apply for memberthip, and we cannot raithe the cap. Therefore, we mutht exthamine the inithiation protheth."

    Trellik's head snapped up. "Thirteen Bells, you are on to something! That IS the only path-course we have open to us. The initiation process! Does anyone have any thoughts?"

    "For starters,” noted Norbiss, "We choose-select a different rite each year, therefore the problem can't be the actual cull-initiations themselves. In my intake, candidates had to poke-gouge their own eyes out with the claws of a living wyvern."

    "Hmm. I had to grab-retrieve thirteen ingots of iron from a tub of acid before they dissolved. I only just managed in time, too. In hindsight I should have used both paws."

    "Was that the time when the first unsuccessful initiate leap-jumped in because he thought it was just water?"

    "That is true-correct, although I wish that he hadn't. Even after he had fully melt-dissolved the acid remained cloudy. It made it much more difficult-harder for the rest of us."

    Daen raised a stump.

    "Thank you Daen, but we can all remember your initiation quite vividly."

    The youngster meekly lowered his stump again.

    "The rites are quite difficult-challenging.” Trellik sighed. "Could they be a deterrent in themselves?"

    "I don't see how they could be. Each intake we hide-keep the planned rites secret until the candidates are selected."

    "No,” Trellik said, "I meant the overall level of difficulty-challenge from intake to intake."

    Norbiss jumped to his feet. "If you are think-contemplating softening the initiations I must protest! Clan Haze, as I have squeak-mentioned before, is defined by its exclusivity. If we make initiation into a mere rubber stamp-formality wherein will lie our mystique? And another thing, if a brother is scamper-walking on the underway, outsiders should be showing him deference-respect and squeak-saying to themselves, 'there goes one of the Marked Ones of Clan Haze, or possibly the victim of some horrible industrial accident'."

    "Calm yourself and sit-relax, Norbiss! We must be calm-dispassionate about this. The choice-decisions we take today will define the Clan's future, and if we must find compromise then... Did you all hear that?"

    "What?" asked a chorus of voices.

    "What?” asked Slechar.

    "That sound. A scritching-scratching sound. It sounded like.... Oh! I am dreadfully sorry, brother Mors. Is your respirator work-functioning properly?"

    Scratch scritch scratch scratch. Scritch. Scritch scritch scritch. Mors communicated, as always, by scratching two long claws on the table.

    "Y. E. S. Yes?"

    Mors did not, indeed, could not speak or move. The two corrugated tubes which sprouted from the hole in his throat passed under the table and out of sight, but from the steady hiss and wheeze of the respirator it seemed that it was operating normally. Trellik had another try at guessing Mors' intent, "Do you need help to go to-visit the washroom again?"

    Scratch scritch. Scratch scratch scratch.

    "N. O. No? Good, we should move on..."

    There was another sequence of scritching and scratching.

    "Yes, brother we have shown-established that we seem to be losing appeal with the youngsters, but that is out of our control."

    More scratching.

    Trellik shook his head vigorously, "No, no no! I am not patronising you! But as Norbiss stated, we cannot weak-soften the rites in order attract more applicants. It is a self defeating measure and...

    Mors scratched so vehemently that he gouged two long furrows into the table. Trellik attempted to regain control of the meeting.

    "No. Brother I-"

    Scritchety Scratch. The Chair's words were being blown away by a hurricane of scratching before he could even form full sentences.

    "Well, yes. but... If the purpose-object is to raise not just initiate numbers, but the quality of initiates. To soften-compromise is to...What? ... How can we possibly have it both ways?... But if... do you think... Isn't there a... but cheese doesn't operate-behave that way! ... Oooh!!"

    As Trellik came to understand Mors' plan a broad smile crept over his muzzle.

    "Secretary Slechar, are you scribble-getting this down?"

    "What?"

    "Oh, for the Great One's sake, just give me the stylus!"

    For the next several minutes the only sounds in the chamber were the scratching of claw on oak, the rustle of stylus on parchment and the steady hiss and wheeze of Mors' respirator.

    When the scratching abated, Trellik scanned the notes he had taken. "I bow to you, brother Mors. I believe you have rescue-saved Clan Haze. Does anyone have anything to squeak-add?"

    Those members of the committee who had the facility to shake their heads did so. The brain of brother Cambel just floated quietly in its jar, but Trellik reasoned that his assent was implied. In any case, if Cambel chose to vent his spleen at being overlooked it hardly mattered. His spleen was in a jar in an entirely different room.

    "May I have a mover to squeak-propose that we take this course of action? Thank you brother Daen, you may put your stump down. A seconder? Thank you, brother Dessig. All those in favour say 'Aye'. Carried unanimously- Yes, Cleeten?"

    "Doeth Norbith'th 'Aye' vote count if he doethn't have any 'eyeth'?"

    "Cleeten, you filthy piece of earwax! If you had teeth, I oath-swear I would..."

    "Order! Please, brothers! You may continue your silly argument after the meeting. Now, I wish to recite-read back the summary of Mors' strategy to make sure it is as agreed before I present it to President-and-First-Ogre-Hobbis."

    Trellik cleared his throat. "The intake committee has note-identified a downward trend in membership applications over a long-extended period of time.

    "We think-believe that this is because Clan Haze is becoming a less desirable-popular choice among young Skaven than has historically been the case.

    "In order to correct-address this trend, the committee recommends the following initiation rite. We believe the proposed rite maintains Clan ethos and traditional entry standards but at the same time will boost-raise interest in the Clan by directly involving the next generation of young Skaven in the cull-initiation process.

    "The proposed rite of initiation is as follows: Candidates will strip naked, smear-cover themselves in cream cheese, and scamper-run across the Skavenblight weaning chamber (and therefore amongst the youngsters in question) while squeak-shouting, "Suppertime! Suppertime! Suppertime!" at the top of their lungs.....
     
    Last edited: Aug 1, 2015
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  5. Slanputin
    Carnasaur

    Slanputin Well-Known Member

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    I'm enjoying reading these non-Lizardmen flavoured stories, as heretical as it is to say.

    I appreciate your comments on writing parodies. I've been toying with the idea of writing one for a while but I've always been too scared to take the plunge - comedy is not my strong point.
     
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  6. spawning of Bob
    Skar-Veteran

    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Concerning Hobbits Skaven

    I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere the learning I got from Scalenex's experience on the Under Empire Forum - If you don't write character voices in Doublespeak-Queekish, you get punished (not harshly, but every feedback comment will say "odd that there was no Queekish / Would've been better with Queekish")

    Over here, I've been pulled up for over Queeking, but I've also been pulled up for over Scottishing and over cockneying and everything else as well. OK I get it! (there are also 3 from 3 checklists on Writers' Wretreat or Crytics' Crypt? which also declare dialectese to be unforgiveable)

    Anyway, over on UE, I've hit on a formula that the twitchy nosed scabby traitors think works well.

    • Get a thesaurus
    • Identify the main verb in a line of dialogue.
      • Option A - Double it with a synonym. Dwindle-wither. Read-recite.
      • Option B - Double it with a somewhat ratty other verb. Scamper-run, sneak-ambush, smell-find. That kind of thing.
    • Exceptions to my rule (ie queeking up a non verb word or boring repetition)
      • Phrases so conventional that you are expected to use them. I will kill-kill the unimaginative guy who first wrote kill-kill, if I ever sneak-catch up with him
      • If it sounds right to do otherwise
      • If I can squeeze in just one more terrible play on words
    • If the sentence is unreadable, just manage without the Queeks, still aiming for one hyphenated word per block of character voice as a minimum.





    As for "The Hazing" story with it's lesser clan and initiation themes, my initial idea that got me started was thinking about how a cruel and life-not-valuing society would have some pretty terrible initiation rites that might leave scarring.

    So what if...
    • The initiations were so bad that there were no initiates left?
    • Why would someone go through that anyway? - clan status must be very desirable and` the "club" must be very exclusive.
    That was the entire sum of creative thought that went into the setting. The rest was derived from other places.
    • The most exclusive club I know of is G.R.O.S.s. (Get Rid Of Slimy girlS) from Calvin and Hobbes which has many club roles, but only two members. GROSs has fabulously complex rules, and seems to exist only for the purpose of performing club management committee functions. What if a Skaven Clan ran the same way?
    • Practically every reader has suffered through a committee meeting - therefore 80% of painting the setting can be done with "I call this meeting to order..." What would be different about a skaven meeting? What would be the same?

    Rough plan:
    • A committee discusses a problem
    • they identify the cause of the problem using nutty logic
    • they come up with a nutty solution consistent with their false assumptions
    Please note that similar committee processes are not exclusive to skaven. Read Dilbert if you don't believe me.

    Having the secretary with missing ears was a lucky find - it led to everyone having a visible scar of some kind. Which meant I needed to establish the scars among a group for whom the scars are familiar and not worthy of being a subject of conversation in themselves - hence the interplay in dialogue of the blind guy and the one with no teeth, the chair-rat thinking about his injury and that of some of the others, and the stage direction of the one with stumps.

    Another tricky thing was that I had to establish super-clearly that they ALL had terrible injuries without explaining why or how during the set up - because the story is not about the initiations or how the reader feels about them. It is about the natural and logical reactions toward the initiations of a bunch of lunatics. I could then trickle feed the why and how as the story moved ahead. For the record, I was happy to never explain any of the initiation rites - I only did it because it advanced the set up. I also have no idea what processes led to the missing teeth, the brain in the jar, the high level quadriplegia or the stumps for arms. Let your imagination go wild.

    As for the characters - I love the stumpy character so much, he is so enthusiastic and helpful. In my mind's eye he looks a lot like Handy from Happy Tree Friends. I would normally struggle to give unique voices to several characters but it was a doddle this time - I could differentiate by voice (a lisp, Mors' code) by language use (the chair-rat) and by attitude (enthusiastic for Daen, earnest and committed for Norbiss). I hope you also got the feeling that there were a number of non contributing members int he room - just like a real committee!

    Very unusually for me, I just chose names that sounded good with no hidden meanings or applying any name selection rules. The only one that HAD to follow a rule was Norbiss. He needed an "S" sound in his name to give weight to the fact that the guy with the lisp was picking on him all the time. [Edit - except for Mors. That was a double barrelled and dreadful pun.]

    The clever bit - It is my dream in life to present a satisfying plot twist in only one sentence - unexpected AND obvious at the same time. This is the closest I have come, and I was able to almost to do it because of Mors' scratching code and the fact of meeting procedures requiring minutes:

    Mors explained his whole very complex plan to the committee, and the committee was able to discuss it and enthusiastically adopt it without the reader knowing what the plan was. Despite this the reader did know what the justifying arguments for the plan were, so when the weak-ass and confusing reveal happened in the read-back of the minutes, the effect on the reader was probably "Really? That was pretty lame." rather than "WTM? I have no idea what just happened."

    As for the cheesey final plan - apologies - it was the best I could come up with and it was during the Grate Cheese Pun Storm of 2015, therefore it was a product of its time rather than a timeless classic. If a better twist came along, I reckon I could redo just a little bit of the setup and The Chair-rat's response to Mors and I could still use the same general dialogue and story format.
     
    Last edited: Nov 7, 2015
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  7. spawning of Bob
    Skar-Veteran

    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    It's been quiet...

    The last story was essentially all dialogue. It was set in a room with a table. The characters didn't move at all. (this sounds a lot like @pendrake 's army fluff - read his signature some time)

    For contrast the next one has NO dialogue.

    The Betrayer
    (Entry in the Lustria Online short story competition April-May 2015. The theme was Chameleons)


    There was no problem with Huanek's camouflage. He had taken on the exact texture and hue of the barren lava field as soon as he had emerged from the caverns beneath the volcano. The problem was that his shadow betrayed him every time he tried to move.

    Complete immobility with his body pressed flat was an effective strategy for survival, but it had the disadvantage that it carried the chameleon skink no closer to the relative safety of the jungle. For five hours he had remained motionless on top of a small basalt outcrop while his hunters scoured the immediate vicinity. He was still alive but his situation had deteriorated rather than improved. At noon his shadow had only been as long as he was. If he stood in the slanting afternoon sunlight, his betrayer would stretch itself into a twenty yard finger of accusation.

    The chameleon rotated his eyes as if they were on gimbals. He could just make out Hexoatl, piercing the forest roof many miles away. The low orb of the sun was seemingly stalled above the City of the Sun's glimmering spire. Only three hundred yards away was the edge of the volcano's vast caldera and the beginning of the jungle, but the nearest of the vengeful black orc bodyguards was closer still. Huanek was faced with a deadly dilemma. If he attempted a last dash under the gaze of Chotec, his hunters would cut him down within seconds. If he stayed still, the main force of the greenskin war host would overtake him long before nightfall. He might not be discovered, but he would salvage nothing from his blighted mission. His failure would be absolute.

    His eyes gyrated and scanned the lava field again. What he needed right now was a shadow. Just about any shadow other than the one which had dogged him since his spawning. His first preference would have been a cool shadow under a mossy boulder. Such a deep dark would temporarily consume his betrayer. He would be almost as happy with the mottled patchy shade of the noonday jungle, which Chotecalways populated with so many shadows that his betrayer could not be made out among the throng. His brief inspection revealed that the lava field offered no shadows other than spiky ones occupied by orcs.

    At least the hunters were far enough away that Huanek could risk a tiny movement. He peeled his belly away from the rock so that a thin stream of air could cool his burnt skin. When he had thrown himself down here to smother his betrayer, he found that the black rock was hot enough to fry a fabridon egg. The hunters were so close at that time that he had just held his breath and endured the torment. Having superficial skin burns was preferable to being thrown into a fiery volcanic vent as a sacrifice.

    While his belly was lifted Huanek did a quick inventory. Naturally his betrayer still lurked beneath him, but he had also been lying on his blow pipe and the last of his darts to conceal them. They were intact, but two poisoned darts and a hollow stick would be inadequate for him to fight his way free or to stop an army.

    He lifted his eyes to the Sun Temple's spire again and wished that the Old Ones were not so aloof. He had maintained a posture of obeisance towards the Sun Temple for at least the last five hours, but yet they continued to withhold their mercy.

    For the entire previous night the full moon had given his betrayer boldness and definition, and Morrslieb had filled its void with a malicious green glow. The glare of the subsequent day's sun had not been softened by as much as a wisp of cloud. Since his mission had started going wrong the only blessing he had received from the heavens was delivered by a passing bird. The gift was deposited to his exposed back, giving artistic verisimilitude to his performance as a surface irregularity on a lava outcrop. The blessing had given him a little solace. It made him thankful that stegadons don't fly.

    Huanek didn’t blame the Old Ones for abandoning him. He felt that he deserved their scorn for the lapse of jjudgement that had robbed the Sun Host of time to prepare the forward defences.

    His mission had been to observe the volcanic caverns and tunnels of the Firegeezer Tribe and return and report if anything untoward happened. He should have slunk back to Hexoatl as soon as the greenskins had stopped squabbling among themselves and started gathering a critical mass of smaller tribes. Instead he had risked a shot which he had believed would end the coming Waaagh! before it began.

    Huanek had assumed that after he had delivered Sotek's Blessing into the black hide of the largest and fiercest orc chieftain that there would be an internal squabble followed by the dissipation of the tribes. Instead it was as if he had beaten a fire hornets' nest with a stick.

    It turned out that the true nucleus of the swarm was the fume befuddled shaman who gibbered and raved on his perch on the shoulder of a massive idol of the greenskins’ volcano god. The dead chieftain must surely have been a moderating influence, because after his demise the shaman’s rantings became more strident and they began to convey a vaguely coherent message about the imminent destruction of Hexoatl. Somehow he contrived to produce thick yellow smoke from the idol's eyes and fire balls from its mouth. The whole green skinned assemblage similarly erupted with the fire of volcanic religious fervour.

    Even after that, Huanek had believed he could salvage the situation by ghosting away and raising the alarm in Hexoatl. After all, there is nothing inherently wrong with beating hornets' nests as long as one has a clear path of escape. It was only after he had crept out of the smoky caverns that he discovered that his betrayer and the moons were conspiring to change his misjudgement into a fatal error.

    From the volcano’s foot at midnight to the verge of the jungle near dusk, Huanek’s flight was oft interrupted by the commendably tenacious orcs who had failed to protect their chieftain. He had needed to go to ground so often that he had only just kept ahead of the Firegeezer shaman’s war host. All the time, he could hear the raving shaman who commanded from the shoulder of his smoking god. The volcano idol followed the advance by virtue of crude wheels and the pushing power of a bevy of stone trolls.

    The first ranks of the Waaagh! were now parting around his little outcrop like flowing water, so close that he could smell their warpaint. The chameleon clamped his belly down on his betrayer again. There would be no early warning for Hexoatl.

    Whether warned or not, the Sun Host would turn back the green tide in the jungle or at the city wall. Perhaps Lord Mazdamundi would leave his contemplations and sear the orcs to ash. The greenskins would inevitably be routed, but there would be significant loss of life and disruption to the Great Work. It all seemed pointless to Huanek, especially considering that he could have dispelled the entire Waaagh! with just one more well aimed dart.

    The volcano idol was grinding past the outcrop now. Its cloying smoke trailed over the chameleon and he stifled a cough and blinked at the salty secretions which suddenly flooded his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw that the idol had stopped at the forest edge.

    The shaman had chosen this vantage, overlooking Hexoatl, to perform some elaborate supplication which involved more gibbering and more fireballs. The pall of yellow smoke from the idol thickened, obscuring Huanek’s view of the city and the sun.

    Huanek lifted his belly again and peered underneath. His betrayer was gone, swallowed by the sulphurous smog.

    The chameleon moved to a low crouch but no alarm was raised. He did not need to look down at his claws as he retrieved his blow pipe and inserted both darts. His eyes were too busy, darting back and forth, and measuring distances, angles and approaches.

    To get into dart range of the shaman, the chameleon would need to pass near the idle stone trolls and a company of goblins. However, with his betrayer gone, he could move freely and swiftly. Sotek's fangs would do the rest.

    Huanek was not the only one who could be betrayed by his own shadow.
     
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  8. Bowser
    Slann

    Bowser Third Spawning

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    I d
    did like the Calvin and Hobbs reference here! Caught the Calveen right away by his title, was just waiting for the Hobbs reference!
     
  9. Bowser
    Slann

    Bowser Third Spawning

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    It's incredibly interesting to see thoughts and critiques from the author. My favourite Calvin and Hobbes book is the 10th year anniversary as the author Bill Watterson gives insight into what was going on in his life when he wrote the stories or inspirations and techniques that lead to other stories. Regrets about certain elements and what he would change. The comics of course are funny, but what he has to say about them is genuinely fascinating. So for what it's worth I think this thread is brilliant! Would like to see more like it!
     
  10. spawning of Bob
    Skar-Veteran

    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    The author of Dilbert, Scott Adams talks a lot about his observations on life, but not much about his cartoon process. I am led to believe that Bill Watterson wanted to draw epic action comics, but there was no money in it. Calvin gave him the opportunity to draw aliens, dinosaurs and the occasional private dick - so he would be pretty rich and happy now.

    But ignore those multi frame comic hacks. The greatest medium is single frame, and the master is Gary Larsen of The Farside. Near the end of one of his books (it might have been Wildlife Preserves) he had a reason to pull out his early drafts, idea scribbling and just randomness and talk about them.

    That and a prologue to one of his other books (by Steven King) made the creative process seem quite doable. I am trying to do the same here - to remove the mystique and get people participating.

    In a somewhat unrelated observation, it is difficult to copy a Farside character.

    [​IMG]

    I did long and hard research to reference how to draw THE Farside Chicken, only to discover that Larsen never drew the same chicken twice. This makes me feel better about how inconsistently I draw my own recurring characters.
     
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  11. Scalenex
    Slann

    Scalenex Keeper of the Indexes Staff Member

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    Maybe the viewership was too young to get the Calvin Hobbes reference. I thought in that contest Bob and I were particularly brilliant, but we got stomped. I got one vote, Bob got zero. The tying winners had three votes. I thought of Story Two probably deserved to win, but Story One but was pretty by the numbers for me. It was a cookie cutter Skaven betrayal story, but it was in a play format. A bit gimmicky I say. Also Story Two was the only quasi-winning piece that wasn't explicitly about betrayal.
     
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  12. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Back to commentary about The Betrayer.

    The theme of the comp was "chameleons".

    The inspiration was little fish at the beach. Baby flathead and flounder particularly.
    [​IMG] [​IMG]

    The only time you can see them is when your feet disturb them and they change position. As soon as they settle again they become effectively invisible. And the only reason you can see them then is that they lift a little bit to swim and they are betrayed by the shadow underneath.

    If there is no direct sunlight, they might be detectable, but they are not trackable.

    It is my belief that that little fish utterly abhors its own shadow. Theory two is that they don't even know they have one, given that their eyes are on the top.

    I've also harassed a small octopus and watched it not only actively camouflage in the colour sense as it moved into some dark brown seaweed, but its skin surface changed too - developing frills around the edges and protrusions all over. Military disruptive camouflage similarly attempts to rob the eye of an edge to look at with the patterning or with extra frills and tassles, like a ghillie suit.

    The combination of active camouflage and stillness making a chameleon skink undetectable is plausible to me, and I prefer that idea to the usual convention that they almost semi-magically can't be seen, no matter what. Even transparent type camo, like the predator or invisibility suit doesn't do that. You might not know WHAT you are looking at, but you can see where it is.
    [​IMG]



    However - remember conventions / tropes / stereotypes are there for a reason - they are efficient. You could spend 1000 words describing the mechanism for invisibility OR you could just say "it was hard to see where the lizard ended and the forest began" and just move on.
     
    Last edited: Dec 11, 2015
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  13. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Back to the Betrayer.

    I wanted a lone chameleon out in wide open spaces. That ruled out most built or natural environments. The thought of laying belly down on hot asphalt led me to the idea of a basalt field. For a half page of notes I strayed away from the shadow being a problem and tried to write about how is burnt belly couldn't colour change (it looked dead white. probably inspired by this conversation) but fortunately I simplified it back to the shadow alone.

    That left me with a chameleon in an uncomfortable position, but no plot and certainly no urgency. Just stay still until night time, then ghost away. Or get caught and die. Whatever. I needed a scenario which required a) action before nightfall and b) the character to survive - even though he had no particular fear of dying (he is one of THOSE lizardmen).

    I figured chameleons would have a dual role - scout and assassin.

    If he was part of an army on campaign somewhere, the fact that a scout had not reported back would be enough to heighten the vigilance of his brothers, therefore I wanted him to be in Lustria somewhere on a very routine mission. But on a lava field. And close enough to his commanders for a quick report to have an effect (if it was a week's journey back to base, a few more hours delay wouldn't matter.) I remembered @Scalenex had volcano based greenskins in Renliss' story, so I went, "why not?" and put a volcanic plateau overlooking a temple city.

    A fresh Waaagh! was certainly worth giving a warning about, so Orcs were locked in too. The city really had to be Hexoatl, city of the sun, given the shadow theme. I did notes for how much Huanek hated being in the city, but this wasn't useful to drive the plot forward.

    Situation: Lizard trapped by his shadow on a rock in the middle of the day. A gathering Waaagh! A delayed warning. What had happened to get to this point? What would happen next?

    I gave myself a number of giant plot hole type problems that needed to be dealt with. These included:
    • If his job was surveillance of the greenskins, what had happened to cause him not to follow his standing orders ? (ie report back if there is any cause for concern)
    • What is the consequence of failure? The benefit of success? Why does he feel personally invested in the outcome?
    • If the Waaagh! gets past him, his warning is irrelevant. How can he get trapped long enough for him to get frustrated, but short enough that his mission still has a purpose? How can he get enough distance ahead of the Waaagh! but still not quite make it to the safety of the deadly jungle?
    • Active skin camouflage is great. But how does he keep his weapons hidden? Does he discard them?
    In the process of answering the questions the image of an Ork Stompa as a mobile war shrine came to mind. This dictated that the orcs needed to be volcano worshippers, conveniently gave me a setting of volcanic tunnels for part of the flashback, and best of all, suggested the resolution to the story.

    Good plot? I hope you think so, but the plot was just a vehicle to carry the central idea that a stealthy character has a love / hate / despise relationship with shadows. I decided he would give it the nickname "betrayer", rather than use the term "shadow" every second sentence. For utter clarity I used the technique I call "forechaptering" which is where you foreshadow the main point of the next bit of text in the chapter title. The poor confused and not very smart reader reads the title and thinks, "this chapter must be about a betrayer. I will keep on the lookout for one of those."
     
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  14. Scalenex
    Slann

    Scalenex Keeper of the Indexes Staff Member

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    Thanks for flagging me. I hadn't read this thread closely until now. I thought it was just a repository of pieces I already read like my equivalent thread but I see you wrote you meaty posts about the craft of writing. Wonder if I should toss my L-O short story entries into the above thread or put them someplace else.

    For the record, I think Yiddish and Queekish probably shouldn't mix. I don't know if some would find it offensive, but I don't think it would make things more funny or readable. If you try to give a character two colorful accents you just come off looking weird. Maybe you pull off mixed accents in a voice medium like when Phineas and Ferb had the show with the Mexican-Jewish heritage festival (but most of the gags were visual). Accents are hard to convey in the written world alone. I wouldn't go more than one at a time.

    They were actually geyser-based greenskins, volcanos have not part in their existence. You should probably read everything I posted on Lustria-Online all over again...all of you.

    In a related event, I forgot you wrote Betrayer. That my personal favorite entry of that contest.
     
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  15. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    I did skim read Count Renliss to check while I was writing this, and yes, it was geysers. But I figure vulcanism is vulcanism.

    I pictured tunnels and caverns lit from beneath by red light, and the fervent greenskins casting oversized and misshapen shadows on the walls. A spy with a knack for climbing and staying still would have no trouble getting to the heart of the mountain and staying there for an extended period. Getting out would be easy enough too, as long as he could be patient and choose the moments in which movement was safe.

    Which just meant that I needed to create some urgency.



    I didn't mention it, but this is one of 2 stories I've done with zero dialogue (the other one is fear). This a good tool to reach for if the drama / conflict is actually internal. It gives the advantage that the reader can know everything the character knows, and examine the character's range of choices before they choose a course of action.

    It has disadvantages, too. There are some important things a character would never actually think about at a conscious level such as "this poison acts slowly in the heat. I must strike from deep cover and hold position until the sentry decides he was just stung by a wasp. Then I must move again before he collapses, or there will be too much activity when his friends see him go down and come to investigate." The professional assassin would know this, and adjust tactics without needing an internal discussion. He might think "The heat will slow the poison's effect. Dang." then he would act accordingly, leaving the (unreliable) reader to (unreliably) connect the dots.

    Also, the reader can only draw conclusions from what the character knows / witnesses / suspects. With a dialogue story you can have an expert character and the one who asks questions, giving the author freedom to dump as much expository dialogue, background, wild speculation or cheesey punnage as he likes.

    Next story to get dissected on the slab will be mostly dialogue. Which one should I do? The Naturalist or Cold Commerce?
     
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  16. Bowser
    Slann

    Bowser Third Spawning

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    My vote to the naturalist! Although I am intrigued by the rhyming precepts in cold commerce!
     
  17. spawning of Bob
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    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    The Naturalist

    Captain Merrich’s left hand always strayed to the neck of his scabbard when he was nervous or upset. In fact, he had been furious a moment earlier, but had retained enough objectivity to realize that rage or bluster would not make his next conversation easier. In fact, nothing seemed to make any conversation with the academician easier. The best he could hope for was making it shorter.

    As he steadied his thoughts and relaxed his fingers, the mercenary captain examined the two bizarre creatures before him. The pair had a lot in common.

    Neither the warm blooded scientist nor the cold blooded reptile seemed to have any regard for humankind. Neither expressed emotion in any way that Merrich could read. And both seemed to be intent on bringing about the deaths of the captain and his men. The cold one was merely being more direct in its approach.

    The reptile alternated between crashing its slavering jaws against the bars of the cage and thrusting its taloned forelimbs through the gaps, as it had done since its capture on the previous afternoon. The scientist crouched just out of reach, occasionally making notes on the bundle of parchments he held. They ignored Merrich’s approach and continued their tasks with machinelike dedication.

    “Academician Mainz.” There was no acknowledgement. Merrick tried again in a louder voice. “Academician, you should know that Bertrand will lose his arm. I fear he will also lose his life if the rot sets in. Compensation will be required either way.”

    “You fear the rot?” The scientist turned away from the murderous lizard and peered at the soldier through a pair of gold rimmed lenses which were pinched onto his nose. Merrich had been under Mainz’s scrutiny many times, but the grotesquely magnified eyes still unnerved him.

    “Why should you fear the rot, Merrich? Do you not know that it is caused by tiny creatures which eat, breed and defecate in body tissue? One day we will subjugate the rot just as we have done with this caged specimen. All things shall be described, catalogued and subdued.”

    Merrich returned to the point of his statement. “Compensation, Academician. I remind you of our contract. Payment will occur whether you return to Altdorf or not, but all other losses are to be defrayed in the final payment. The losses are Muller, Uhlrich and Schmetterling since we left the ship, and, Manaan willing, just Bertrand’s arm today.”

    Mainz put his papers down on a crate of instruments and smoothed down his academic robes. To Merrich’s relief, he also removed his eye lenses and placed them on top of his notes.

    “Is compensation all that concerns you?” he sighed as he massaged the bridge of his nose. He lowered his hand and adopted the look he used on dim first year students. “You should not fear that the contract will be left unfulfilled, Merrich. The Academy’s purse is heavy.”

    The reptile interrupted with a particularly vehement attack on the cage. Its long canine teeth were undamaged by the iron bars, but its scaly lips were torn and bloodied from a night and a morning of repeated impacts.

    Merrich advanced his other concern before he lost the scientist’s attention again. “That is as well, Academician, but I must also protest that you are putting my men, and the academy’s purse at risk by insisting on collecting such creatures alive. Bertrand would be whole if we had put some arrows into this thing as soon as we stumbled upon it, and I see no reason to keep it alive longer than it takes to get it to the ship’s cook – it looks to have some decent flesh on it.”

    The academician also had a look he reserved for morons. He employed it now.

    “The Academy has a gallery filled with stuffed and mounted specimens from all corners of the earth. They do nothing but inflame the imagination of gawping students. We can learn next to nothing about a creature from its dead body.”

    “But the creatures of this land are scarcely unknown. Why not heed to the accounts of witnesses who have been here in the past?”

    “Which witnesses do you refer to? I know that you did the round of taverns in Marienburg to find out what you could from returned treasure seekers – and I am sure you did not find a solitary scientist among them. Tell me, what did your pirates tell you about these beasts?”

    “About this kind? These are known to some as ‘cold ones’. I was told they hunt in packs, like wolves. They kill until there are no more prey, even if they do not lack sufficient food. One fellow said that he was lucky to escape when his crew were attacked by a pack of them which carried other lizards - lizard warriors - on their backs.”

    “How credible do your superstitious pirates seem now? Tell me, what do you observe about this fine example of acryosaurus mainzii?”

    “Why do you name all of these creatures after yourself, academician?”

    “Discovery gives right of taxonomy, Merrich. Now, what do you observe?”

    The cold one was giving its formidable jaws a rest and had resumed scything its talons through the gaps in the bars again.

    “It wants to kill all of us and it has the armaments required to achieve that end,” the mercenary snapped.

    “Merrich, you disappoint me. You see but you do not observe. I, myself, have already observed enough to refute every so-called 'fact' that has sprung from your pirates’ drunken imaginations. For a start, this cryosaurus is a solitary individual, not part of a pack.”

    “It was defending a clutch of eggs. Maybe it would have rejoined a pack when it was finished brooding.”

    “Did you observe a pack, Merrich? I think not. The only other tracks we saw on the sand were those of the leviraptor. What you have just stated is idle speculation based on rumour. I expect you to show more discipline with your thoughts!”

    Merrich’s hand was creeping towards his scabbard again. Mainz continued in his normal patronizing manner, oblivious to the fact that the soldier was quite capable of cutting the conversation short if he was pressed too far.

    “You did make an assessment, of sorts, as to the capability of the cryosaurus’ teeth and claws, but you worded it clumsily. Stated more precisely, the cryosaurus is well adapted to the capture of prey of man size and larger. But did you also observe that the animal is of bovine size but scarcely bovine intelligence?”

    The creature was back to gnawing on the bars with bloodied teeth again.

    “Ever since Bertrand cut it free of the net the specimen has thrown itself at the cage. Even a dog would have learned that it could not escape by now. I deduce, therefore, that its intelligence is so far below that of a horse that it could not be trained to accept a rider, even if there was such a preposterous thing as a lizard warrior to be found on this uncivilised continent.”

    Merrich detected a chink in the scientist’s bizarre logic. “Now you are the one speculating.”

    Mainz scoffed. “I do not speculate. I make inferences based on scientific observation, not the tavern tales of credulous brigands. I then propose hypotheses which I test on live specimens. Live specimens are what the contract describes and live specimens you will provide me, Captain Merrich.”

    The cold one’s claws were groping outside the cage again. Merrich had a happy imagining of them snagging the academician’s robes and drawing him into a fatal embrace. Alas, Mainz stood just out of reach.

    “You hold more love for your pet than my crew, academician, and it seems neither appreciate your scientific method.”

    “Did you say ‘pet’? You accuse me of sentimentality now. I have no affection for these animals. After I have observed them over a period of time in a controlled environment, they can go to the academy specimen gallery for all I care.”

    The academician stepped away from the cold one and inspected the other cages which were waiting for porters to convey them back to the ship. Within them were sullen apes, squawking parrots and reptiles of all kinds. The birds and mammalian beasts were similar to those that could be found in any menagerie of the Old World. It was the variety and deadliness of the cold blooded creatures, from the smallest viper to the turtle with jaws like axe blades, which revealed beyond doubt that the collection was from the Lustrian coastal hinterland. There were also several much larger, empty cages which Merrich fervently hoped would never be filled.

    Mainz resumed his favourite lecture. “I think you fail to comprehend that the darkness of ignorance will inevitably give way to enlightenment. We are just at the beginning of the Age of Man, Merrich. The Age of Nature draws to a close.

    “The cities of the Empire groan under the weight of their populations. The Old World is contested and it cannot sustain their number anyway. Therefore, man must find a new home, and where better than the empty continent? Explorers have barely penetrated the interior but we already know that Lustria is fertile and vast. These primitive indigenous creatures must be forced to bow their heads to the yoke of man, or be harvested, or exterminated. Whichever course we choose will be better guided by observation and deduction than by tavern tales and wild speculation.”

    Merrich mentally conceded defeat. He would just need to tolerate following this fool around the countryside for a little longer. If the exercise became tedious or if the scientist looked like he was leading the party in a more dangerous direction it would be simple enough to accidently nudge him into the reach of the cold one’s talons.

    As it happened, Mainz was not leading in any particular direction at all. He would chase after whatever novel creature he could spy - often with a butterfly net. It seemed to be pure chance that the camp had moved in the same direction for three days running.

    Merrich’s happy contemplation of fatal accidents was interrupted by a furtive rustling sound near the cryosaurus’ cage. The bipedal reptile was the size of a child, and it certainly seemed to have a child like curiosity. It had been a frequent visitor to the camp, and this time it was scrabbling at the academician’s parchment notes with its long, dextrous claws.

    The mercenary groaned and stamped a foot to shoo it away. “Academician, the thief is back again. At least let me put an arrow in that one. It has evaded every trap we can devise, and it spends more time in our camp than we do.”

    The academician had dubbed the animal, leviraptor mainzii – meaning ‘Mainz’s swift thief’. The creature had gone on to earn the name. Not only did it steal any shiny objects it could find in camp, but it seemed to be trying to steal the whole expedition as well. The scientist was obsessed with the small creature and he pursued it wherever it led him. Merrich and his crew were forced to tag along.

    It was actually the thief’s footprints that had led the party into the nesting ground of the brooding cryosaurus, and a half dozen other dangerous situations. It was almost as big a menace as Mainz himself.

    The small creature was not startled in the least by Merrich’s attention. The academician’s eye lenses and some of the parchment sheets were now clutched in its claws, and the crest of red skin attached to a spine on the back of head fluttered up and down rapidly. Merrich could only conclude the display was the lizard equivalent of triumphant laughter as it scampered away into the bushes.

    Mainz scratched the bridge of his nose. “Did you note that it always takes bright objects? Yesterday it took my telescope. Perhaps, like a magpie, it decorates its nest.”

    “Now it has your eye lenses as well. It is literally robbing you blind, academician. Let me use my archers before it steals your gold tooth as well.”

    “I agree that members of the leviraptor species are pests, but do not kill this individual.”

    “Has it also stolen your heart, academician?”

    “Don’t be ridiculous, Merrich. Its nest must surely be close and I still hold some hope of retrieving my instruments.”

    The mercenary rolled his eyes and whistled up six men to act as an escort. As they assembled their gear, Merrich fantasised about a reptilian pest and a pestiferous academician tragically falling to the same stray arrow.

    For all that the beast may have been bold and cunning, it could scarcely have left a clearer trail even if it wanted to be followed. The previous day, it had seemed to go out of its way to leave footprints on riverside mud and sand. On this day, scraps of torn or chewed parchment were strewn in the thief’s wake like confetti. Even without his lenses, Mainz could follow its path easily as it led away from the camp and up into some nearby hills.

    The captain trudged beside the academician as the trail led them out of the coastal heath and into a dry watercourse which became narrower and deeper as it bisected a rocky hill. At its head, the ravine was bridged by a huge slab of rock which was wedged between the walls like the lintel of a door.

    The men passed through the stone archway and came out onto the base of a large crater. There was no sign of the thief -nor its nest, for that matter - but the lenses, spyglass and other missing articles were neatly heaped thirty yards away in the centre of the crater.

    Merrich found his hand on his scabbard again. “I have a bad feeling about this, Academician.”

    Mainz snorted in derision and wandered over to reclaim the loot. “Are you making judgements based on feelings now, Merrich? I thought by now you would have learnt to be objective. Tell me what you observe about this place.”

    The mercenary reluctantly moved away from the archway and studied the inside of the crater as he went. The vertical walls were slick with moss. Perhaps the ancient crater had once held a lake, but the water had long drained away, cutting the ravine as it went. The crater floor was level and sparsely vegetated other than a clamp of scraggly bushes which huddled against the wall opposite to the watercourse.

    “I see a shear sided pit with only one avenue of escape,” Merrich muttered as he turned around on the spot, automatically scanning the tops of the crater walls.

    “An excellent trap, is it not?” Mainz collected his precious lenses, wiped them with the sleeve of his robe and wedged them onto the bridge of his nose. “If the exit can be barred it will be a perfect controlled environment for observing the behaviour-under-stress of the leviraptor specimen.”

    His unnerving magnified eyes blinked at Merrich and then turned towards the bushes. “Where has it got to, I wonder?”

    ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    The leviraptor was no longer inside the crater. He had placed the lenses with the other articles and exited the ravine at least ten minutes before the warm bloods had entered it. Now he was quietly fuming as he crouched beside his leader on top of the crater rim.

    “I protest that you had me waste three days luring these sea monkeys here, Scholar Jaquinqi,” he hissed in the Saurian tongue. “I see no reason to keep them alive longer than it takes to get them to the Altar of Sotek. Unless you wish to keep them as pets.”

    The skink scholar had been peering down at the men below. He tore his eyes away and gave his subordinate a withering look. “I have no affection for these animals, Scout Qupac. After I have observed their behaviour-under-stress over a period of time in this controlled environment, they can join their kin at the pinnacle of sacrifice for all I care.”

    There was a sudden rumble from the crater below. The boulder which had formed the roof of the ravine rotated forwards and down along concealed grooves, sealing the exit and presenting the men with a surface devoid of even the smallest toehold. The humans milled about and shouted furiously at each other.

    The scholar continued, “These primitive creatures must be forced to bow their heads to the will of the Old Ones, or be harvested, or exterminated. By understanding their behaviors and weaknesses we will be better guided in achieving whichever course is the Old Ones’ will."

    “I think you fail to comprehend that we are at the beginning of the Age of Cold Blood, Scout Qupac. The Age of Man draws to a close."
     
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  18. spawning of Bob
    Skar-Veteran

    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    @thedarkfourth 's contributions in the Jan Feb 2016 story comp give me an opportunity to re-emphasise something: I consider myself to be an improving writer not an authority on writing. It helps me to analyse what I do so I can understand my processes - I can start to see why some things work, why some don't and which tried and tested tool to reach for next time. Since I want to collect all of my short pieces into one thread, and I'm going to think about it anyway, I'm doing a brain dump as I go. There is probably an element of selfishly wanting to justify my dodgy artistic choices, but mostly I want to encourage others to write (because I like to read - another selfish motive).

    I want y'all to understand that these commentaries are a record of what I did and why, not a list of things that I think other people should do. Don't think about them too hard
    I'm going to do a triple analysis of The Naturalist, because it clearly illustrates a number of things I like to do.

    Points of View
    I generally write in third person from a single character's point of view. I might flip flop between character PoVs from section to section, but I generally have the person, that I call the witness, who observes and interprets events.

    The witness has access to their own knowledge and feelings, therefore I give my reader access to the same knowledge. To escape that coming from some godlike narrator, I try to have my witness thinking about knowledge they already have (thereby sharing the knowledge with my reader) or having another character tell the witness things the witness doesn't know.

    I go to great lengths to avoid 3rd Person Omniscient PoV - to the extent that I have cut some 15000 words of well researched, well thought out and well written exposition out of The Great War Against Chaos. I also cut some scenes which were just too silly to slip through, or which broke the pace of the story Don’t worry – they are all there for the appendices.

    I have also done complete rewrites of scenes because I later discovered that my preferred witness would not be available for other plot reasons. Chapter 23 - Dungeon in Scourge of the Empire was originally written with Bullenscheisse as the witness. I thought he would be busy with experimentation, so I rewrote it with the only other plausible character as witness – Wolf Priest Heimlich. It was OK, but I lost the wide eyed naivety of Bullenscheisse’s interaction with the cultist. 6 months later, I worked out how to reshuffle other story events to free up Bullenscheisse and then I wrote him back in.

    I medium strongly disagree with both @Scalenex and @thedarkfourth on the concept of show, don't tell, because my witness cannot possibly see everything of relevance that has happened / is happening in the world - even if it happened on the same battle field. Even if they saw the same event.

    This leads into The Mystery of Bob
    My plots are meant to be mysteries, to the extant that the witnesses (and by extension, my reader) won't usually have access to all of the facts that allow them to interpret their situation accurately - until I reveal some other detail which is meant to clarify what is really going on.

    I reckon my short stories with twist endings rely on holding stuff back, or supplying ambiguous info that can be interpreted two ways and corralling my reader into one set of beliefs, then surprising them with a reverse. When my reader says “that’s an ass-pull’ and goes back to check the first half, she will find that all the clues were there, hidden in plain sight. Betcha didn’t know my reader was a gurl. (Daughter of Bob)

    There are times when no existing character can possibly have knowledge which is vital to the plot. If stuck in this hole, one solution is to introduce another character and story arc which involves someone who was there. My best sample of using huge amounts of expository dialogue is Chapter 15 - Nuln in Scourge which is a lot shorter than the Council of Elrond. (The other way of dealing with impossible knowledge is to just refer to "the Prophecy". Just like every other piece of fantasy ever written.)

    Your new character and witness-to-unseen-events can “Tell –not show” and then your main characters can drift further down the river of plot without needing another messy battle.

    If you are going to tell – not show, you had better be good at writing expository dialogue, and put it in the middle of something else that is actually happening on screen. The Council of Elrond is an extreme example of all talk and no action – but we forgive it because, hey, Tolkien.


    Boblogical Dialogue Monologue
    One more point to make before I actually say something original - another problem with the witness exposition approach is that there are some important plot knowledge things that people would never talk about. For example, if all characters know that the Transformation of Kadon has certain effect, one wouldn't say to another "I should cast ToK, which you already know will turn me into whatever monster I have spare in my army case".

    In real life, people who share knowledge talk in shorthand. The following excerpt is of the same characters and use of the same spell.

    "Stomping time?"
    "Do it."

    Convincing dialogue? - yes. Helpful exposition? - not so much.

    Bob's solution: have one character with knowledge and at least one without. It doesn't matter if the witness is the master or the pupil, or if two characters are knowledgeable about different things. (and team reunions are an efficient (and lazy) way to force feed nutritious exposition between slices of tasty dialogue.)

    So... that is why I would select dialogue from my tool box to provide exposition. The bonus is that dialogue simultaneously establishes characters and relationships.

    The how of Bob writing the dialogue for the Naturalist was like this.

    · Have a basic idea of the plot twist – actions and attitudes of the human characters are bizarrely mirrored by the lizards.

    · Have a basic idea of what needs to be set up (What does the reader need to know so that the twist will be a surprise but make sense?)

    · Have a basic idea of which characters will carry the plot. In this example, the academician has knowledge (which is innacurate) to share with my witness, the mercenary (who has better knowledge and better instincts - allowing me to contrast the personalities)

    · Have a vague idea of the character personalities. The academician was to be arrogant, sarcastic and patronising. I also wanted him to be inhuman / cold blooded because the point of the plot twist was to make a parallel with his lizardman equivalent. The mercenary was to be insightful, efficient and pragmatic. If the characters are one dimensional at this point, that is fine. The process of writing their words helps to build them into solid characters with - my favourite word - integrity. Integrity means they are consistent in their attitudes and actions. The dwarf may tolerate the elf but there won't be hugs. The rat-thing may assist the man-thing but it will be for his own selfish gain.

    · I wrote some cool lines of dialogue in no special order. The purpose of each line was either to provide background / exposition OR establish the nature of the speaker OR the relationship between characters.

    · I put the lines into a logical order and imagined what the other character would do or say to prompt the next set of lines (eg asks a question).

    · Cut out everything that doesn't work. These are lines I wrote for this story. I enjoyed writing them and I think they sound awesome. Then I mercilessly cut them out because I couldn't link the ideas efficiently or they needlessly reiterated info which came across better somewhere else.
    o “You fear it? Science will reduce everything to its component parts. Then there will be nothing left to fear.”
    o You should not say that there are things that cannot be explained, rather that there are things that have not yet been explained.”
    o “Your tavern rats do not observe either. They see what they believe.”
    o “I was hired to keep you alive” / “My survival is irrelevant. My knowledge must be preserved above all other considerations. Those parchments must be returned!”​

    · Insert stage directions and thought bubbles. Non verbals like "the cold one obsessively attacked the bars with no heed to its own safety" or "the single mindedness of the cold one reminded the mercenary that his employer was equally obsessed. He grimaced at the thought that he would soon be sharing a small ship with both of the cold blooded beauties." This is the place to show the reader what they need to see and how the characters feel about the situation. Treat your characters like actors and you are the director. Tell them to hop on one foot and bite their lip - make that stubbed toe look painful. Or tell them to scan the horizon even though it's just greenscreen anyway. It will link to the next camera shot.

    · Insert things to make things better. Better means the ideas flow better, the theme or characterisation are reinforced, engaging little details are added. Mainz was probably always going to have spectacles, but the whole idea of them being stolen and used as bait was a late insertion. The plot was not altered, but the detail is amusing and it gives the character stronger motivation.

    · Read it again. Do the characters speak and act with integrity? Do their speech patterns conform with their race, status and mood? Do all plot events have a logical cause and effect? No? Fix it.

    · Extra work for Bob: I chose from the point of inspiration that the punchline would be a lizardman echoing the words of the lizard-like human. That meant I had to plan the dialogue, attitudes and societal roles together so that the same or similar words could be used by both with integrity. I think that making that effort made the end of the story way too slow, but hey, it got some votes. If I tried something similar in future, I would try to squish some more setup into the section before the point of view switch. @thedarkfourth will tell me that the reversal of the scene without any lizard dialogue would have made the point clearly enough, but the problem is, I don’t trust my reader to pick everything up (she is only 13)

    BONUS secret knowledge about dialogue!!!!
    My definition of a plot hole is where the story develops in a way that would lead a reasonable reader to lift their head and ask a question.

    Your characters can paper over massive plot holes through the use of only 2 lines of dialogue:

    Plot holes are not inherently bad. If they happen in a way that encourages the reader to use their imagination to fill in the blanks about some off screen event, this can be ok. For example, if character B was sent to secure the city gate, then he conveniently reappears during the main battle looking battered but alive, the reader can smoothly assume that the struggle for the gate has been won. Adding the lines “do not return to me until the gate is secured” to the set up make it a not-plot hole, but may make the earlier dialogue more clunky.


    If the reader needs to break concentration to work something out, THAT is bad. Even worse is when the reader says "where the heck did those eagles come from? This is stupid."

    But the very worst thing is when your very competent characters are in the middle of a huge ass-pull and they don't even notice.

    Here is my recommendation: as you do your first proof read of your masterpiece, before you even worry about spelling the hero’s name three different ways or whatever, read it from the reader’s perspective. If you identify something that a reasonable anthropomorphic giant lizard might possibly ask a question about, get one of your characters to ask it first.

    The weird thing is, the reader doesn't even need to receive a convincing (or any) answer to defuse the ticking plot bomb. The reader subconsciously says “yeah I spotted that plot hole, too. There might be an explanation coming that will stop me from needing to think too hard right now.” And then they move on.

    The following example (with permission) is from Infinity Turtle’s short story, Midnight Chase, which I had the pleasure of providing editorial assistance for.

    Plot problem: There was no stated reason for why the daemon / daemons would be chasing the two random kids rather than continuing their killing spree.
    Solution: These two lines of dialogue acknowledged the problem and provided a vague solution. I still don’t think it makes any sense, but my suggestions were all about 3 paragraphs long and way too metaphysical for this tight little action piece.
    "Why is it chasing us?" Shalease asked, clinging to my hand.
    "I don't know. Maybe it doesn't want to be seen. It wants no human witnesses…" I panted.
    TL;DR It helps if you know and can express the reasons for continuity jumps in your stories. If you actually don't know or don't care, just copy and paste these two lines somewhere into your dialogue:
    "What the Old Ones just happened?"
    "How the Mahrlect am I supposed to know?"​
     
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  19. thedarkfourth
    Kroxigor

    thedarkfourth Well-Known Member

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    Woah. You disagree with me? But you're just "an improving writer" whereas I am "an authority on writing"!

    Seriously, you should disagree with me hard and often - I have no idea what I'm talking about.

    That being said, you *have* completely missed the point about show don't tell :D

    Show don't tell applies only to EMOTIONS and INNER THOUGHTS. It's a rule about not writing things like "Julie felt scared" and instead writing "Beads of sweat appeared on Julie's brow and her lip began to quiver". (or something, you know, less cliche) Which leads nicely onto how you have also misunderstood:

    There is no difference - imo - between 3rd person omniscient and your witness-based 3rd person. For that matter, there's no difference between either of these and 1st person, other than the use of the word "I".

    The author is ALWAYS omniscient. It's always just a matter of what you reveal. In that sense, you're absolutely right about the holding things back to create mystery, and about exposition being a tricky business:

    Here's the thing. You are right to cut 1500 words of no-context exposition if they're just one long boring chunk without any action. Not because that's being "omniscient", but because that's being BORING. You've already clearly understood this and explained it really well, but here's another way to think about it:

    Here's the golden rule (again, imo) about exposition:

    EXPOSITION IS NO DIFFERENT TO ANY OTHER STORY ELEMENT.

    All of a story is exposition. What you and most people are talking about when they say "exposition" (and now I'm writing it so often that it's beginning to lose all meaning) is "establishing facts". Establishing facts are the same as all other facts in your story - they should be delivered in a way that creates DRAMA. There's no difference, from a structural point of view, between "that gnarled guy in the corner of the tavern used to be a great king" and "that gnarled guy is now bashing your head into the table". Sure, one of these facts is from the past - but it still needs to be conveyed in a way that is exciting and dramatic in the present, otherwise it will be BORING.

    This brings me onto the Council of Elrond. I recommend going back and watching it. I actually would rate it as one of the finest examples of exposition that I can think of. The scene is THICK with tension and drama. We're introduced to new characters: and without explaining lengthy backstories, we get a deep and clear sense of what each one is like. There are potent, bubbling conflicts between various factions, which can barely be restrained by Elrond's voice of reason.

    Boromir stands up and shouts at Aragorn; the latter remains calmly seated as it is explained to Boromir who aragorn is. This shows us:
    • Boromir is proud and swift to anger.
    • Aragorn has thick skin and a cool head
    • Aragorn has some great lineage we didn't know about
    • Boromir now owes his allegiance to this guy who he doesn't like and who he feels threatened by
    Gimli jumps up and tries to hack the ring apart with his axe, lands on his ass.
    • Gimli is not one for reasoning out a problem
    • The ring cannot be destroyed by any craft we here posses
    But most of all, throughout all of it, the camera keeps returning to Frodo. Frodo sits silently although its clear that there is a growing sense of dread and foreboding in his mind. We see the proceedings through his eyes and that of his previous experiences. The exposition is meaningful because it sheds light on these strange, enormous machinations he's been caught up in but hasn't understood until now. And it is Frodo, our hero, who resolves the building tension when it reaches a climax in the great argument - simultaneously resolving a key tension in his own character arc about whether he is a stay-at-home hobbit or a go-on-a-grand-adventure hobbit, making a decision that demonstrates fantastic character growth. Meanwhile all the overarching themes of doom and huge stakes are there in the whispering voices of Mordor.

    It's a perfectly constructed scene and an epic example of how to do exposition through the medium of high drama.

    Disagree - this is perfect exposition. Your characters should always speak authentically - it's all part of the ambiguity that's necessary in good exposition. The reader should work things out as they go. If I read this dialogue, I might not understand straight away what they're talking about, but as soon as one of them starts incanting a spell and then turns into a manticore, I'll get it! And the scene will be that much more fun to read.

    But you're completely right that dialogue is often the best way to get at exposition if you want it to be dramatic.

    Yes - that's exactly what I mean.
     
    Last edited: Feb 12, 2016
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  20. spawning of Bob
    Skar-Veteran

    spawning of Bob Well-Known Member

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    Thanks for the thoughtful reply - there are the seeds of three discussions I would like to have in there, but thinking takes time I don't have right now (well, I do have time. Just thinking is a lower priority.

    I love the Council of Elrond, too. Especially the bit when the rats tunnel into the- No?

    [​IMG]

    I pulled the Council example while thinking more about the book, than the movie. I agree that the movie version does an amazing amount of work as well as the essential info-dump. The script, acting and stage direction were just plain brilliant.

    And the challenge for us is to do a similar job of delivering information in an engaging way - but just using words on a page.
     
    thedarkfourth and Bowser like this.

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