CRIT: An opening...
Nov. 3rd, 2007 01:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
khiemtranOkay, so this is a slightly strange request. This isn't actually the style and voice that I originally envisaged for the story, but if it works, I might keep it...
----
A winter's night in the Blue City, two weeks before the Feast of the Jaws. A cold wind blows along the icy streets, chilling all those still sober enough to feel it. A familiar smell is in the air. A wind like this will bring the Apparitions in from the marshes. Each year they come further and further. It is a bad night to be out alone, but, these days, there are no good nights anymore.
A pale man in student's robes shuffles slowly down a street. His head is bowed and his arms are wrapped around his chest. His name is Peter and this is his fourth winter in the city. This year, the city has finally beaten him.
Each year, the city draws a fresh crop of hopeful faces. Some come looking for work or for shelter. Some for fame and opportunity. And some, like Peter, have come to bear their families' hopes of advancement to a better life.
When Peter arrived here, his soul was still half-bright, the bare minimum to be accepted as student Broker. His family wasn't rich, but at least it wasn't poor. Whereas a poor farming couple would have to pay most of their souls just to honour their landlords and buy protection from evil spirits, his parents still had at least a third of their own souls left and have donated generously to help him reach his quota. His sister too, has given heavily, risking her chance of ever achieving enough for a dowry. Marriages are strictly forbidden unless both parties are at least a quarter bright. It would all have been worth it, of course, if only Peter had been able to pass his exams and gain qualification as a Broker. A few years in private practice, a wealthy client or two, and all debts would have been repaid.
An expensive coach clatters past him as he walks down the street, its windows glowing blue with magical light. The rich are in a hurry to get home. Peter barely hears it. His heart is now cold, with the same chill he has felt for the last two years. Somewhere on his desk, back in his tiny room, is a letter still half-written. He wonders if it is even worth finishing it. If he even makes it back.
A pair of drunks laugh as they pass him on the street. One raises a bottle to him in invitation. Even with a student Broker's eye, Peter can see their souls are almost empty. They too will not last long in this city. From the distance comes the dull peal of warning bells. It seems to happen almost every night this time of year.
A woman screams and Peter hears someone run past him. He looks up to see more people running and hear cries of alarm.
"An Eater! An Eater!"
"May the Farmer Save Us!"
An Apparition floats above the street before him. He has never seen one this close before, except for a single example conjured in a lecture hall. It hovers like a giant jellyfish, glowing a cool blue in the night, its tentacles reaching down towards a small human figure lying on the cobblestones.
"Help us! In the name of the Farmer, help us!"
An old woman has grabbed him by the arm.
"Broker! Help us! My daughter is there!"
Her arms are thin, but her grip is like iron.
"My soul is half-bright! Take what you need!" she says. Peter knows it's a lie. Her soul is but a quarter-bright at the most. Someone behind him laughs. An onlooker perhaps.
"A curse upon you! Are you a Broker or not? My soul is bright! Save my daughter!"
The girl looks about twelve. She could not possibly be the old woman's daughter. Never-the-less, Peter knows he must help. His veins run cold. He swallows hard and begins the incantation.
"You're wasting your soul, granny! He's just a greenskin."
Years of half-remembered formulae jostle in Peter's head. If only the right one would come to the surface, just this once. In the Name of the Farmer, by the spirits of the Water and the Grain, by the Compact of the Moon and the North Wind...
He has the woman's soul in his hands now. For the briefest moment, he feels alive again. He can taste what it was like to be whole. The temptation is there to take it all, but Peter restricts himself to just two-thirds. More than he should need, but he's bound to mess it up. By the Treaty of the Seventh Island, by the Witness of the Elm and the ... or was that the wrong treaty? By the Treaty of the Seventh Island, I ask the spirits to protect this child. By this payment...
"My daughter!" whispers the woman. The strength in her grip has suddenly vanished.
Peter tries one last time to shape the incantation and nothing happens. He can feel the brightness being sucked from hands and into the glowing Apparition. He has failed once again.
There is drunken laughter in the air. The onlookers are greatly amused.
"She's a goner! And the broker rat has skimmed the old bag for all she has!"
The Apparition has wrapped its tentacles over the inert girl in the street. After feeding on Peter's clumsy gift, it is starting on the child's soul next.
"My daughter, my daughter!" whispers the old woman, slumping to the ground.
In that moment, Peter feels colder than he has ever felt since coming to the city. He reaches within himself for the last of his own soul and draws it out into his hands. If protocol won't work, perhaps with brute force at least he can make amends. He has barely a quarter of his own soul left and he gives it all, feeling as he does, the familiar icy gnawing of having nothing left within himself. If he loses this last quarter, he will finally be destroyed. Clasping his hands together, he makes a Child's Ward, the simplest incantation possible. The onlookers are increduluous.
"Oh, this is too funny!"
Peter is running towards the Apparition now, his hand glowing with the last of his soul. He knows he has next to no chance of success, but there is nothing else he can do. For a brief moment, there is hope. The Apparition releases the girl. Then it turns its full attention on Peter. With an almost casual flick of a tentacle, it blocks Peter's attack and then with another sends him crashing into a wall. With sudden, terrifying speed it has moved to within feet of his face, tentacles waving everywhere. Peter knows now that he is about to die. He holds his hands before him in the shape of the Child's Ward, with the last of his soul and the hopes of his parents and his sister held within.
"Damn you!" he whispers, as the Apparition comes in for the kill. There are cries of amazement from the onlookers on the street. A deep growl sounds in Peter's ears.
"Not this day, monster!"
To Peter's amazement, a second Apparition has slammed into the first, this one shaped like a giant silver bear. Tentacles fly through the air as the first Apparition is knocked back and then the night air becomes white with light. A high pitched shriek fills the air.
When Peter's eyes recover, the first Apparition is gone and the bear is plodding off slowly down the street. It turns to throw him a glance and raises its nose in the air, as though in acknowledgement.
"By the Farmer, he did it!" says one of the onlookers, his mouth hanging open. "That was some magic!"
The old woman is cradling her daughter now. The girl's soul is still at least a quarter bright.
"Thank you, sir! Thank you!" the woman is saying.
Peter feels his own soul returning from his hands to his body. Amazingly, he still has nearly a quarter left. He looks again down the street, where the ghostly bear is now almost out of sight. The warning bells are still ringing. Slowly, painfully, he gets to his feet and heads off in pursuit. His heart is warm for the first time in months.
[Minor Edits that I missed the first time.]
----
A winter's night in the Blue City, two weeks before the Feast of the Jaws. A cold wind blows along the icy streets, chilling all those still sober enough to feel it. A familiar smell is in the air. A wind like this will bring the Apparitions in from the marshes. Each year they come further and further. It is a bad night to be out alone, but, these days, there are no good nights anymore.
A pale man in student's robes shuffles slowly down a street. His head is bowed and his arms are wrapped around his chest. His name is Peter and this is his fourth winter in the city. This year, the city has finally beaten him.
Each year, the city draws a fresh crop of hopeful faces. Some come looking for work or for shelter. Some for fame and opportunity. And some, like Peter, have come to bear their families' hopes of advancement to a better life.
When Peter arrived here, his soul was still half-bright, the bare minimum to be accepted as student Broker. His family wasn't rich, but at least it wasn't poor. Whereas a poor farming couple would have to pay most of their souls just to honour their landlords and buy protection from evil spirits, his parents still had at least a third of their own souls left and have donated generously to help him reach his quota. His sister too, has given heavily, risking her chance of ever achieving enough for a dowry. Marriages are strictly forbidden unless both parties are at least a quarter bright. It would all have been worth it, of course, if only Peter had been able to pass his exams and gain qualification as a Broker. A few years in private practice, a wealthy client or two, and all debts would have been repaid.
An expensive coach clatters past him as he walks down the street, its windows glowing blue with magical light. The rich are in a hurry to get home. Peter barely hears it. His heart is now cold, with the same chill he has felt for the last two years. Somewhere on his desk, back in his tiny room, is a letter still half-written. He wonders if it is even worth finishing it. If he even makes it back.
A pair of drunks laugh as they pass him on the street. One raises a bottle to him in invitation. Even with a student Broker's eye, Peter can see their souls are almost empty. They too will not last long in this city. From the distance comes the dull peal of warning bells. It seems to happen almost every night this time of year.
A woman screams and Peter hears someone run past him. He looks up to see more people running and hear cries of alarm.
"An Eater! An Eater!"
"May the Farmer Save Us!"
An Apparition floats above the street before him. He has never seen one this close before, except for a single example conjured in a lecture hall. It hovers like a giant jellyfish, glowing a cool blue in the night, its tentacles reaching down towards a small human figure lying on the cobblestones.
"Help us! In the name of the Farmer, help us!"
An old woman has grabbed him by the arm.
"Broker! Help us! My daughter is there!"
Her arms are thin, but her grip is like iron.
"My soul is half-bright! Take what you need!" she says. Peter knows it's a lie. Her soul is but a quarter-bright at the most. Someone behind him laughs. An onlooker perhaps.
"A curse upon you! Are you a Broker or not? My soul is bright! Save my daughter!"
The girl looks about twelve. She could not possibly be the old woman's daughter. Never-the-less, Peter knows he must help. His veins run cold. He swallows hard and begins the incantation.
"You're wasting your soul, granny! He's just a greenskin."
Years of half-remembered formulae jostle in Peter's head. If only the right one would come to the surface, just this once. In the Name of the Farmer, by the spirits of the Water and the Grain, by the Compact of the Moon and the North Wind...
He has the woman's soul in his hands now. For the briefest moment, he feels alive again. He can taste what it was like to be whole. The temptation is there to take it all, but Peter restricts himself to just two-thirds. More than he should need, but he's bound to mess it up. By the Treaty of the Seventh Island, by the Witness of the Elm and the ... or was that the wrong treaty? By the Treaty of the Seventh Island, I ask the spirits to protect this child. By this payment...
"My daughter!" whispers the woman. The strength in her grip has suddenly vanished.
Peter tries one last time to shape the incantation and nothing happens. He can feel the brightness being sucked from hands and into the glowing Apparition. He has failed once again.
There is drunken laughter in the air. The onlookers are greatly amused.
"She's a goner! And the broker rat has skimmed the old bag for all she has!"
The Apparition has wrapped its tentacles over the inert girl in the street. After feeding on Peter's clumsy gift, it is starting on the child's soul next.
"My daughter, my daughter!" whispers the old woman, slumping to the ground.
In that moment, Peter feels colder than he has ever felt since coming to the city. He reaches within himself for the last of his own soul and draws it out into his hands. If protocol won't work, perhaps with brute force at least he can make amends. He has barely a quarter of his own soul left and he gives it all, feeling as he does, the familiar icy gnawing of having nothing left within himself. If he loses this last quarter, he will finally be destroyed. Clasping his hands together, he makes a Child's Ward, the simplest incantation possible. The onlookers are increduluous.
"Oh, this is too funny!"
Peter is running towards the Apparition now, his hand glowing with the last of his soul. He knows he has next to no chance of success, but there is nothing else he can do. For a brief moment, there is hope. The Apparition releases the girl. Then it turns its full attention on Peter. With an almost casual flick of a tentacle, it blocks Peter's attack and then with another sends him crashing into a wall. With sudden, terrifying speed it has moved to within feet of his face, tentacles waving everywhere. Peter knows now that he is about to die. He holds his hands before him in the shape of the Child's Ward, with the last of his soul and the hopes of his parents and his sister held within.
"Damn you!" he whispers, as the Apparition comes in for the kill. There are cries of amazement from the onlookers on the street. A deep growl sounds in Peter's ears.
"Not this day, monster!"
To Peter's amazement, a second Apparition has slammed into the first, this one shaped like a giant silver bear. Tentacles fly through the air as the first Apparition is knocked back and then the night air becomes white with light. A high pitched shriek fills the air.
When Peter's eyes recover, the first Apparition is gone and the bear is plodding off slowly down the street. It turns to throw him a glance and raises its nose in the air, as though in acknowledgement.
"By the Farmer, he did it!" says one of the onlookers, his mouth hanging open. "That was some magic!"
The old woman is cradling her daughter now. The girl's soul is still at least a quarter bright.
"Thank you, sir! Thank you!" the woman is saying.
Peter feels his own soul returning from his hands to his body. Amazingly, he still has nearly a quarter left. He looks again down the street, where the ghostly bear is now almost out of sight. The warning bells are still ringing. Slowly, painfully, he gets to his feet and heads off in pursuit. His heart is warm for the first time in months.
[Minor Edits that I missed the first time.]
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-03 05:03 am (UTC)A familiar smell is in the air. -- this threw me because I started thinking of smells familar TO ME, or at least common fiction tropes: ocean low tide, sewage of Ankh Morpork, or something like that. If it's the smell of Apparitions, I don't know what they smell like, so I'm sort of stuck and puzzled.
The shift to contractions ('can't' etc) seemed to change the tone oddly, like it had suddenly gone into a whole different voice.
I'm afraid either I'm not in your target audience, or I don't have much energy for critting at the moment, because I found myself skimming some time before the action started, and when it started I gave up altogether. I'm not sure why, but a feeling of too many questions being opened before any got closed? Or maybe I'm just not bright enough tonight myself. :-) (Interesting concept, that.)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-05 09:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-03 06:31 pm (UTC)He knows he has next to no chance of success, but there is nothing else he can do. For a brief moment, there is hope. The Apparition releases the girl. Then it turns its full attention on Peter.
I feel that your choice of words and your sentence structure are too pedestrian for the beauty and magic they try to convey. I like the idea and the worldbuilding, and for the next bit I want to know what your protag can (or must) do in order to win back his full soul.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-04 02:52 am (UTC)Thanks! Could you expand on what you mean by "pedestrian", please? ie. Are you referring to the pacing, or the lack of adjectives, or something else again?
no subject
Date: 2007-11-03 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-05 09:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-04 04:02 am (UTC)It feels a lot like someone summing up what's happening and not that it's happening, despite the present tense.
I'm tired and not sure I'm explaining it right, but the concepts and the words/sentence structure don't seem on the same wavelength.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-05 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-05 02:28 pm (UTC)