Glisterspeck
Frozen sea axe smith
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2007
- Messages
- 489
If this is too soon to repost, I'm sorry. I've spent the last couple nights working through everyone's feedback and am eager to get reactions from those willing to give it.
The fragments are still in both description and dialogue, sorry. Springs, I fought over the split and bloodied lip/close POV issue, but liked the imagery to much to cut it just yet. Someone in a recent crit wrote that her character turned red, and I remember there being a worthwhile POV justification for it presented. Hopefully, this passes the same muster. I've incorporated almost all the rest of your feedback though. Cept for eliminating the fragments. :roll eyes:
I'm mostly wanting to know:
If this scene is less confusing in terms of geography. Is it clear how things are laid out in relation to Ayos?
If it feels more so "in a moment." Does it still stink of a big dump? (Infodump, I mean.)
If it causes you to care about Ayos at all. (I've made him less crotchety and hurt him more. Also, tried to get some visceral sensation going.) If not, what might do so?
If it's more hooky than the last? If so, is it hooky enough to get your attention and keep you reading? Is it effective enough to get on with writing the next bit?
Of course, full critiques are always welcome, though not expected given the length. (I actually did an edit to get from 1523 words to 1500, just so I could post the whole chapter. Felt like I was writing one of the challenges.
)
________________________________________________________
"Helstrom!" Ayos shouted, into the wind. “Look! The Ovelyn comes!”
Ayos slid down the shoulder of the Final Step. His feet, each bound in a scrap of fleece, slipped through the scree, scattering gravel down the slope. The wind howled against him. It whipped the once white cloak of a pilgrim about his gaunt frame. Flailed his matted locks against his cheeks. The moon hung over the valley's stark landscape. Snowcapped peaks pierced the clouds on either side of the Heavenly Ladder. White glaciers divided the gray of the step's shoulders from the night sky. Gray rock upon gray rock fell on all sides of a dry lakebed.
“There.” Ayos shook a hand at the camp of the Medaveans, pitched around the dry lake, between the shore and a web of abandoned salt pits. “See? Soldiers march out to welcome the Ove.”
Ayos’s pulse raced. His legs wobbled. An iron key hung from a rope around his waist. It dangled against his knee. In the camp below, lanterns glinted from the Hymarom Steps to a ridge that marked the pass down to the Mist Valley. Soldiers trudged up a lane that followed the ridge to the head of the Great Stair. In an open-air kitchen between the camp’s tents and the lane, a group of sisters waved at the soldiers. They clutched layered robes against the brisk air. Rubbed sleep from their eyes. One of the women, older than the rest, wore a multicolored shawl. She handed something too small to see to each passing officer. Ayos's lips, split and bloodied by the bitter air, curled in the shadow of his beard.
“You remember the tokens, Helstrom?” he asked. “You used to take them from the men. Break them.”
The men had called Helstrom a prig for doing so. No executor had been so strict. The last soldier passed, and the sisters followed him up the lane. A gust billowed the shawl over the old woman’s head. An aunt to the Sisters of Kindness. She turned and stirred a kettle that sat on a makeshift stove. Five such stoves dotted the open kitchen, all built from the ruins of the Lantern of Ayma.
Ayos clenched his teeth. He glared down at the stoves. The Lantern of Ayma. Its light would never again welcome a pilgrim to the shores of the black lake. He had been the last. The Medaveans had torn down the tower, used its stone to build the stoves. Helstrom had been there. Saw them arrest Ayos when he tried to stop them. Heard them mock him. He had told Ayos to strike the one who called him crazy. A madman!
A half-buried stone snagged his foot. Ayos spun in the wind. He stumbled headfirst, caught himself. Ran, leaping, bounding down the rocks. Blood pounded through his veins. It was foolish to descend the mountain before dawn. But the Ove climbed the stair. Everyone would leave the camp. He could light the lantern, what remained of it. Perform the anointing. Become one with Ayma of the Hayom.
Thinking of the Hayom warmed his brow, his cheeks. Ayos smiled, and his ankle turned beneath him. He tumbled against the scree. Like a hundred armored fists, cobbles pummeled his body. Ayos fought the mountain, thrashing his arms and legs. His ear slammed against rock. His body fell limp. Dazed, he rolled down the slope. Helstrom would never have approved of such an end, but he was not Helstrom. For Ayos, it was far better to fall to his death sensing the Lingering Presence of the Hayom than to fall from their presence and still live. What was life spent outside the Lingering Presence? Agony. What was life spent in the True Presence of the Hayom? True life, unknown glory.
Ayos crashed against a mound of peculiar boulders near the base of the shoulder. A pile of old, withered men, petrified or carved from stone, knees curled against chests and heads bent between knees. Trembling, he huddled against the boulders. He was alive. Battered, but alive. Ayos touched a knot above his ear. No blood. He pushed the fleece down over his foot. Winced when it crossed his bruised ankle. It was not broken. The sharp pain where his ribs had slammed against the boulder hurt worse.
He reached beneath his cloak and found a satchel made of waxed burlap. His fingers crossed a circular ridge pressed in the burlap. The ridge felt like a part of him. A twisted sinew jutting from his flesh. Ayos pushed the satchel aside and pressed his palm over his aching ribs. He leaned his head back against the boulders. Looked toward the step’s headwall far above the valley floor. A light glimmered atop the stacked terraces of a walled city, deep in a hollow beneath the headwall.
"Hymarom," Ayos whispered. The word, given breath, eased his pains. Hymarom was the city's true name. The name given by the Hayom when they carved it from the mountain. Before they climbed the ladder. Before the goblins took it. Ayos watched the glimmer dance and remembered each ruined lantern he had passed on his trek up the Great Stair. Each anointing, each reading from the book.
The Lingering Presence found Ayos. It was always strongest near the lantern ruins. The presence came with the wind. It became a tremor inside him. Made his skin tingle. Ayos turned away from the light. He dragged himself up the piled boulders. Tumbled onto a rocky path that zigzagged between abandoned salt pits. Ayos gathered his strength and stood. He shifted his weight to test his ankle. It was swollen, but he could walk. He hobbled past a swineherd's tent. Pain, like a unseen jungle cat, nipped at his ankle with each step.
Nerkirs snored in one of the salt pits. Ayos crept along the path above the beasts. He wrinkled his nose at their stench. The Medaveans called them hogs, but their coats were too wooly and their snouts too long to be hogs. The cult often renamed a thing to make it something else. Hymarom they called Brackmeer. The Hayom, elves. Goblins became demons. Pilgrims, heretics. Madmen. Ayos kept one eye on the nerkirs. He did not believe a new name could change a thing's nature, and he had met many men on his pilgrimage with missing fingers, smiling scars, and stories to tell about nerkirs.
He stumbled forward as quickly as his ankle allowed. The path was too exposed for one banished from the camp. Ayos reached the tents and stole into their shadows. The sisters had left. He would be safe in the guild's pavilion. There he could wait for the others to leave. Sleepy voices whispered inside the tents on either side of Ayos. The voices became a single voice. Ayma's voice, sweet and silvery. Ancient as the wind. Ayma called out to Ayos, summoned him to her broken tower. The kitchen appeared between tent rows. The ruined lantern, the stoves. Copper kettles gleamed, casting an orange glow against nearby tent walls. His pulse quickened once more. He dashed between two long pavilions, hopping, hobbling, wanting only to touch--
Ayos tripped over a guy-rope. He fell against a canvas wall. Rolled into its shadow. Clenching his teeth, he smacked at his ankle. It was nothing. A sprain. Ayos looked for the moon between the tent tops. He laughed, but no sound passed his lips. The presence spun around his heart, tugged at his thoughts. It urged him to run to the stoves. Throw the kettles aside. Wrap himself around the warm ruins of the lantern. Ayos smacked himself, hard, and his head rolled against his shoulder.
Torches moved up the lane behind a lieutenant who had stopped to warm his hands over one of the stoves. A comb of warsloth hairs bristled atop his bronze helm. He was young. His beard, fuzzy splotches on a round face. Everything about him seemed soft and round. Ayos looked back toward the nerkir pen. He yanked his beard. Bit his lip until it bled. Did everything he could to resist the urge to crawl out and embrace the ruins.
When the sound of sandals slapping against the lane faded, he turned. The soldiers were gone. Ayos crawled into the orange light cast by the stoves. A strange warmth radiated not from the embers beneath the kettles but from the stones themselves. The Lingering Presence. Ayos crawled toward the warmth. The presence pulsed through him. It became his pulse. Ayos closed his eyes and reached out to touch the lantern stones. Something else brushed against his fingers.
His eyes shot open. A ball of gray fur stared at him. Ayos blinked. A fat pikrat dashed across the kitchen, into the pavilion shared by the sisters. Ayos took hold of a nearby guy-rope. He pulled himself up. Limped after the pikrat. Holding back the tent flap, Ayos ducked into the empty pavilion. But it was not empty.
The fragments are still in both description and dialogue, sorry. Springs, I fought over the split and bloodied lip/close POV issue, but liked the imagery to much to cut it just yet. Someone in a recent crit wrote that her character turned red, and I remember there being a worthwhile POV justification for it presented. Hopefully, this passes the same muster. I've incorporated almost all the rest of your feedback though. Cept for eliminating the fragments. :roll eyes:
I'm mostly wanting to know:
If this scene is less confusing in terms of geography. Is it clear how things are laid out in relation to Ayos?
If it feels more so "in a moment." Does it still stink of a big dump? (Infodump, I mean.)
If it causes you to care about Ayos at all. (I've made him less crotchety and hurt him more. Also, tried to get some visceral sensation going.) If not, what might do so?
If it's more hooky than the last? If so, is it hooky enough to get your attention and keep you reading? Is it effective enough to get on with writing the next bit?
Of course, full critiques are always welcome, though not expected given the length. (I actually did an edit to get from 1523 words to 1500, just so I could post the whole chapter. Felt like I was writing one of the challenges.
)________________________________________________________
"Helstrom!" Ayos shouted, into the wind. “Look! The Ovelyn comes!”
Ayos slid down the shoulder of the Final Step. His feet, each bound in a scrap of fleece, slipped through the scree, scattering gravel down the slope. The wind howled against him. It whipped the once white cloak of a pilgrim about his gaunt frame. Flailed his matted locks against his cheeks. The moon hung over the valley's stark landscape. Snowcapped peaks pierced the clouds on either side of the Heavenly Ladder. White glaciers divided the gray of the step's shoulders from the night sky. Gray rock upon gray rock fell on all sides of a dry lakebed.
“There.” Ayos shook a hand at the camp of the Medaveans, pitched around the dry lake, between the shore and a web of abandoned salt pits. “See? Soldiers march out to welcome the Ove.”
Ayos’s pulse raced. His legs wobbled. An iron key hung from a rope around his waist. It dangled against his knee. In the camp below, lanterns glinted from the Hymarom Steps to a ridge that marked the pass down to the Mist Valley. Soldiers trudged up a lane that followed the ridge to the head of the Great Stair. In an open-air kitchen between the camp’s tents and the lane, a group of sisters waved at the soldiers. They clutched layered robes against the brisk air. Rubbed sleep from their eyes. One of the women, older than the rest, wore a multicolored shawl. She handed something too small to see to each passing officer. Ayos's lips, split and bloodied by the bitter air, curled in the shadow of his beard.
“You remember the tokens, Helstrom?” he asked. “You used to take them from the men. Break them.”
The men had called Helstrom a prig for doing so. No executor had been so strict. The last soldier passed, and the sisters followed him up the lane. A gust billowed the shawl over the old woman’s head. An aunt to the Sisters of Kindness. She turned and stirred a kettle that sat on a makeshift stove. Five such stoves dotted the open kitchen, all built from the ruins of the Lantern of Ayma.
Ayos clenched his teeth. He glared down at the stoves. The Lantern of Ayma. Its light would never again welcome a pilgrim to the shores of the black lake. He had been the last. The Medaveans had torn down the tower, used its stone to build the stoves. Helstrom had been there. Saw them arrest Ayos when he tried to stop them. Heard them mock him. He had told Ayos to strike the one who called him crazy. A madman!
A half-buried stone snagged his foot. Ayos spun in the wind. He stumbled headfirst, caught himself. Ran, leaping, bounding down the rocks. Blood pounded through his veins. It was foolish to descend the mountain before dawn. But the Ove climbed the stair. Everyone would leave the camp. He could light the lantern, what remained of it. Perform the anointing. Become one with Ayma of the Hayom.
Thinking of the Hayom warmed his brow, his cheeks. Ayos smiled, and his ankle turned beneath him. He tumbled against the scree. Like a hundred armored fists, cobbles pummeled his body. Ayos fought the mountain, thrashing his arms and legs. His ear slammed against rock. His body fell limp. Dazed, he rolled down the slope. Helstrom would never have approved of such an end, but he was not Helstrom. For Ayos, it was far better to fall to his death sensing the Lingering Presence of the Hayom than to fall from their presence and still live. What was life spent outside the Lingering Presence? Agony. What was life spent in the True Presence of the Hayom? True life, unknown glory.
Ayos crashed against a mound of peculiar boulders near the base of the shoulder. A pile of old, withered men, petrified or carved from stone, knees curled against chests and heads bent between knees. Trembling, he huddled against the boulders. He was alive. Battered, but alive. Ayos touched a knot above his ear. No blood. He pushed the fleece down over his foot. Winced when it crossed his bruised ankle. It was not broken. The sharp pain where his ribs had slammed against the boulder hurt worse.
He reached beneath his cloak and found a satchel made of waxed burlap. His fingers crossed a circular ridge pressed in the burlap. The ridge felt like a part of him. A twisted sinew jutting from his flesh. Ayos pushed the satchel aside and pressed his palm over his aching ribs. He leaned his head back against the boulders. Looked toward the step’s headwall far above the valley floor. A light glimmered atop the stacked terraces of a walled city, deep in a hollow beneath the headwall.
"Hymarom," Ayos whispered. The word, given breath, eased his pains. Hymarom was the city's true name. The name given by the Hayom when they carved it from the mountain. Before they climbed the ladder. Before the goblins took it. Ayos watched the glimmer dance and remembered each ruined lantern he had passed on his trek up the Great Stair. Each anointing, each reading from the book.
The Lingering Presence found Ayos. It was always strongest near the lantern ruins. The presence came with the wind. It became a tremor inside him. Made his skin tingle. Ayos turned away from the light. He dragged himself up the piled boulders. Tumbled onto a rocky path that zigzagged between abandoned salt pits. Ayos gathered his strength and stood. He shifted his weight to test his ankle. It was swollen, but he could walk. He hobbled past a swineherd's tent. Pain, like a unseen jungle cat, nipped at his ankle with each step.
Nerkirs snored in one of the salt pits. Ayos crept along the path above the beasts. He wrinkled his nose at their stench. The Medaveans called them hogs, but their coats were too wooly and their snouts too long to be hogs. The cult often renamed a thing to make it something else. Hymarom they called Brackmeer. The Hayom, elves. Goblins became demons. Pilgrims, heretics. Madmen. Ayos kept one eye on the nerkirs. He did not believe a new name could change a thing's nature, and he had met many men on his pilgrimage with missing fingers, smiling scars, and stories to tell about nerkirs.
He stumbled forward as quickly as his ankle allowed. The path was too exposed for one banished from the camp. Ayos reached the tents and stole into their shadows. The sisters had left. He would be safe in the guild's pavilion. There he could wait for the others to leave. Sleepy voices whispered inside the tents on either side of Ayos. The voices became a single voice. Ayma's voice, sweet and silvery. Ancient as the wind. Ayma called out to Ayos, summoned him to her broken tower. The kitchen appeared between tent rows. The ruined lantern, the stoves. Copper kettles gleamed, casting an orange glow against nearby tent walls. His pulse quickened once more. He dashed between two long pavilions, hopping, hobbling, wanting only to touch--
Ayos tripped over a guy-rope. He fell against a canvas wall. Rolled into its shadow. Clenching his teeth, he smacked at his ankle. It was nothing. A sprain. Ayos looked for the moon between the tent tops. He laughed, but no sound passed his lips. The presence spun around his heart, tugged at his thoughts. It urged him to run to the stoves. Throw the kettles aside. Wrap himself around the warm ruins of the lantern. Ayos smacked himself, hard, and his head rolled against his shoulder.
Torches moved up the lane behind a lieutenant who had stopped to warm his hands over one of the stoves. A comb of warsloth hairs bristled atop his bronze helm. He was young. His beard, fuzzy splotches on a round face. Everything about him seemed soft and round. Ayos looked back toward the nerkir pen. He yanked his beard. Bit his lip until it bled. Did everything he could to resist the urge to crawl out and embrace the ruins.
When the sound of sandals slapping against the lane faded, he turned. The soldiers were gone. Ayos crawled into the orange light cast by the stoves. A strange warmth radiated not from the embers beneath the kettles but from the stones themselves. The Lingering Presence. Ayos crawled toward the warmth. The presence pulsed through him. It became his pulse. Ayos closed his eyes and reached out to touch the lantern stones. Something else brushed against his fingers.
His eyes shot open. A ball of gray fur stared at him. Ayos blinked. A fat pikrat dashed across the kitchen, into the pavilion shared by the sisters. Ayos took hold of a nearby guy-rope. He pulled himself up. Limped after the pikrat. Holding back the tent flap, Ayos ducked into the empty pavilion. But it was not empty.
