Hi @Guttersnipe, @Joshua Jones, @Jo Zebedee, @elvet, @Provincial, @jd73, @The Judge, @Guttersnipe, @sule, @pambaddeley, @AnyaKimlin, @IronTaurus, @tinkerdan, here is the final part of my opening chapter.
Where it ends up is more emblematic of the theme and tone for the rest of the story. I'm sure much of the same criticism will apply to this, albeit with a little more focus on the character's actual movement and awakening.
As always, I greatly appreciate you reading and any comments you may have. There may not be much new to add over and above what you have already said, but any comments are appreciated. I think I already know how I want to rewrite this: take much of this 3rd part following the character's movements and bring it right up to the top, interspersing it with selected ominous visions.
I could not dispute my grasp of the consequences of my actions, but I did not articulate that. In fact, the impression remains that my response may have been to the contrary, and one of wilful defiance – a demeanour leftover from the events immediately preceding my arrival at the forge. Does this now explain the pure savagery of the punishment I subsequently suffered? Did my unwillingness to surrender to its whim set in motion the unspeakable torment that followed? And does that not perfectly explain why it, hitherto absent, is now here, pacing about outside my tomb – and doing so impatiently, if my assimilation of its radiating disposition is correct?
It begs the question. When I first arrived in this limbo, I was cocooned in fear, subservient, with nothing to distinguish me from the faceless multitude fouling the foundry’s flagstones. Sensing I was without hope, it unlatched the lid to my casket…and the reason why is obvious.
Bovid submission offers scant satisfaction. The abject hopelessness of the forge’s inhabitants is the antithesis of the carnal pleasures after which it lusts. Servitude is its meat and drink, but abhorrence and recalcitrance are the lavish banquet upon which it craves to feast. What reward can it be for such an all-conquering entity as it to preside over epochs of despotism without so much as a scratch at its libidinous itch?
As such, it would remember the defiant ones. It would have recalled my fierce resistance at my internment and the orgy of ecstasy it would have revelled in upon my eventual annihilation. Correspondingly, the eternity of disembodied, soulless deference I inhabited thereafter could only have drawn its contempt. In resignation, I was casual sustenance, but in rebellion, I was a courtesan, hence my extraction and the seditious flame within me its lusting has subliminally stoked – all of which underlines the unprecedentedness of the opportunity before me. Thus, my decision is clear.
I will satisfy its hankerings. If it wishes to revel in my insolent scepticism and the crushing acceptance of defeat that follows, then I shall deliver it in spades. The blazing punishment it will subject me to for my insurgency will burn the very fibre of my soul, but, in time, it will remember how I, unlike the oceans of serfs at its feet, was willing to personate for its amusement. I will have earned favour, and after further centuries presiding over spiritless compliance, it will recall those past delights and trawl me from the manifold once more for a repeat performance. Twice bitten, my hesitancy to take the bait will thus be tenfold by comparison. Its patience will be tested as I prolong the act and remain forcibly obedient. All the while, unbeknownst to it, I shall float blissfully adrift in the inert oblivion of this temporary realm. I will soak-in the peace and respite like a sponge, teasing my return to the stage from beyond that thick, black curtain.
The determination radiates from me. Fists clenched; my body physically bristles. Just then, I feel movement. My heart drops and my fortitude wavers as I imagine the trapdoor behind me opening. A moment later, immense relief washes across me: the movement is axial. I feel the iron veil lifting from my forehead and my body weight sink into to my feet – the chamber is rotating. The further it spins, the heavier grows my head, and soon, it is as a dead weight, challenging my balance. Then, I am upright and the block of lead atop my shoulders tips forth and strikes the glass lid…, which yields completely, unhinged
I feel a blast of air against my face, strangely filtered. The space outside the chamber seeps in; stuffy and noxious, as before. I swig a deep breath within the cool confines of the casket before moving forward, but my balance is ill and I spill forth, crumpling onto my hands and knees. All my joints throb – the aftereffects of my reassembly, no doubt – and my heart pounds uncontrollably as I survey the space around for the ferrous master. But I can see nothing except the oscillating ghosts of gentle candlelight. Then my sense of touch rallies. At my fingers, the ground is flat and gritty, like cinder, carried in a thin veil of oil, which I sweep aside. Beneath are stone slabs – a familiar texture…; and one that swiftly implodes my soul.
I have been duped. I am back in the vestibule. This was where I started. The service cycle is already complete. My torment is reset.
Foreboding clenches at my core like a tumour. The antechamber swirls around me like a black vortex. I am lost once more, on the brink of spiritual surrender. My resolve has dissolved at the first hurdle. There is no fire inside me, only a vacuum. If there is pleasure to be had at my expense, then it is through laughter. The fragility of my defiance is a divine comedy. I am no dissident, and I am certainly no courtesan; I am a court fool, whose pathetic moral fibre must surely now be renown throughout the forge.
I land a pitiful petulant thump on the stone floor…that instantly defibrillates my shrivelled heart. In my head, I kick myself; floored, broken, delirious and doomed, I may be…but I am also whole and free or torment, still. It is a reminder that I didn’t break from my tomb to flee the forge or to save my eternal soul; my solitary goal was to defer my repeat dissection for as long as possible. Slumped here on the stone floor, I risk the wrong wrath of the dark lord. Feeble surrender could see me cast back to the foundry in an instant, in favour of any soul who might better gratify its lust. Thus, if a fleeting moment of respite is the sole prize to be had, it shall be I that claims it – and with disappointment in me at its apex, when better to stage a comeback.
I strain to rise on to two knees, then one. Finally, I stand and turn in the direction of the muttered voice I can hear, past a fortification and into a second chamber of amber-kissed black. And there, at last, I see it: a dark golem, faced away from me, hunched before a confounding iron rampart, glowing blue – and I feel sure my intimation that it has not seen me is a false one.
I advance and my diatribe begins. I cannot decipher my own words, but they are suitably pyrotechnical. Compounding the onslaught, I unleash a barrage of cerebral vitriol, knowing full well it hears my thoughts just as loudly as it does my voice. Then the tirade ends, and I recoil to await the blitzkrieg of inarticulate snake-speak and clairvoyant alien rhetoric that will inevitably follow. But nothing happens. It is unmoved.
Realising I have not yet attainted the requisite extreme of performance, I recommence hostilities. Rabid revolutionary froth hawks from my mouth. Indignation shapes my features, but it is in stark contrast to the unmitigated terror quaking my core. Has it sensed the facade? Or is there a second actor amongst us?
Still, it pretends not to have seen or heard me. Still, it faces the archaic blue steelwork of this battlement, subliminally enticing me further. So, I unleash; I bellow my disgust at its fell appearance. I urge it to continue ignoring me, lest I mistake it for a sentient being of culture and intellect. My venom reaches its zenith.
And, finally, I am heard. Around it spins, eliminating all innuendo and metaphor in a single glare, which desiccates my spirit. Its body is an inferno; incendiary charcoal black from top to toe with veins of fire and a wild conflagration across its shoulders, cascading down each arm like molten magma from some ungodly vat. From its breast spouts a hideous, two-headed monster with sharp fangs and a piercing red glare. I gaze into its eyes, which lock upon mine. They are dead and blackened yet burn with a rage and hatred beyond nightmare.
It surges forward, and finally my quivering whits can no longer maintain the ruse. In terror, I stumble backward, and my gelatine legs buckle. Looming above me, the dark lord’s barrel chest swells, as its quickening breathing reaches an apex. It raises a giant fist, and as its shrivelled scrawl of a mouth opens to talk, I brace to be burned anatomically by the hellish connotations of the utterance that follows.
“Are you going to quit your bloody racket or am I going to have to come over there and knock you out?”
Where it ends up is more emblematic of the theme and tone for the rest of the story. I'm sure much of the same criticism will apply to this, albeit with a little more focus on the character's actual movement and awakening.
As always, I greatly appreciate you reading and any comments you may have. There may not be much new to add over and above what you have already said, but any comments are appreciated. I think I already know how I want to rewrite this: take much of this 3rd part following the character's movements and bring it right up to the top, interspersing it with selected ominous visions.
I could not dispute my grasp of the consequences of my actions, but I did not articulate that. In fact, the impression remains that my response may have been to the contrary, and one of wilful defiance – a demeanour leftover from the events immediately preceding my arrival at the forge. Does this now explain the pure savagery of the punishment I subsequently suffered? Did my unwillingness to surrender to its whim set in motion the unspeakable torment that followed? And does that not perfectly explain why it, hitherto absent, is now here, pacing about outside my tomb – and doing so impatiently, if my assimilation of its radiating disposition is correct?
It begs the question. When I first arrived in this limbo, I was cocooned in fear, subservient, with nothing to distinguish me from the faceless multitude fouling the foundry’s flagstones. Sensing I was without hope, it unlatched the lid to my casket…and the reason why is obvious.
Bovid submission offers scant satisfaction. The abject hopelessness of the forge’s inhabitants is the antithesis of the carnal pleasures after which it lusts. Servitude is its meat and drink, but abhorrence and recalcitrance are the lavish banquet upon which it craves to feast. What reward can it be for such an all-conquering entity as it to preside over epochs of despotism without so much as a scratch at its libidinous itch?
As such, it would remember the defiant ones. It would have recalled my fierce resistance at my internment and the orgy of ecstasy it would have revelled in upon my eventual annihilation. Correspondingly, the eternity of disembodied, soulless deference I inhabited thereafter could only have drawn its contempt. In resignation, I was casual sustenance, but in rebellion, I was a courtesan, hence my extraction and the seditious flame within me its lusting has subliminally stoked – all of which underlines the unprecedentedness of the opportunity before me. Thus, my decision is clear.
I will satisfy its hankerings. If it wishes to revel in my insolent scepticism and the crushing acceptance of defeat that follows, then I shall deliver it in spades. The blazing punishment it will subject me to for my insurgency will burn the very fibre of my soul, but, in time, it will remember how I, unlike the oceans of serfs at its feet, was willing to personate for its amusement. I will have earned favour, and after further centuries presiding over spiritless compliance, it will recall those past delights and trawl me from the manifold once more for a repeat performance. Twice bitten, my hesitancy to take the bait will thus be tenfold by comparison. Its patience will be tested as I prolong the act and remain forcibly obedient. All the while, unbeknownst to it, I shall float blissfully adrift in the inert oblivion of this temporary realm. I will soak-in the peace and respite like a sponge, teasing my return to the stage from beyond that thick, black curtain.
The determination radiates from me. Fists clenched; my body physically bristles. Just then, I feel movement. My heart drops and my fortitude wavers as I imagine the trapdoor behind me opening. A moment later, immense relief washes across me: the movement is axial. I feel the iron veil lifting from my forehead and my body weight sink into to my feet – the chamber is rotating. The further it spins, the heavier grows my head, and soon, it is as a dead weight, challenging my balance. Then, I am upright and the block of lead atop my shoulders tips forth and strikes the glass lid…, which yields completely, unhinged
I feel a blast of air against my face, strangely filtered. The space outside the chamber seeps in; stuffy and noxious, as before. I swig a deep breath within the cool confines of the casket before moving forward, but my balance is ill and I spill forth, crumpling onto my hands and knees. All my joints throb – the aftereffects of my reassembly, no doubt – and my heart pounds uncontrollably as I survey the space around for the ferrous master. But I can see nothing except the oscillating ghosts of gentle candlelight. Then my sense of touch rallies. At my fingers, the ground is flat and gritty, like cinder, carried in a thin veil of oil, which I sweep aside. Beneath are stone slabs – a familiar texture…; and one that swiftly implodes my soul.
I have been duped. I am back in the vestibule. This was where I started. The service cycle is already complete. My torment is reset.
Foreboding clenches at my core like a tumour. The antechamber swirls around me like a black vortex. I am lost once more, on the brink of spiritual surrender. My resolve has dissolved at the first hurdle. There is no fire inside me, only a vacuum. If there is pleasure to be had at my expense, then it is through laughter. The fragility of my defiance is a divine comedy. I am no dissident, and I am certainly no courtesan; I am a court fool, whose pathetic moral fibre must surely now be renown throughout the forge.
I land a pitiful petulant thump on the stone floor…that instantly defibrillates my shrivelled heart. In my head, I kick myself; floored, broken, delirious and doomed, I may be…but I am also whole and free or torment, still. It is a reminder that I didn’t break from my tomb to flee the forge or to save my eternal soul; my solitary goal was to defer my repeat dissection for as long as possible. Slumped here on the stone floor, I risk the wrong wrath of the dark lord. Feeble surrender could see me cast back to the foundry in an instant, in favour of any soul who might better gratify its lust. Thus, if a fleeting moment of respite is the sole prize to be had, it shall be I that claims it – and with disappointment in me at its apex, when better to stage a comeback.
I strain to rise on to two knees, then one. Finally, I stand and turn in the direction of the muttered voice I can hear, past a fortification and into a second chamber of amber-kissed black. And there, at last, I see it: a dark golem, faced away from me, hunched before a confounding iron rampart, glowing blue – and I feel sure my intimation that it has not seen me is a false one.
I advance and my diatribe begins. I cannot decipher my own words, but they are suitably pyrotechnical. Compounding the onslaught, I unleash a barrage of cerebral vitriol, knowing full well it hears my thoughts just as loudly as it does my voice. Then the tirade ends, and I recoil to await the blitzkrieg of inarticulate snake-speak and clairvoyant alien rhetoric that will inevitably follow. But nothing happens. It is unmoved.
Realising I have not yet attainted the requisite extreme of performance, I recommence hostilities. Rabid revolutionary froth hawks from my mouth. Indignation shapes my features, but it is in stark contrast to the unmitigated terror quaking my core. Has it sensed the facade? Or is there a second actor amongst us?
Still, it pretends not to have seen or heard me. Still, it faces the archaic blue steelwork of this battlement, subliminally enticing me further. So, I unleash; I bellow my disgust at its fell appearance. I urge it to continue ignoring me, lest I mistake it for a sentient being of culture and intellect. My venom reaches its zenith.
And, finally, I am heard. Around it spins, eliminating all innuendo and metaphor in a single glare, which desiccates my spirit. Its body is an inferno; incendiary charcoal black from top to toe with veins of fire and a wild conflagration across its shoulders, cascading down each arm like molten magma from some ungodly vat. From its breast spouts a hideous, two-headed monster with sharp fangs and a piercing red glare. I gaze into its eyes, which lock upon mine. They are dead and blackened yet burn with a rage and hatred beyond nightmare.
It surges forward, and finally my quivering whits can no longer maintain the ruse. In terror, I stumble backward, and my gelatine legs buckle. Looming above me, the dark lord’s barrel chest swells, as its quickening breathing reaches an apex. It raises a giant fist, and as its shrivelled scrawl of a mouth opens to talk, I brace to be burned anatomically by the hellish connotations of the utterance that follows.
“Are you going to quit your bloody racket or am I going to have to come over there and knock you out?”
