Hûw Steer's Blog, page 31

New Book!

I’ve been sitting on this for a while, and I’m still sorting out a few of the fine details to make it ready for sale – but it’s high time I announced my next book.

[image error]Artwork by Two Pens

The Moon is on the brink of war.

Alexander Dio, an officer of the Vulture Dragoons, flies in defence of the Lunar people against the monstrous armies of the Sun. He is ready for war – or at least he thinks he is.

But when Dio’s patrol finds a crashed ship out in the Sea of Tranquility, his life is turned upside-down. Because the ship is not from the Moon, and its captain is unlike anyone he’s ever known.

His name is Lucian, and he comes from the Earth.

Based on the ancient Greek story by Lucian of Samosata, this epic voyage of discovery goes back to the very beginning of science-fiction.

I’m really excited to share this one with the world – I’ve spent years studying Lucian and his True History, so writing this book was a real labour of love. I’ll talk more about my creative process in the next few weeks leading up to the release…

Speaking of release, I don’t yet have a firm date – as I said above I’m still figuring out a few of the annoying little details before I can publish properly. But it’ll be on Amazon, in digital and hopefully physical formats, in July. Watch this space.

 

Missives from Isolation #12 – Endings

Last instalment of the Curtis Brown this week, alas (which means I’m going to have to think of something else to post every week for a while… hmm…). As usual, I got a prompt – but this time it wasn’t the first line of the story, but the last, which proved an interesting challenge.

‘The first plane drew a line across the sky’. Sounds nice enough. I’m sure nothing could go wrong with a story based on that …

The major pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, and tried again.

“Sir,” she said, indicating their marker on the sophisticated holographic map which had probably cost as much as a regiment’s monthly rations, “I dislike leaving an open avenue of attack. Especially when we have so comprehensively fortified every other approach.” No thanks to the brass, of course; that had been hard graft from her grunts and the other companies assigned to the defence, coordinated by the major and the other unit chiefs. The orders from above had been little more than ‘Dig in and repel the enemy’, which had been about as helpful as high-visibility body armour. Which I’m sure will be issued very soon. But they were infantry – they had plenty of one-shot missiles and a few belt-fed cannons, and they’d dug a decent enough trench line around their position, festooning it with all manner of spikes and wire. They were shut tight against a ground assault, which was reassuring.

What wasn’t reassuring was that they were almost completely open to an attack by air, and despite repeated requests for a supply drop they’d received nothing from behind the lines. Nothing, that was, except for General Marr. And if she tried to use him as an anti-air defence she was fairly certain it wouldn’t go down very well.

“Your concerns are noted, Major,” said General Marr, stroking his ridiculous moustache as he glanced down at the holographic map and pretended to know what he was looking at. “But, as you have so helpfully stated, your troops have fortified this position beautifully.”

“Except from an air assault, sir.”

“Which we need not worry about, Major,” the general replied. “I am privy to the latest intelligence reports from headquarters, as you know.” As you haven’t stopped telling me and the other chiefs since you arrived. “The enemy’s air power is functionally non-existent. They will be coming by land, and we are prepared for an attack by land. You and the other company chiefs have done an outstanding job.” The compliment just made the major bristle, dripping as it was with condescension.

“Can no anti-air equipment be spared, sir?”

“You have your complement of missiles, do you not?” asked Marr, stepping away from the projector to look out across the camp from the narrow slit-window of the prefabricated bunker. They had a good vantage over the plateau below, and the camp was, the major had to admit, an impressive sight.

“We do have half a dozen Hornets, sir,” the major replied. Half a dozen ancient one-use fly-by-wires dug out of an empty warehouse. Technically, it was all an infantry company needed to repel an air attack. Practically, every unit chief knew that no more than two of the missiles would even get a target lock, let alone actually hit anything.

“Then I fail to see the problem, Major,” Marr said crisply, folding his hands behind his back. “You’ve done a fine job. Besides, we at Command have high hopes of an armistice within two days.” I’m sure you do, the Major thought uncharitably. She and the other unit chiefs had experienced plenty of Command’s optimism over the last few months. They’d all learned to take anything the top brass said with a hefty pinch of salt.

She tried one more time, just in case.

“I appreciate the update,” she said, “but I’m sure I speak for all the chiefs when I say a flak cannon or two would be very much apprec – ”

“As I said, Major,” Marr interrupted, “while I appreciate that you have misgivings, there is no need to be concerned.” He smiled broadly and disingenuously. “This will all be over in two days.”

He turned sharply from the window and strode over to the bunker door.

“Now, I would very much like a tour of the defences,” he said, keying the code that opened the heavy metal door. “Please lead the – ”

The siren cut him off, a low wail that built to a deafening shriek, cutting through the air like a knife. The major was out of the door before realising she was even moving and halfway up the narrow stair that wrapped around the outside of the bunker, on its roof and fumbling for her binoculars before General Marr had even realised she was gone. She heard him clumping up the stairs behind her as she scanned the horizon, panning the scopes across the distant hills that ringed the plateau.

“I don’t understand,” she heard Marr say, as, below the command bunker, the shouts of sergeants calling their squads to order began to compete with the ear-splitting wail of the warning siren. “We were assured – ”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy, sir,” the major said absently, finally spotting movement. There we are. She smiled grimly as she lowered the binoculars. Sometimes she hated being right. She turned on her radio.

“Quartermasters, issue the Hornets. Sergeants, get everyone in decent cover. Point everything straight up and let’s get to hoping, shall we?” Air power non-existent my arse. She turned to Marr and fixed him with her sweetest smile. “You may want to take cover in the bunker, sir. Wait for that armistice. Only two days away.”

She ignored the general’s outraged bluster, drew her sidearm and made for the stairs, as above their heads the first plane drew a line across the sky.

Missives from Isolation #11 – Stuff and Things

I can’t believe I’ve been doing these isolation posts for almost three months! But then time ceased to have meaning long ago. I’ve forgotten to talk to friends for weeks at a time because in my mind we spoke yesterday (sorry, if you’re one of those friends). Yesterday I had a proper conversation with a human being who isn’t my girlfriend for the first time since lockdown began. It was lovely, but genuinely slightly weird.

Anyway, just a general update this week. In terms of actual real life, everything’s fine – I’m still working from home, still eating food and occasionally venturing outside. I’m still well, as is the rest of my household (all one of her). It’s all same old, really – which I imagine is the case for many of you.

The second Boiling Seas is still untitled but proceeds apace – I’m over 40,000 words in already and I’m not even close to halfway through. Given the first book was only about 70,000, this is somewhat worrying – but I’m having fun with it and I’m happy to take it slow for now. There are some good set-pieces I’m building up to. Also, airships. Lots more airship action.

My Warhammer pile of shame is diminished to almost nothing – just 5 pirate ships and a handful of T’au to paint. Of course that doesn’t count the new sets I just bought – three bikes and a wonderfully mad construction which amounts to a giant orrery on the back of a carriage, driven by wizards (because why on earth not?)…

That last is my holiday project, though. I’ve got the week after next off work, and while I can’t actually go anywhere on holiday, I can at least kick back and relax – and try and get a few things done too. Many of those things will be videogames.

But what about writing, I hear you cry? Well, there are actually some things on the horizon, at long last!

Those of you who follow me on Twitter may have noticed that I’ve got a story coming out in this year’s UCL Publisher’s Prize anthology, which I was just eligible for, one last time. There will be some more promo related to that coming up soon, and I’ll be posting it on here too. I have another story that’s been bought by a magazine, too – it likely won’t be out for a long time yet, but when it is you’ll definitely hear about it.

And, finally, all being well, there should be something a lot bigger coming very soon indeed. I won’t spoil what it is yet,* but I’m very excited. Watch this space for some exciting visuals…

Maybe I’ll try and write some more short pieces in my time off. I’ve had ideas germinating for a while, and there are some cool competitions coming up too. Whatever the case, you’ll hear about it here at some point.

* I mean you’re probably thinking it’s a book, and you’re probably right

Missives from Isolation #10 – Character II: Core Trait Boogaloo

This one ended up longer than expected, and much more fun than expected too. This week’s Curtis Brown challenge was to write two short scenes, showing two people – with opposing core character traits – approaching a cafe for a meeting. It was a lot of fun – I picked two core traits at the start but ended up using several of the other pairs to build the contrast between the characters as I went along. I might actually use this as the start of something longer, if I ever get around to it…

There were a few suggested scenarios – a first date, a meeting between enemies, an interview. You can probably guess which one I picked.

It was a bright day, and she savoured the feeling of the warm sun on her pale skin. She’d spent far too much time inside lately, and it was nice to get out.

She had to concede that the casual clothes were comfortable enough, though the sensation of actually blending in with the ordinary people that swarmed around her, all enjoying the sunny day as they wandered between shops and cafes, was somewhat distasteful. She walked slowly, though, enjoying the sunshine. She had plenty of time to kill. The meeting was not for another twenty minutes, and she was less than ten from her destination – and the woman she was meeting would, as ever, be just a little late.

She was planning on being early, just in case her companion made an effort. It would irritate her, and that would make her careless – and that was exactly what she wanted.

She nodded politely as she stood aside to make way for a man with a laden dolly, even offering a brief smile as he thanked her. She let her internal clock count quietly down as she walked on, glancing subtly left and right as she did so, taking in each and every other person and dismissing them as irrelevant, one by one. They all had so many things to do, so many things on their minds. She could read them like books, but she didn’t bother after the first few. Every ending was the same. They all scurried to and fro, minds racing with all their own petty concerns. They should take a moment to enjoy the sunshine, she thought to herself, smiling as she tipped her head back and let it warm her. They may not have many further opportunities.

She reached the café; a decidedly ordinary building painted a blue that had once been vibrant but that was now faded pale, the paint flaking and chipped. The glass window was clean, at least. She did have standards, after all. She stepped inside, surveying the room. It was half-full, certainly busy enough that another patron – and any conversation they might have – would attract no attention whatsoever. Perfect. She selected a booth next to the window and sat, her lip curling as the worn padding beneath the cracked leather didn’t cushion her nearly enough. If I must sink to her level, she reminded herself, then I will not show discomfort. That would be inviting her guest to think she had some small advantage. That would, of course, not do at all.

When the waiter came over she ordered two coffees; pure black for herself and a disgustingly sweet and milky option for her guest – who, she noted as her internal clock ticked over the hour, was now officially late. Excellent. When the drinks came, she sipped the bitter brew and slid the other over to the exact centre of the vacant bench seat. There was music playing. She sat upright, not wanting to lean back on the stained leather of the bench seat, and idly calculated its beats per minute. It was a simple tune, nothing to write home about, but she almost started humming before she caught herself.

Two minutes late. She suppressed a smug smile as she composed a countermelody to the insipid muzak in her head. It was barley late at all. But it was enough that she would start this conversation just a little bit ahead.

She really didn’t need to be so petty, she knew – but it was so much fun.

She took another sip of coffee, and waited.

*

It was a bright day, but she didn’t care.

She moved quickly down the street, even though she wasn’t walking especially so. She couldn’t help it; her long strides devoured distance like a wolf would a steak. Not that she wanted to linger – she didn’t, not with all the looks she kept getting. She hunched her broad shoulders a little, trying to look less intimidating. It didn’t work. It never did. She loomed over everyone else in the street by half a head at the very least, and even in her baggy jacket it was obvious that she was strong, packing as much muscle as any three of the ordinary people who shifted awkwardly out of her way as she approached.

Often she wondered how on earth she’d managed to keep her secrets hidden for so long when she stuck out so obviously. But that was the power of a subtle, but extensive – and expensive – media team.

Superman got away with it, she reasoned, and all he did was hunch his shoulders and wear glasses. She could do the same and have a dozen interns slaving away behind the scenes on social media. Suck it, Kent.

She sighed as a courier ducked back into a shopfront rather than step in front of her. I won’t bite, she thought. Seriously. But she didn’t say anything, not wanting to draw yet more attention to herself. Every head was already turning. She pulled up her hood and walked on, shutting out the bright shopfronts on either side, reducing her world to the path in front of her, the path to her destination.

The path to the meeting she shouldn’t be having. She shuddered, focused. It’s just a coffee, she thought. Nothing more. Nothing sinister.

Still, she was glad when she saw the café and its glass front, the open seating and clear lines of sight. Wherever she sat she’d be in the view of twenty people and just as many camera phones, if things went south. For once, she thanked the universe for making her so physically obvious.

She was already there, of course. She would be early, just to prove the point. She saw her as soon as she stepped through the door, tensing automatically, fists clenching before she’d even registered the sight of her, sitting primly on one side of the booth with her coffee already in front of her – and, she noticed with a flash of anger, another cup on the other side of the table. And I bet she knows exactly what I’d like too. At least she looked just a little uncomfortable, out of her usual razor-sharp suit. Take whatever you can get.

She sat down without preamble, taking up the best part of the two-person bench seat. She had to duck her head a little to avoid the hanging light above the table. Her diminutive companion took a calm sip of coffee, looking like a child by comparison.

“Good afternoon,” she said, infuriatingly neutral. She gestured to the coffee. “I ordered for you.”

The hooded woman picked up the flimsy cup carefully, and took a sip. It was just the way she liked it.

“Thanks,” she said reluctantly. “But I prefer a latte.” She didn’t, and they both knew it. That only made it more frustrating. Irritated, she drank the coffee down in one long swig, almost burning her throat. Damned if I’ll savour a gift from her.

“We’re both here,” she growled. “So let’s talk.”

The thin woman across the table set down her own coffee and leaned forward, steepling her long-fingered hands before her.

“Let’s.”

Missives from Isolation #9 – Details

More Curtis Brown for you this week – this time with a little actual fact behind it. Well, sort of. The exercise was to write to a prompt (as usual), but then to go back over the story, do a little research, and insert some bits of context and actual historical/real fact to enhance the story.

I don’t usually write historical fiction – and I still don’t – but I’ve done enough studying over the years to be able to drop some real bits of context in something that, while it’s not technically historical, still draws on real historical events and concepts. I tend to use Rome a lot – this time I went medieval. Take a look, if you fancy it.

The King wasn’t quite what he’d expected. For one thing, he was shorter. A lot shorter. That didn’t stop him from looming over the supplicant as he knelt before the carven throne, set as it was at the top of the stepped dais, high-backed and ornate. The King still held the attention of everyone in the audience-hall – and there were a lot of people in the hall, knots of retainers and knights hanging around pillars, ranks of men-at-arms lining the walls, noblemen in their own seats at the high tables to either side of the dais – and, of course, the long and winding line of petitioners that wove out of the audience-hall and into the castle bailey beyond. The peasants watched in awe of the king’s majesty, the nobles of the court watched with an aloof respect – the local nobles watched with sullen gazes. The court had been in town for two weeks – all hundred nobles and their several hundred hangers-on. The town’s larders wouldn’t last much longer.

The King sat there on his carven throne, and held every eye, straight-backed and regal, his crown glistening gold in the bright sunlight that lanced through the high windows.

But he was short. He looked to be barely taller than young Edward, and young Edward was far from his full growth yet, still with a child’s squat rotundity. The supplicant was a head higher than his son – and almost that much higher, it seemed, than the lord and master who held the lives of everyone in the room in the palm of his hand. No wonder he has us all kneel, he thought to himself, and had to stifle what would have been the most inappropriate – and shortest – laugh of his life.

“Rise, Goodman Pyrlig.” He rose automatically, and was relieved to see that the stepped dais still set the King two feet above him. How do they not notice? he thought, glancing around at the great and good of the itinerant court. They were nobles, tall and well-fed  – taller than Pyrlig for certain. How do they not stop and stare at this tiny little toy king?

“What do you bring before the King?” snapped the Steward, and Pyrlig jolted back to reality, finding the King’s steely eyes fixed upon his own. They were bright grey, the silver of good steel, a drawn sword. They were steady as stone. That’s how, he thought to himself as he swallowed, searching for words. It didn’t matter how tall you were when you were a battle-proven, red-handed tyrant who held the country in an iron grip that wouldn’t slacken for blood nor money. It didn’t take a tall man to put a blade where it hurt. But though they were sharp eyes, they were dull with the fog of boredom. Pyrlig thought of the length of the line behind him, and understood, and felt his heart sinking even before he’d begun.

“An appeal, lord Steward,” he stammered, finding his voice and finding it wanting. He’d been waiting for two hours to even get into the hall, travelled twenty miles to even reach the court as it passed, arrived on the very last day of its session before the nobles packed up and rode north to the next county. This was not the time to mumble. “Lord King. Against a judgement in the county court at the last assizes.”

“Against yourself?” It was the King who had spoken – much, it seemed, to the Steward’s chagrin.

“Against a man of my village, lords.”

“You are its headman?”

“Yes, lord.”

“What was the charge?” the Steward asked, reclaiming his self-importance and authority.

“A theft, lord,” Pyrlig said, “that he did not commit. He was imprisoned after the trial.”

“But you think he did not commit the crime?”

“I know it, lord.”

“Did you not think to submit evidence?” the Steward asked, sneering with condescension. With the eyes of a dozen nobles on him, Pyrlig was very conscious of the shabbiness of his best suit of clothes, his stubbled chin. The King sat above him, not really looking down anymore. His interest had vanished. He must have seen a hundred cases already today, Pyrlig thought, his heart sinking yet lower.

“We tried,” he replied to the Steward, feeling a little anger kindle in his breast. “But when we came to the trial at the appointed time we found that our judge had already pronounced sentence.”

“As is his right,” the Steward countered. “If a royally appointed representative sees fit to pronounce sentence then there is no need for other evidence to be submitted.”

“We had the right, lord,” Pyrlig said, his hands starting to shake with anger. “We had the right to speak in his defence, and we were denied. So we wished to appeal.”

The King grunted, shifting in his seat – and Pyrlig was amazed to see cushions there, cushions that made him seem to sit even higher. How small is this man? Is he a child in a false beard?

“Such appeals should be brought to the local assizes,” the Steward said. “A county judgement has no place in the royal court.”

“If it please you, lord Steward,” Pyrlig said, almost stumbling as he saw the man’s fury at the interruption, “our county court will not sit for another sixmonth.”

The Steward raised an eyebrow at that – as did the King.

“County assizes are to be held every two months at the least regular,” the Steward said. “Are you accusing your judge of negligence?” It was clear what the Steward thought of a mere village headman levelling such a claim at a nobleman – a nobleman of sufficient wealth and influence to be trusted with managing the law of an entire county.

“I do not – I cannot – ” Pyrlig stammered, and the Steward seized on it.

“If you have a complaint of the county court, then you must level it at the county court, not the royal,” he said. “A basic understanding of the law of the land seems to have escaped you. You are dismissed – ”

“Which county is this?” asked the King, as though he hadn’t heard the Steward speak at all. Over the portly man’s spluttering, Pyrlig cleared his throat.

“Wincanteon, lord.”

“De la Vega’s eyre,” the King mused. “And he has proclaimed no assizes for six months?”

“He informed us that he would be travelling, lord,” Pyrlig managed. “Abroad. So he could not sit. He left immediately after the trial.” But not before seeing Jonas locked up.

“And he left no deputy to judge in his stead?” the King asked. The Steward was desperately trying to catch his master’s eye, but the steely gaze was fixed on Pyrlig now, and Pyrlig did his best to return it.

“No, lord.”

“Hmm.”

The King sat on his carven throne for a long moment. Then he clapped his hands.

“Well, then. If de la Vega will not come to the court, the court shall come to de la Vega.”

He hopped down from his throne in a cascade of ermine and silk, striding past his Steward and catching Pyrlig around the shoulders with his arm – well, almost around the waist given how much shorter he was. Pyrlig couldn’t help but walk with him, stumbling away from the dais in the King’s firm grip.

“My lord!” the Steward squeaked, outraged at the breach of etiquette. “You cannot mean – ”

“Oh, the rest of you need not come,” the King called over his shoulder. “I’ll take my housecarls. The rest of you should carry on.”

“But lord, the court – ”

“Will be entirely fine in your capable hands, Matthias!” The king was shouting now, and Pyrlig bowed his head, trying not to meet the shocked gazes of the nobles and the angry glares of the other petitioners waiting in line behind him. The King stopped at the entrance to the hall, turning to face the other supplicants. Pyrlig cowered at his side, held there in an iron grip.

“The Lord Steward will hear the rest of your cases,” the King said, nodding at the Steward, who blanched pure white. “I will not have it said that justice goes undone in my lands.”

“Lord,” Pyrlig managed at last, whispering beneath the outraged murmurs of the assembled nobility, “I do not – ”

“Goodman,” the King hissed back, and Pyrlig glanced down at the monarch to see a well-hidden, vindictive smile beneath his beard, “I am sick to death of this pomp and circumstance. You have a case, and among many other things, I am the highest judge in this land.” He winked – actually winked at Pyrlig. “And that arsehole de la Vega’s probably got it coming.”

“I would never insult a member of the high nobility,” Pyrlig said weakly, and the King grinned.

“Of course not. But I would.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in a voice that belonged to a man twice his size.

“Lord Steward Matthias, the court is in your hands. I will meet you all at Banburgh in time for the next assizes, where justice will continue to be done. This is my command as your King.” He left that last word hanging in the silence for a long moment, before adding in a low voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the room, “And if anyone would like to argue with me, I will be more than happy to hear their grievances at…” He turned to Pyrlig, raising an eyebrow.

“Emoll, lord,” Pyrlig whispered.

“At the village of Emoll,” the King continued fluidly. “Where I will be handling grievances myself.” And Pyrlig noticed that the sword at the King’s hip, unlike the rest of his clothes, was as far from ceremonial as it was possible for an object to be.

“Lead on, Goodman Pyrlig,” the King said into the silence – and he turned, shoving Pyrlig ahead of him with a firm hand, and marched away from the royal court without a backward glance.

Missives from Isolation #8 – Suspense

A lesson in writing suspense was on the menu for this week’s Curtis Brown workout – tips on atmosphere, suggestion, and tension among other things. As normal, it was pick a prompt, write for 15 minutes, and polish/finish. So that’s what I did. It came out alright, I think.

He was in the cellar when the light went out, abruptly. It would have been easy to deal with, if it had only been his cellar.

He forced himself not to curse, knowing that making any noise would be unwise. Instead he pulled his thief’s lantern from his pocket and clicked it on, the narrow beam illuminating only a narrow circle of the room at a time. It would have to do. He cursed whoever’s shoddy workmanship had let a ten-year bulb like the one he’d seen ever so briefly as he’d stepped from his tunnel into the cellar go out so swiftly. Bulbs like that were supposed to dim before they died so one knew to replace them, not just wink out on a whim.

If it had been his cellar, he would have been even more annoyed. As it was, at least he’d have shadows to hide in if the occupants came downstairs. Not that they ought to, at this time of night.

If he’d been a more cautious man, he would have wondered why the cellar’s light had been on at all at this time of night. But there was no sight or sound of anyone in the underground room, nor of anyone moving around above. They’d watched the building for a long time, seeing all its other lights wink out one by one, before they’d made their move at last. There should be no-one around. There was no-one around.

Perhaps they’d just forgotten the light. He pushed it out of his mind, and stepped into the cellar proper.

It was a huge room, the sweep of the narrow lantern-beam picking out heavy beams that held up the house above, vaulted alcoves in the walls whose shadows held strangely human shapes that would have startled him if he hadn’t seen how still they stood. Statues. The crypt – for that was what it was, even now that the church above was become a house, the altars removed and all the holiness bled away – still held the vestiges of its former occupants, the solemn statues that stood vigil above graves now emptied of their bodies for coffins new at the newer, bigger church across town. He shivered as he saw them, involuntarily. Why the new owners hadn’t stripped the statues out he had no idea. Some morbid sense of humour, no doubt.

They were only statues, though. That was all.

He crept across the room slowly, careful to make no sound whatsoever, his shoes soft on the worn stone flags. It had taken them a good while to find this way into the cellar, scoping out the abandoned houses on either side, breaking in and digging a slow and careful tunnel from one cellar to the next. He had to be careful, lest their hard work go to waste. The thought of the returns, though, kept him light on his feet and light of heart. The owners, asleep upstairs, were wealthy indeed, judging by how opulently they had refurbished the old church into a princely home indeed. He was quiet and soft of step, and knew just where to find safes and jewellery-boxes and the like. Their tunnel could be sealed behind them, and by the time the house awoke they would be long gone with their gains. He simply had to slip out of the cellar and up into the house, and it would be the work of moments to come away richer than a king.

The statues loomed on either side, silent and unyielding. In another age he would have been cheerfully robbing the graves of the great and good who had been laid here to rest – but they were long gone, their statues for some reason the only trace of them remaining. He ignored them. It was harder than it should have been. They seemed to look down on him, silently judging. I’m not here for you, he thought, inexplicably irritated. Leave me be.

He was halfway across the floor when his thief’s lantern went out, as abruptly as the ten-year bulb in the ceiling. This time he cursed aloud, too loudly, shaking the tube in his hand, unable to peer at it in the sudden, crushing darkness. That had been a ten-year bulb too – a fresh ten-year bulb that he’d put in only days ago. We share a shoddy supplier, it seems. No matter. The house above would be better lit by moonlight through its windows even if its lamps were doused. He pulled a book of matches from one pocket and a stub of candle from another, lit the latter with the former and continued, flickering orange light guiding his steps towards the stairwell, so close now.

The candle went out before he’d taken three more steps – not blown out, no rush of wind from any quarter. It simply went out, all heat and light gone, not even an ember remaining.

His whispered curse seemed to echo far too loudly from the walls. He fumbled for the matches again, and in the moment of orange light he had before the flaring flame was instantly extinguished he saw that the nearest alcove was empty, where before it had been full.

He got another match lit, for a second, this one going out even quicker than the first. In the instant of amber light he saw that all the alcoves were empty now, the statues gone, stepped down from the empty tombs they had guarded.

The third match revealed that they were standing all around him.

He didn’t get the fourth one lit.

Missives from Isolation #7 – Stories Within Stories

Suffice it to say that I’ve been playing a lot of video games in the last few months. It’s much easier to go outside when you don’t actually have to go outside. And, as it always eventually is, one of the games I’ve been sinking some serious hours into is The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.

Apart from my girlfriend and I’s new character (a Khajit named after a friend’s kitten), I’ve been playing my first character again. He’s a venerable Dunmer called Tycho, he’s level 65, and he’s done pretty much everything there is to do in the base game and in the Dragonborn DLC. And that got me thinking about storytelling in gameplay – not just the story you’re actually given, but the story you come up with for your own characters as you go.

(I’d love to put some pictures of the game here, but I’m on PS3 and there’s no screenshot function, so you’ll have to use your imagination I’m afraid. Also copyright and all that.)

Obviously there’s no actual ageing in Skyrim. The date ticks on, and the weather changes from time to time, but nobody gets old. The children stay children, the elderly keep on going.

But Tycho’s been almost everywhere, at this point. He’s ended wars and fought dragons, he’s delved into hundreds of tombs, sailed to new lands, saved cities, slain monsters, fought and bled for, off and on, almost ten years of real time. He’s a master of half the skills in the game. He has so much money that it doesn’t really matter any more. He’s come such a long way since that first cart-ride to Helgen all those years ago.

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He’s the same age as when I started. But it feels like Tycho should be old. And so, in my head, he’s become old. But there wasn’t really a way to represent this in the game, to reflect it in the world – until, in the depths of isolation, I finally bought the last two expansions for Skyrim: Dawnguard and Hearthfire.

Hearthfire was the one I always thought I’d get last. It lets you build custom houses, really big ones, and basically settle down in peace and quiet. There’s space for all your trophies (or some of them, at least – given that I already owned four houses, all of which were already full of stuff, it just gave me a little breathing-room), you can hire your own bard and housecarl, and even adopt children.

Basically, it’s a retirement plan. Tycho, having fought just about everything there is to fight and saved the world three or four times, could finally settle down with his wife Lydia and raise a family in peace. He might not look old, but I finally had somewhere for him to go in his ‘old age’. I could leave him in happiness, his many quests done. And so I built him a house, adopted some kids, and left him with everything he needed for a long and happy retirement.

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…except there’s one more adventure still to do. Because I also bought Dawnguard. The DLC where an army of vampires descends on Skyrim in a quest to turn off the sun and generally start eating everybody. One last world-ending threat, that only one man (well, elf) can stop.

So, Tycho’s got his retirement all ready to go. But there’s still work to be done. And while I genuinely do intend to let him settle down eventually, I’m really glad that I’m not quite there yet. Because Skyrim is huge, and there’s much more left to do.

Hell, there’s a face sculptor somewhere that lets you change your appearance. Maybe I’ll give him some grey hairs, just for the look of the thing.

Missives from Isolation #6 – Old Favourites

I would say that being at home so much has let me watch a lot more videos and shows than normal, but that would imply that I don’t constantly consume content regardless.

Recently, though, I’ve been watching one of my favourite streamers (Jordan Maron, aka CaptainSparkelz) playing on a Minecraft server with another streamer I watched as a kid (Tom Cassell, aka Syndicate), as well as a few others. They haven’t really played together in years, since another multiplayer server that turned into something much grander and more complicated: Mianite.

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Mianite started as just a server, but as it became more popular and the players started messing around with made-up lore and running gags it turned into a full-blown story experience. The second ‘season’ of the livestreamed show, which was running during my first year of university, had a full team of story-writers, builders and more besides – it was a magnificent beast barely recognisable as Minecraft anymore, a sprawling fantasy world that was a genuine achievement. And it was great to watch.

I actually ended up with a far more personal connection to the series than just being a viewer, though, because I worked, off and on, for about two years on a spinoff Mianite MMO project. I was actually one of the lead writers, making characters, quests, and generally building the world alongside a bunch of great people. It was really fun – for a while, until my increasing uni workload and some not-insignificant friction on the writing team led to several of us bowing out. The project never really went anywhere after that, as far as I can tell, but it was still a great experience. How many people get to watch a show they love and then get to work on it themselves afterwards?

The point of this post is that I thought the world of Mianite was done. So did pretty much everyone else. But then a few weeks ago, because they’ve got time on their hands in isolation, Jordan and Tom started playing Minecraft together again. I started watching, because I too have time on my hands, and it was a nice throwback to years gone by to watch them messing with one another again.

And then a couple of days ago that Minecraft server, once again, became a spinoff of the world of Mianite.

There’s not been any real story yet – though there’s some coming soon – and it’s not a continuation of the story they left off many years ago. It’s basically Half-Life: Alyx – a prequel out of nowhere years after a huge cliffhanger. I don’t know what it’s going to turn into. I don’t know how long it’ll last.

But seeing that old story that I’d almost forgotten brought back, in any form, was a really pleasant surprise.

Missives from Isolation #5 – Character

This week’s Curtis Brown workout was a fun one, and I’d definitely recommend giving it a go. It was a bit of speed-writing from a prompt (about a graffiti artist), as usual, but this time I was given 10 seemingly random words that I had to incorporate into the story, in a random order, one every minute. Some of the words were a little weird (what’s ‘soup’ got to do with graffiti?), but it was a nice challenge to work them all in.

The idea was to just let loose, then look back at the writing and see what I’d accidentally revealed about the character I’d just spawned; hopes and fears and family life and all that sort of thing. I ended up with far more answers – and questions – than I thought I would.

If you’re writing at all, go over to the CB site and check this one out. It’s an exercise I think I’ll probably use again when I’m starting my next project, just to get the character balls rolling.

Anyway, if you want to read what I ended up with, here it is. I’ve bolded the prompt and the random words so you can see what I was working with – I carried on writing after I’d used them all to finish things off. Enjoy.

Spike was shaking as he wrote, the hiss of the spray-can sounding far too loud in his ears. The street was dark, the lights broken or dulled with age, and there was nobody out and about at this time of night – but still his hands trembled. He focused, tightening his grip on the can, coal-dust black forming gentle, sweeping curves as he played it across the old brickwork. There was faded paint already on it, the remnants of artwork past, but it was pretty much invisible now, all detail erased by many attempted cleanings. He didn’t need to fear some other artist’s retribution for covering over their work.

He did still fear the appearance of another person. Don’t rush, he thought to himself, finishing the curve, his hands operating independently of his brain as he tucked the black paint into his sports bag and pulled out a deep and rich red. Take your time. You’ve got plenty, in the grand scheme of things. His offhand went to the cord around his neck, where a long-dead insect trapped in amber resin hung, a gift from his mother long ago. He should look in on her, he knew. Maybe tomorrow. He’d told himself that almost every day for the last month. Maybe tomorrow he actually would.

He didn’t use much red, a few sparing highlights around the edges of the curve, bringing out the shape of the black. The line-work was the most important part, he knew. He tucked away the red and pulled out white, keeping to a limited palette but steering clear of the red areas for now, not wanting to make a pink and soupy mess of the wet paint. Carefully, he started filling in the line-work, knowing he could go over it again in black but still not wanting to. Societal guilt and personal fear were still making his free hand shake. His painting hand, at least, was now steady as a rock.

He heard a car pass and cut the spray, flattening himself against the other wall of the alley – he’d kissed wet paint before and didn’t fancy it again – turning himself into just another ragged shadow. The car didn’t stop, noise and headlights passing by. He waited a moment longer, then stepped out and continued. He moved a little faster now, filling in with broad strokes, knowing it was late and that despite his best efforts he did have lectures the next morning. His degree had probably already gone up in flames, but he might be able to salvage something from the ashes, if he actually put some work in. At least I’ll have this, he thought. No matter how poor his written work was, nobody could fault his practical skill. A diamond in the rough, he’d been called, though it’s very, very rough. Still, he chafed at having to work in the prison of the classroom. He’d never been happy with any art he hadn’t made out here, in the streets and the night – and of course he could never show that work to his professors, given that it was very much illegal. Thus his grades suffered silently. He didn’t much care. Numbers counted for nothing, in his mind.

Spike stepped back, and looked at what he’d done. Naked bone gleamed pure white, bound only by the linework that defined its grinning shape, the gaps between the tombstone teeth glimpses into the void. The eyes would have been as well – but they were blossoming, vibrant red, petals spiralling and spilling out in twin blooms, roses as perfect as any grown. The skull smiled down, its flower eyes seeming to see cosmic joke that Spike, despite the fact that he’d designed and drawn the thing, knew he would never get.

He considered adding twisting thorns, but decided against it. The green stems would ruin the palette of black and white and red. He liked it as it was.

Spike pressed himself back against the other wall of the alley, pulled out his phone, got the skull in frame. It was too dark to see properly, but he waited patiently, knowing that soon enough – Yes. Another car came past in the opposite direction, and as it did the light of its headlamps spilled into the alleyway just far enough to light Spike’s artwork clear as day. He snapped a photograph, looked at it. His timing had been perfect. He looked up at the skull again and nodded to himself. Good.

If it had hung in a gallery, people would probably have tried to ascribe all sorts of meanings to it, to the choice of colours, the significance of the roses, the shape of the skull itself. Spike would have liked to hear their questions. He didn’t have the faintest clue what the answers were. He never did. He just saw them in his mind’s eye, all the tags and murals and little doodles. He didn’t stop to think about what they meant. What mattered to him was that they were made.

A siren broke the night – distant, faint, but enough to jolt Spike into motion before he’d even really heard it. He slipped out of the alley, closing his bag tightly and arranging the old clothes inside on top of the cans of paint, setting off towards home with the measured speed of someone who wanted to be off the street, but not so fast that he looked like he was running away. He needn’t have worried. But he always did.

Someone would find the skull and roses in the daylight. They’d either ignore it with a sigh or phone the police in outrage, or set to scrubbing it away themselves. Whichever way, eventually it would be erased from existence like all the paintings that had gone before it on that mouldering stretch of wall.

But it would have been there, if only for a night. And that was all that mattered.

Spike walked away, and left his painting grinning at its own unknowable joke.

Missives from Isolation #4 – Inspiration

It’s tricky to find inspiration for new things to write when you’re stuck inside all day. Walks in the park can only do so much: there are only so many times you can write about the same bunch of trees or dog walkers (especially when you’re writing SF and your environment features neither trees nor dogs, much to its loss).

Right now I’m blessed by the fact that I’m writing a sequel in a world I’ve already established – the Boiling Seas – which makes finding that inspiration a little easier. But it’s still just that little bit harder whenever I come to a new scene to think of real things to draw on.

So what do I do? Thankfully, the real world isn’t the only thing I draw on. I’m consuming content a frankly unhealthy amount of the time, whether it’s written or video – while I’m writing, while I’m doing pretty much anything else. Is this good for me? Probably not. Does it mean I’m always absorbing ideas from other fictional worlds? Yep. Don’t worry about being unable to look at the real world – there are plenty of other worlds you can explore instead and draw a little inspiration from.

Lately and specifically, though, I’ve been doing a lot of painting – I might not be writing them, but I’ve been building characters to life in a different way. Having the model of a character sitting on your desk is surprisingly helpful as a spark for writing about them.

[image error]I haven’t written about Kreff yet, but the sculpt is just *full* of character. I can feel the story coming on already…

The only problem is that as the models are Warhammer, the characters end up being Warhammer ones too – which is why I’ve got 30,000 words about an Inquisition operation sitting on my hard drive with nothing to do…