Fictional Fans

I should stop forcing puns into my titles...


So I don't like fanfiction. Don't read it, don't write it, don't like it. It's never done it for me. I don't have a problem with it, and if you're a fan of fanfiction all power to you, but to me it just feels chronically unsatisfying.

It's one of those things that follows Sturgeon's Law. 90% of Fanfiction is crap, but the other 10% is good enough to make wading through the crap worth it. Only thing is, that 10% is incredibly elusive. Why? Because there's literal years worth of fanfiction out there. Sure, there are ways to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, but the truth is, I'd rather just read a professionally written book.

Yep, there it is. I prefer paid professionals to amateur aspiring authors.

Oh god even I hated that sentence...

In all seriousness though, it's the same reason I'd rather watch Raging Bull than my friend's short film about boxing. Maybe my friend is the next Martin Scorsese, and I think it's great he's nurturing his talent and increasing his skillset, I just don't want to spend my time watching his baby steps.

Maybe that makes me a bad person.

Thing is, fanfiction is good. It's a healthy thing for aspiring writers. It allows you to work on very specific things while you improve your writing. You can avoid things like needing to come up with new characters (so you can focus on plot) or coming up with original plots (so you can focus on prose). It's a way for writers to develop their skill while contributing to a fandom they're passionate about. That's cool. Go them.

Still doesn't do it for me.

I think part of that comes from the fact that a lot of fanfiction is really wish-fulfillment. Once that wish has been fulfilled, the writer stops bothering. Moreover, their intention isn't to improve, it's just to write that thing they wanted the book to do. In that case, you might as well save time and just imagine that thing happening instead. You can do that in seconds. Writing takes a lot more time than that...

There's also that part of fanfiction that's really self-congratulatory. I get why people write the wish-fulfillment stuff. It's because they want to see it and they know how much they wish someone else would write it, so they write it to cater to everyone else that wants to see it. Thing is, those people then get to see the thing they want and then they walk away from it. The only feedback is 'Yes, finally, someone wrote it. I've wanted to read this so bad for so long.' The writer walks away feeling good, even if what they wrote was a total mess.

That being said, everyone in that exchange enjoyed themselves. The writer got to feel good about their writing (deservedly or otherwise), the reader got to see the thing they wanted to see and the copyright owner got to add another one to the 'sue for retirement fund' file.

Maybe it's the inherent lack of improvement that bothers me. It's not so much the fanfiction, it's the people writing it. I think you have the right to do whatever you want, and you're more than welcome to call yourself what you want, but I reserve the right to think that title is undeserved. If I unclog my toilet, I won't be introducing myself as a plumber to everyone I meet. By extension, I don't think writing fanfiction qualifies you as an author.

Lots of authors have written fanfiction. The difference between them then, when they wrote fanfiction, and them now, when they're published, career-writers, is improvement. Authors moved away from fanfiction once they'd learned what they needed, and started writing their own things, where nothing came pre-built.

To top it all off, you don't have to use fanfiction to learn those skills. It's just one way of many. For every author who started with fanfiction, there's another that didn't.

Keep writing fanfiction. Keep doing what you love. Don't let me discourage you. Just be aware of what it is you're doing, and be honest with whether that makes you an author, or just someone who writes. Because the truth is, everyone writes, but only a few of us will shake a new hand and say 'Hi, I'm Roger and I'm a writer.'



Ok yes I'm still salty about Fifty Shades of Gray...

A Review: Not Forgetting The Whale

This month I'll be reviewing a book I picked up, surprisingly enough, from Whitcoulls. In a last-ditch attempt to 'sell discovery' a few months back they started up something called 'Joan's Picks'. Joan is, apparently, their head buyer. The book is John Ironmonger's 'Not Forgetting The Whale'.

Previously J W Ironmonger, and not to be confused with Australian footballer John Ironmonger, John Ironmonger is known for his book 'The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder'. Said book was shortlisted for the Costa 'First Novel' Prize and The Guardian's 'Not The Booker Prize'.

Not Forgetting The Whale follows Jonas 'Joe' Haak, a stock analyst from the big city of London. Early one morning, he casts himself into the waves at St Piran in Cornwall, only to be brought back to shore by a fin whale. The combination of naked Joe and the rare whale sighting leave the town deeply stirred. Soon after his recovery, we find Joe has fled impending societal collapse, a collapse predicted by a computer simulation he programmed. He fast makes it his mission to save this quaint seaside town from the end of the world.

John Ironmonger has made my 'recipe list' with this book, joining authors like Patrick Rothfuss and F. Scott Fitzgerald. The list contains names of authors from whom I would purchase a recipe, should they ever write one, just to enjoy the prose. 'Not Forgetting The Whale' is excellently written, painting equally vivid images of smalltown St Piran and the bustling trading floors of London's financial sector, often in the same page. We care for characters that get little more than a name. We can smell the salty air of the Atlantic Ocean as we open the pages, It's like the writing Olympics, and Ironmonger took home gold and the world record with it.

The book appeals to all readers above 'children' level. There are arguably some 'adult' themes, but nothing more lewd than the mention of unmentionables. The arc of the story deals with some heavy, semi-existential subject matter, but ultimately comes out on the side of positivity. It's not like 'Requiem For A Dream' where you'll be left feeling dead inside for the rest of the week. In fact, as Joe undergoes a series of trials and tribulations to save the town, we get to watch as the people pull through time and time again, coming to the aid of first him, and then each other. If anything, the story feels almost biblical, thematically speaking.

The ending is, in a way, predictable. Foreseeable. But the satisfying thing is it's exactly the end we foresee as a reader, because we are humans and not computer programs.

I recommend this book as one of Pixie's Picks.

What I'm Worth

I had an interesting thought lately. Been a while, I know.

I often read people proclaiming that I, as a writer, should not 'sell myself short'. They decree that I must only accept payment reflective of what I'm worth. That if I offer myself or accept work for free I'm discrediting myself and being taken advantage of.

I see the wisdom in this advice, and don't get me wrong I'm keen to make money off this stuff, but I can't help but ultimately disagree.

Thing is, it's a competitive market. And it's a seller's market. There are more writers than there are jobs. There's more books than there are book deals. Sure, indie publishers and content creator-driven enterprises are bridging that gap. But they'll never bridge it completely, because not everyone who can write has the time or energy to market their own book or run their own business. Even then, the returns are even less guaranteed with these forms. You might even be doing more work for no money.

I might want to do something for free to promote myself. Hell, this blog is me constantly putting out free content in the interest of developing my skills as a writer while slowly building an audience. That's normal. In fact, it's encouraged by many established authors to actively promote yourself by submitting writing to contests and making content publicly available for free. Pretty normal stuff.

Now yes, there's a difference between writing for my own self-interest and making no money and writing for an employer and making no money. The problem is, the line between 'employer' and 'publication to promote yourself through' is often very, very thin. Say I submit to a low-budget magazine that is someone's side project and barely makes enough money to cover its printing costs. Should I demand payment from them? Hell no. I go into that sort of arrangement expecting to not get paid.

Many will argue that by going into that arrangement I'm selling myself short and not valuing my skillset, and that may be true, but it's still my choice.

I think I'm worth a fair amount, but that doesn't mean every sentence needs to be making money. Sometimes, I just like to write for fun.

Whitcoulls: An Apology

Many of you will have already seen my post last week about Whitcoulls closing their largest store. I will admit, it was a little vitriolic. I was impassioned, and passion drives men to do rash things. I also had an experience that changed my life while entombed in the half-bare shelves of your flagship store, and so I feel it's time for an apology, Whitcoulls.

I'm sorry for saying you had nothing I wanted to buy. It turned out you had exactly two books I wanted to buy, which is more than I had ever hoped for. To say I am pleased would be an understatement. I am awed, and I am humbled. Your gracious stocking of two bestselling fantasy books was a blessing indeed to genre fans like myself. There are millions of us, and to have our voices heard by your bankrupt ears was nothing short of magnificent. Moreover, the fact that these were the only two books on that otherwise empty shelf made me feel, dare I say it, special. It was as though these books were meant for me and only me, like a light had shone down from the heavens to part the shelves of clearance-price romance and reveal those two tomes, nestled on a naked shelf.

I'm sorry for insinuating your prices are too high. I said you couldn't compete with the online market, but I was wrong. I snatched up those books and hurried to the counter, joyed that I did not have to wait two weeks after my purchase to read them. My steps resonated in the spacious cavity of your three-storey shop, echoing against the elegant, barren walls. At the counter, I paid exactly $30 for these two thick paperback blessings. 'What a bargain!' I proclaimed to the ghostly attendant stood behind the counter. The markdowns were proof that you wanted readers like me to buy from you. And Whitcoulls, I answered your call. Like a phone-sold cold call target buying into shares, I was thrilled by thoughts of money well spent. It was ecstasy, having spare cash upon leaving your hallowed doors.

But like an invester in a property bubble, I knew it couldn't last.

I have the full trilogy of Brandon Sanderson's 'Mistborn' books, and afterward I had money left for a doughnut. Such luxury you have allowed me! As the sweet, sugary crumbs rolled down my chin I savoured the moment, quashing thoughts that, inevitably, this indulgence would end. Your doors would close, and I would no more be able to afford such thick stacks of paper. In fact, I would likely never see them on your shelves again.

Whitcoulls, without you this afternoon of sheer robbery would have been impossible. I have plundered your sinking ship, and for that I am thankful.

Sorry Whitcoulls, you were right, closing your doors was a good idea.

Denied

I'm unwell right now, so sorry if this post seems a bit off. It's the pseudoephedrine doing it's thing.

You know, we can make methamphetamine, a Class A drug, with pseudoephedrine. Imagine the sort of drugs we could make with real ephedrine...

Anyway, I received my first rejection letter this week. Maiden Voyage was described as 'unpublishable' (in its current state) and full of telling, not showing.

I couldn't be more excited.

I got some amazing feedback from the publisher, and it was honest as hell. Easily the most honest feedback I've ever received. That's such a refreshing thing for me to get. It was constructive, detailed and about as polite as a rejection letter can be.

After reading I was left with an amazing sense of accomplishment, and filled with an emboldening fire to do better work. Thing is, they told me pretty much exactly what I need to do to be a better writer, and when I looked at it, it was all stuff I could do. I could do it easily. It was just a matter of doing it, of learning the habit. How lucky am I to get that sort of feedback?

On top of that, there's a sense of legitimacy to being rejected. It's not that just about every successful author gets rejected to begin with, even though that's true. It's not about being 'part of a club' or anything like that. It's the fact that I put myself out there. Moreover, I put my work out there. Up until now, I've called myself a writer, I've considered myself a writer and I've talked about myself as a writer. Having been rejected by a publisher, I'm left with a sense of having walked the walk. I'm putting my money where my mouth is, and I intend on carrying on that way. It's one thing to call myself a writer, it's another thing entirely to try and get published. I can take myself as seriously as I like, but there's a difference between that and proving to others that you're serious.

We've all me the guy who goes around proclaiming some form of artistry that they're 'just really into, like, it's practically my life'. And we all know them for the fraud they are. They wouldn't dare try make a living off what they do, because in truth they don't really do that thing. That sort of person wouldn't even get as far as being rejected, and if you asked them about it they'd say something like 'the publishers are all just vicious. It's a racket' or somesuch conspiratorial statement.

I'm not that person. Provably so.

That's a good feeling.

Boy Do I Love Milestones

Pretty simple midweek update. Lifebringer has hit 200 pages and 40,000 words. Still got a fair way to go though...

In other news, the main inner city bookseller, Whitcoulls, is closing their doors. After a series of rough years and a total failure to so much as try and get it right, they're shutting their largest store. The company isn't going under, but when all the other locations sell board games, greeting cards and 17 of the Top 50 bestsellers, it certainly feels like they're on their last legs.

Whitcoulls, I'll let you in on a little secret. If I want to buy a board game, I'll go to a fucking specialty board game store. Same with greeting cards. You know where I go to buy books? The bookseller. You know what you are? A bookseller. You know what you need to sell? SOME FUCKING BOOKS.

Take the Hunger Games off the 'Top 50' shelves already, it's been there for 3 years. Give some other books the chance to shine. Trim down the 'generic crime thriller' section, and can the whole 'bestseller' isle. You're losing out to the online market, and that's because they're selling all those things for $20 cheaper than you.

You know what your point of differentiation is? Immediacy. That's right, you bitch and whinge that we're the 'instant generation' and have forgot to cash in on exactly that tendency. When I pay the extra money to buy a book from you, I'm not paying for a book, I'm paying for the convenience of having it straight away. When I order from the Book Depository it'll take a month to arrive, if it arrives at all. When I order from Amazon, I pay $30 in handling fees. And that's before shipping costs. I want to buy some goddamn books, and I want to hold them in my hand, and read them on the bus home.

You know why I don't buy from you? Because you don't stock anything I want to read. All the Jeffrey Archer, and Patricia Cornwell, and Dan Brown, and Clive Cussler. That's the shit people are buying online. They know those names. They don't need to see them on a shelf to be reminded of their existence. People will go buy those books where they're cheapest, and that place isn't your bookstores.

I've spent 5 months looking for a copy of Ernest Cline's 'Ready Player One' and Andy Weir's 'The Martian'. You don't stock them. At all. Not one copy. I've finally relented and paid $60 to have them both shipped to me, and it'll take 2 weeks for them to get here.

Bookstores aren't about buying what you know, or buying the latest 'bestseller', they're about discovery. Discovery, and niche markets. When I walk into a bookstore, I want to find something I would have never heard of otherwise. When did you stop delivering that? And for fuck's sake, why?

Hire a team of buyers for each genre, even each sub-genre. Have them buy stuff a little more off the beaten track. Have them be your quality control for indie books. Have them find stuff that isn't Dan Brown, or 'the next Dan Brown!', or 'praised by Dan Brown!'. Have them find books the rest of us never would without them.

Oh and when you only have 10 shelves for Fantasy and Sci-Fi, A Song of Ice and Fire shouldn't be taking up 4 shelves.


Don't sell chunks of printed paper. Sell discovery.


End Rant.


You pricks.

Don't Think That I Forgot

About Dre

Or the sequel to Maiden Voyage. Here's the first chapter of Beyond the Horizon, for those who are interested. I likely have some news coming out soon about Maiden Voyage, so keep your eyes peeled.

Weird saying...

Here's Chapter 1 of Book 2 in The New Age of Steam series. Enjoy it less than I did but more than my parents did.

Also happy mother's day, if you're into that sort of thing (mothers).

Chapter 1

Edge

                Spring barely made its way this far up the mountains. Were it not for the sparse spring blooms among the still snow-coated rocks one could mistake it for a slightly warmer winter. Only the gardens of the Yao Monastery were filled with the luscious, vibrant colours of the world below, and it was Jeong-Long's duty to tend to them this morning. The thin air did not sting the young monk's strong lungs as it once had and now, in his 7th year at the monastery, he had come to appreciate even the winters. It was with the slightest sadness that he saw this year's one off. As he scattered the first seeds of the season into the wind in the hope that they would find purchase and create life on the harsh slopes, he felt as though he were waving off and old friend and greeting another in the same sweeping motion.

                The Yao Monastery lay up in the Jiexian Mountains. It was the final building that marked the border where the Sinian States met whatever lay in old Europe. The monks here lived to honour that boundary between regions, and so they were all the smartest, strongest and wisest of their religion. Tradition was acknowledged here, but not followed. They were mavericks that understood their faith and its practices were not static things. The world changed and moved, sometimes slowly and sometimes all at once, and their faith had to change and move with it. Here, at the top of the world, one could see such things with absolute clarity.

                Jeong-Long would spend the morning, like he did all mornings, tending to his chores until the time came to pray and eat. There was not a strict daily schedule here like there had been in the monastery he had grown up in, but he liked the simplicity offered by structure and the way it interacted with freedom's complexity of choice. After tending the gardens he would sweep the corridors, finishing when he reached the doors to the Yao Library. He would then fetch the ladder and polish the giant gold dragons on the doors that twisted about each other in frozen motion toward a distant sun at the top. Every movement was well-rehearsed and he would take no longer to work than he had the day before and would tomorrow. He would finish as it came time for the monks to convene and pray before breakfast. Repetition, that was what controlled his morning and eased him into the day.

                He turned back to the plants now, his seeds cast off into the empty air, and reached down for the watering pale. As he came upright he noticed something in the corner of his vision, a cloud that had not been there before. He turned his head to it, realising that it was no cloud. It was a giant white tube hanging in the air, though just barely it seemed. The object moved with some speed, more than any cloud he knew of, and looked to be falling as it went. He continued to study it as it passed through the mountains a few hundred metres to the monastery's south. It fell on and on until it finally disappeared behind a low peak. Jeong-Long was certain it would soon reach the ground and deep down he knew it was never meant to do such a thing.

                He stood for several more moments while conflict rose inside him. One part of his mind imagined occupants and stirred in him the panic they must have been feeling. Another part argued that there was no-one inside and he had no cause to be worried. The two sides hurled questions and answers at one another, arguing like men of the law. It began to overwhelm him. Jeong-Long closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath through his nose and out his mouth, seeking calmness. His thoughts may be men of the law, but he was the judge, and they would present their arguments to him. He let them speak now, as voices with substance within his head.

                "It had to have been manufactured, and to manufacture something so vast so that it may fly with no-one on board seems absurd." stated the first voice. "It came from the west, so it flew over the mountains and couldn't have made it this far over them unpiloted."

                "How can we know what inventions the west has? Perhaps this is the first of many airborne vehicles and this one was simply an un-manned test." the second responded.

                "Why send an un-manned test somewhere so dangerous?" said one.

                "Perhaps it was blown off-course." said the other.

                "This is a long way away from anywhere, nothing comes here by accident." said one.

                "We cannot know how close by it was manufactured." said the other.

                Already Jeong-Long felt he had heard enough. The monks had taught him this way of dealing with wars within the mind, but it was exhausting to control ones internal voices in such a way. He would make his judgement now.

                There may have been people inside, and they may be in trouble. Assuming no-one else knew about this thing in the sky, Jeong-Long was the only man in a position to help. He might journey down the mountains and find nothing, but if he stayed here he was certain to find nothing. Standing there alone in the gardens, Jeong-Long made up his mind. He would seek this thing in the sky, knowing that somewhere, someone was in trouble.

#

                Jeong-Long wandered through the halls of the Yao monastery in long strides, his robes twisting and flaring in his wake. The halls were wide, wider than at any other monastery, but the ceilings were just as low as the rest. The builders had anticipated more monks would make the pilgrimage to Yao, so all the corridors could fit 3 men abreast. They'd had the decency to avoid grandiose designs, shying from the vaulted ceilings and cavernous buildings of the Last Light monks, but still the place was vast. The monks all lived in the central buildings, needing only the amenities of the beds and kitchen held in that section of the monastery. Often they would walk to the eastern temple to pray with the sun, but that was only on summer mornings. The north and south sections sprawled their way along ledges, ending nearly two kilometres apart from one another. Out to the west was the entrance, where the corridors and buildings snaked their way around peaks until they reached the monastery's entrance. The monks often joked that a dozen people could live in the monastery with them and they would never know. No-one else lived there though, the journey was too hard and the passages were too hidden.

                As he walked, Jeong-Long felt urgency. It was a feeling that had not existed within him since his teenage years. His chores were still completed thoroughly, but with a haste that deprived him of enjoyment. He'd hurried to the central temple to pray, waiting for the monks to assemble. Normally, they would all arrive at the same time, but today Jeong-Long was first. It felt strange to be there well before the others. At last the rest ambled toward the temple, and together they entered. He held his composure, not rushing to sit and speak like he longed. They all sat together in a circle, against the traditions of their faith, and closed their eyes.

                "Before we pray, I need to say something." said Jeong-Long.

                Tan, a middle-aged monk that had been the third to arrive at the monastery, was the one who replied first.

                "We knew." he said.

                "You haven't been this hurried in all your years here." said Yuri, smirking with his eyes still closed.

                The others all nodded.

                "I saw something this morning at the gardens." explained Jeong-Long, "It was like a cloud that moved of its own accord. There were tales about ships of the sky from before the End of All Days. I think this was a recreation of one. It came from Europe, and it looked to be falling from the sky."

                "Your curiosity has caught you. You have to find out what this thing was, don't you?" said Yuri.

                "There might have been people on board. What if they need help?" Jeong-Long replied.

                "Jeong-Long, you tell us this so you might justify it. The fact that we have all journeyed to this monastery should tell you that actions need never be justified to us. We look forward to your return." said Tan, one eye opening as he smiled at Jeong-Long.

                Jeong-Long sat with them and prayed, barely able to overcome the distraction of the day ahead. He found a peaceful state of mind, and was pleased that he was strong enough to achieve such a state in spite of his anticipation. As he got up to eat he couldn't help but feel it was the last true peace he would feel for some time. At the eating hall he tore through his food, thankful that today was not his day to clean up. He packed his few belongings, bringing what healing herbs they could spare and as much food as he could carry, and made for the Eastern Gate. If he found people, he would be prepared to help them.

Insight

I got a very interesting message last week. Someone asked me about my worldbuilding process and how I keep track of everything. Truth is, a lot of it is in my head. But there's also a lot that isn't. So by way of answering that person's questions, here's the notes I'm using for Lifebringer. This, of course, excludes my roadmap, as that would spoil the plot quite completely. Aside from 1-2 changes for the sake of spoilers, this is totally unedited; a direct copy/paste from the word documents I refer to in my writing.

I've also added at the very bottom the 5 parts of the novel and their names. It's insignificant information in a way, but some might find it interesting to know that structural things like dividing into parts is planned out like this.

Notes:

14 boys, 10 girls, oldest 25 (male), youngest 13 (female)

Characters:

·         Wrinlett Leeve

·         Khol (name) (Fork/Knife/Orvin/Gerry/Purzhy/Jurd/Kim/Maggie)

·         Lorsem (Lor) Brith

·         Jaeval (Jae) Brith

·         Karla Deern

·         Tiasi Jay

·         Yawmer (High Cleric)

Academy Subjects - Instructors:

·         Language - Yawmer

·         Anatomy - Jhia

·         Worship - Teff

·         Biology - Warsothet

·         Healing and Hymns - Leorlai

·         Apothecarial Arts - Briwr

Academy Buildings

·         Cathedral (Chapel of Admission/Chapel of Induction/Main Chapel/Basement Levels/Administratorium)

·         Clericum

·         Dormitory (Mess Hall/Common Room/Study Hall/Dorm Floor/Bathroom/Practice Room)

·         Lecture Halls

·         Medicum

·         Library

·         Apothecarium

·         Apothercarial Gardens

Nations/Peoples/Capitol/God/Magic/Arcanists/Art

·         Ægien/Argin/Ægis/Protector/Healing/Priests+Paladins+Inqisitors/Healing

·         Tence/Tencish/Pilor/Former/Elements/Mages+Elementalists/Conjuring

·         Cardis/Cardish/Sandsedge/Maker/Construction/Enchanters/Enchantry

·         Verdis/Verdish/Alchus/Impeller/Energy/Sorcerers/Sorcery

·         Heivar/Heivalar/Godtree/Nurturer/Life/Shamans/Alteration

·         Chronis/Chronists/Drift/Watcher/Time/Chronists/Chronistry

Saints

·         Pice (Alive.)

·         Nomi (Alive. Paladin.)

·         Kiyfall (Dead)

·         Requi (Dead)

·         Cliwth (Dead. First Inquisitor.)

·         Obitus (Dead. First Paladin.)

·         Vaia (Dead. First Priest after the Binding.)

1 Year as students

5 Years in a Clericum OR 3 Years Paladin training OR Inquisitor apprenticeship

After Clericum may live outside Clerica and even stop working as a healer, most stay on. May also pursue Paladinship or Inquisitorial training, though these are subject to recruitment. May pursue Administratorium positions subject to availability.

After 20 years serving in Clerica, may found a Clericum and preside over it as Chaplain.

Lord Cleric (1) - High Cleric (3) - Head Cleric (each capital) - Chaplain (other Clerica) - Priest

Order Father/Mother (Krayw Gror) (1) - Paladin - Initiate (Priest)

Lord Inquisitor (Jekker Promaire) - Inquisitor - Apprentice (Priest)

Characters:

Wrinlett Leeve:

18, black hair, green eyes, average height. Conman, with traits of psychopathy and narcissism. Born to traders, mother (Gloria) died by drowning, father (Tijun) killed 3 weeks later by a highwayman. Lived for 12 years on the streets of Aegis, met Khol within a month. No magical ability, but has bluffed his way into the Academy.

Lorsem Brith:

17, sandy blonde hair, brown eyes, taller than Wrin, well-built but a little lacking from his years on the streets. Student, having lived two years on the streets saving to travel to Aegis for admissions. Thrown out at 15 by his father when he was given the Gift, mother died when Lorsem was 3. Honest and upstanding, but emotional and not above anger. Confident, but not in the presence of Jaeval.

Jaeval Brith:

Lorsem's twin brother, but a little more muscular and well-fed. Left his father at 17 when the Gift was given to him, but left with his father's blessing. Received word during his journey to Aegis of his father's passing. The 'confident' twin, who is naturally more outgoing. Prodigal in terms of healing ability, and admitted a day late because of this.

Karla Deern:

17, brown hair that falls in curls, blue eyes, short, curvy. Born to merchants of medium wealth in Aegis. Given the Gift and can already heal broken bones. Pleasant enough, but secretive and hides a great intellect and confidence behind an outward 'girlish naivety'.

Tiasi Jay:

19, pale blonde hair cut short, brown eyes, Wrin's height, thin. Born to a prostitute mother in Aegis. Mostly independent from a young age, worked in taverns and began to learn arts of brewing. Clever, but a little arrogant and aloof. Kind-hearted and not unlikable, if a little reserved and judgemental.

The six gods created the world, the product of all their talents

The Shaper, God of the elements, gave the world pieces of substance

The Maker, God of construction, bound these things together

The Nurturer, God of nature, gave the world biological creations

The Impeller, God of energy, gave these creations life

The Protector, God of vitality, gave living things the ability to heal and mend

The Watcher, God of time, gave the world the only thing he could; the ability to die

And so the world was. As time went by, men began to favour one God over all others, and began to group themselves with those who were like-minded. The Gods rewarded their followers with a further gift: the gift of magic.

Each God gave their followers a form of magic. The Shaper gave her followers command over the elements, the Maker gave his followers the ability to bind objects together, the Nurturer gave his followers the ability to shape the plants and wildlife, the Impeller gave her followers the ability to transfer energy, the Protector gave his followers the ability to heal, and the Watcher gave its followers the ability to control the flow of time. For a while, things were good this way. But all the Gods knew the truth; That this would be short-lived. They had made men too powerful, and so they began to hurt the world. First it was small things, new lakes made to support settlements, giant walls to keep their lands safe. Then the most powerful began to disrupt the lives of thousands, creating constructs of war, turning cities to stone that crumbled at the wind. Then a powerful Chronist stopped time itself.

His intentions were good. He gathered the Gods and brought them out of their growing denial. The world could not continue this way, and the powers of men had to be curbed. But the Gods saw the danger of such a powerful Chronist, and soon they struck him down.

Still, his words worked, and the Gods agreed to limit the magic in the world. Each God must select the men who would wield their magic, and each must lock it in an art of casting that would take time to learn. The world was repaired as best as could be done, and the passage of time was restored. In among this, though, the Watcher fled the world. No-one has seen or heard of them since. No-one even remembers what they looked or sounded like. With them, the Chronists disappeared.

So that's the mythos, and it leaves me with a lot of freedoms and just as many limitations. The net effect is that I have a world with magic, practiced my Arcanists, divided into 6 distinct systems. These systems are roughly as follows:

The Shaper's magic is practiced by Mages, and a Mage will learn one element at a time with only the most powerful ever learning more than 3, let alone all of them. They are able to use these elements at their will.

The Maker's magic is practiced by Enchanters, and they can bind objects in various ways through the use of glyphs and sigils inscribed onto objects. They are able to construct things like unbreakable buildings.

The Nurturer's magic is practiced by Shamans, and they can alter the biology of new lifeforms. They are able to do things like grow fruit trees that are harvested year-round.

The Impeller's magic is practiced by Sorcerers, and they are able to transfer energy from one thing to another, or create and destroy energy through the use of complicated diagrams imbued with magic. They would be able to take the heat from a fire and boil a body of water.

The Protector's magic is practiced by Priests, and they are able to heal lifeforms through the use of Hymns. They would be able to heal a cut, cure a cancer and prolong a life, but the Hymns get more complicated as the healed becomes older.

The Watcher's magic is practiced by Chronists. No-one knows what they are able to do, and no-one knows how.

Protector:

System - Hymns (Healing).

Rules - Sung in a magical language, with different Hymns for different ailments and subtle differences depending on area injured, severity, etc. Grammatically complex language.

Penalties/Limitations - Time. The older a patient or the more complex the illness, the more complex and long the Hymn.

Maker:

System - Glyphs and Sigils (Enchantry).

Rules - Each must be inscribed onto a certain material and written with absolute accuracy in order to imbue the object with the intended property.

Penalties/Limitations - Material availability. If a certain Glyph or Sigil requires a rare material then its use will be limited. Also due to the accuracy required in writing Glyphs and Sigils it may take time for more complex constructions.

Impeller:

System - Alchemical Diagrams (Sorcery).

Rules - Through the use of these diagrams Sorcerers may transfer energy in complex ways, using commands similar to programming logic.

Penalties/Limitations - Despite perfect transfer, inequivalent exchange is still impossible and energy may not be created or destroyed.

Nurturer:

System - Imbued Intention (Alteration).

Rules - By imbuing a seed or sapling with intentions of eventual properties and use, a Shaman may produce genetically altered plants to serve a variety of purposes.

Penalties/Limitations - Time. Even though the growing process may be accelerated, it still takes some time for a plant to grow, meaning the results of the magic are far from immediate.

Shaper:

System - Channelling (Conjuring).

Rules - A practiser of the magic can call up the element they have control over and produce it with some effort. Often in the form of literally 'shooting' ice/fire/water/what have you from their hands or perhaps an object. Alternatively, a chosen person may become one with the element, forgoing the ability to wield it and instead becoming a living manifestation of that element. These people live on Vane, and have a largely separate society.

Penalties/Limitations - Largely God-imposed. The Shaper will only select someone absolutely capable of wielding the massive power, leaving the number of magic-users incredibly small.

Chronist:

System - Travelling (Chronistry).

Rules - A Chronist may only move a certain distance through time with the help of one or more other Chronists. The further travelled, the more people required.

Penalties/Limitations - Manpower and Equivalent Exchange of Time. For every second moved forward, and area around the Chronist is moved equally back in time, and vice versa. The more Chronists used, the smaller the affected area, however this creates a manpower limitation.

PART 1 - THE BLESSED

PART 2 - THE DISCIPLED

PART 3 - THE RELINQUISHED

PART 4 - THE CONCEALED

PART 5 - THE ASCENDED

A Little More Life

Or rather, a little more Lifebringer. This is still the first draft, but I figured after posting the first chapter a while back it would be a disservice to not post more. Here's the second chapter. Check the 'Lifebringer' tag to find the first one if you haven't read it.

Chapter 2

Holy Spaces

            Wrin squeezed out of the hole in the wall at Alleyend, emerging into a dark and damp crawlspace of an alleyway. It was one of the advantages of Alleyend that it was so far from the street. Even Wrin wasn't sure exactly where it lay in the city, but it was deep into a block of wide shops with oddly-shaped floor plans. It was through no small amount of luck that Wrin found it when he'd first arrived in Aegis, and as the weeks went by he began to wonder why no-one else had snapped up such prime real estate. The answer became clear when he started bringing the other kids he'd pickpocket with back to his secret place. Few had ever even gone that far down the alley, and those that did assumed the place was already taken. In that sense, Wrin was lucky he'd been so naive back when he spent his first nights on the streets.

            That naivety left him pretty fast though. It was his second month in Aegis, and he took another boy he'd been pickpocketing with back to Alleyend. So far Wrin had befriended exceptions, but this boy, as Wrin learned over the years, was the rule. He'd pulled a knife on Wrin the moment he knew the way to Alleyend, and had it not been for the intervention of Knife himself Wrin would've bled to death in a back alley at the age of six. Knife had been a good sort, Wrin thought, but the truth was he just had an immense talent for violence. Knife saw an opportunity there at Alleyend. He could stay there and kill anyone who sought to take it for themselves. He and Wrin had shaken hands on the deal, and neither said a word to the other for the next five years.

            The crawlspace ended, and Wrin emerged into the more forgiving part of the alley. He used to be able to walk upright here, but the years of growth spurts meant he now had to hunch, even if only slightly. As he walked he caught himself thinking about Khol's words. In truth, he absolutely was nervous, but not for the reason Khol thought. Khol could read his emotions like a book, but he was thick as a brick when it came to understanding their source. It was only sheer respect for the lad that had made Wrin explain his thoughts so many times over the years. That was the reality of things here on the streets of Aegis, there was no trust, just respect and good deals. People weren't ever against you, they were just for themselves.

            Wrin stepped out into the street now, enjoying the fresh river air. The wind was coming down from the north and blowing out to sea, which wasn't a common occurrence in Aegis. Wrin enjoyed the refreshing change from the smell of brine and damp wood. He turned inward to the city centre, taking the route he had planned for himself. Some of the others would have taken less direct routes, again to avoid suspicion. The net effect was they should all be reaching the location at the same time. Of the seven that were going inside, four were taking the front door. The other three were the greasemen, who would climb in through pipes and forgotten passageways. Once the heist was underway, each of them had somewhere to be. According to Wrin, each movement was planned to avoid the men on watch inside the labyrinthine Cathedral.

            It was this Cathedral that Wrin now stood before. It was one of the city's three attractions, the others being the arena and the palace. It was normally busy in the square out front, but today, admissions day, was even busier. Wrin squeezed his way through crowds, forcing his way to the front door. A few years ago he would have been surprised at how forcefully he could brush people aside, but these days he had become used to his innate strength.

            There was a queue at the door, but looking ahead Wrin could see a sign with two arrows pointing in opposite directions. One read Observers, the other read Admissions. Once a year, that sign was put out and half the city would queue on the right hand side to watch the young hopefuls say their pre-admissions prayers. The families would then stay to watch for their beloved children, ready to cheer if they saw them saying their vows of induction or console if they saw them back in the prayer room. Wrin was one of the few dozen who would turn left at the sign, and that meant he didn't have to queue.

            The Cathedral was made up of two main sections. One was the small prayer room, which the public could enter and use at any time. The other was the Clericum, where the sick would go to be treated. There were two other doors at the Cathedral's entrance, doors which today were open. These led to the Academy and to a small viewing ring around the two chapels where would-be Priests could be viewed on admissions day.

            Wrin strode past the line of people, some of whom turned to look at him as he marched past them headed for admissions. Most kept their eyes ahead as the line shuffled forward inch by inch. Reaching the sign, Wrin turned left through the usually-closed door and down a long, tall corridor. He slowed his pace here, letting himself revel in the easy summer breeze that followed him down the hall. The walls were bare stone, but along them was a series of white tapestries adorned with the red crest of the Protector. Wrin slowed to look at the first few, expecting some form of scripture to be woven into the fabric. But alas, they were all bare. It was a shame, he thought, but it didn't dull the sense of boyish excitement growing in his stomach.

            At the end of the hall was a large open arch on his right. He stepped through it into the first chapel, where the Priests-to-be knelt to pray before admissions. Wrin walked to the door on the far wall, trying not to feel embarrassed at the loud sound of his shoes against the floor. Once there, he scribbled his name in the ledger. Wrinlett Leeve. Taking a quick glance at the half dozen names before his, he couldn't help but feel intimidated by how neat all their handwriting was. Wrin's looked like that of a child. Then again, he'd only been a child when he was taught to write.

            Walking back to the pews, Wrin caught a glance of the crowds above. The second story, some ten feet above the ground, was full of Aegis' citizens pressing their faces to the glass to watch Wrin and his silent companions pray. Wrin did his best to ignore them and took a seat, bowing his head in the semblance of prayer. Again his doubts in his plan surfaced.

            'You don't even know the words of prayer! You'll never get in. Remember what your dad told you about the Priests? They know magic before they come here, not after. You've got nothing, you're just the urchin Wrin.'

            He pushed the thoughts aside, even if they were right. He'd made the plan, there was no good reason for it not to work. And if it didn't, he lost nothing. He had his excuses prepared, none of the boys would suspect a thing.

            "Parsons, Krayner" came a voice from the far door.

            Wrin looked up, then ducked his head back down when he noticed no-one else had raised their head. There was the sound of footsteps growing distant, then there was silence again. During his brief glance, Wrin had seen a tall, thin middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard. He'd been dressed in bright white robes adorned with red markings and the rose crest of the Protector.

            A pang of nerves hit him then, the quiet shock interrupting his mouthed bluff of a prayer. He was already nervous about his plan, so what was this? He was nervous, he realised, about being caught. But no, there was no reason he would be caught. He hadn't deviated from the plan he'd given the boys, and by the time he did it would be too late for them to find out. In any case, each of them should have bigger things to worry about right now, and none of them should be here.

            "Trim, Hareld." came the voice again. This time Wrin didn't look up. The sound of Hareld's footsteps echoed away down the hall and once again the room was silent.

            There'd been six on the list before Wrin, so there were still four more to go. The admissions were held in a different room than the ones the public could see or enter. Wrin had only the tiniest of ideas of what happened in that room. Still, that didn't matter. He'd been planning this for years, had gone to great lengths to find the blueprints they'd used. He knew all the details, and it was going to work. It had to work.

            Two more people entered the room, walking over to the ledger beside the far wall and signing their names on it. There would be more of them throughout the next hour, the last hour in which admissions were open. No sooner had the boys left the ledger and taken their seats did the Priest re-enter the chapel.

            "Beleren, Jarvis." said the man. It made Wrin jump a little this time, but he managed not to show it. He could have sworn the voice had been softer the first two times...

            It had been maybe five minutes between each name being called out, so Wrin's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Right now, the greasemen would have let Khol's crew in and together they would have cleared out all the necessary halls and rooms. Khol himself would have split off to find the Paladin's quarters so that he was in position when Wrin made his move.

            The man came in and called out another name, then another, then another. Wrin's stomach tumbled and lurched in excitement as he waited those last few minutes, and for some reason he couldn't help but feel like he desperately needed to pee. It was nerves though, all nerves. He knew that much. Khol would be well in position by now, expecting Wrin to start a fire in the chapel. But Wrin did no such thing. Instead, the man walked into the room and called out the next name on the list.

            "Leeve, Wrinlett."

            Wrin stood up, keeping his eyes off the crowds above, and strode over to the door, following the priest through it and into the hallway beyond.