Wraith

smaur · 2006-02-07T05:51:35Z

...so. This was written for Nanowrimo 2005, an overly epic saga of late nights and too much caffeine. As a result, it obviously needs tons and tons of editing, and my efforts have been somewhat minimalistic (the word "minimalistic" is used very loosely here). So, um, pull out your scalpels, claws, pitchforks, butter knives, whatever, and have it. Tear it to pieces. Please . You'd make my life a happier place for it. Also — if I do post multiple chapters (this is just chapter one, in case you're wondering, although the formatting is a little, um, different than the usual format of chapters) would it be preferable to (a) post the entire thing in one thread or (b) post each chapter as a separate thread? And: would you mind if I hammered you with dozens of questions about your reaction(s) to the story? Wraith Chapter One Chapter Two - Chapter One - /1 "There," says the demon. "She's all yours." Roman looks down at the figure lying in the circle of stones, a mass of tangled hair and sodden wings. Her bones jut out sharply, limbs bent at awkward angles. She's a mess, but he doesn't care. She's an angel. "Payment?" the demon asks. Roman spares him an impatient glance, swallowing a shudder of revulsion. "You'll get it," he says shortly. The demon tips his hat, flashing a smile. "I'd better." And he's gone, the air shimmering behind him. Roman rubs his eyes and turns to the angel. She's still unconscious, bound in the circle. To him. He takes a deep breath, shivering with anticipation. His palms are slick with sweat. "Wake up," Roman whispers. /2 She wakes up. Her head throbs, a steady pounding in her temples. She can feel her limbs distantly, shadows sketched to her body. And her wings, they feel strangely heavy ... She opens her eyes and the world explodes. Steady hands. They grip her shoulders, murmuring something indistinct in her ear. She fights to keep her vision as it slips and slides. Sharp edges, bright lights — so much, too much, they burn her eyes until she has to close them again, warding off the bewildering assault of colours and shapes and angles. Chaos. The afterimages blaze fire against her eyelids. Her stomach surrenders to a losing battle; she vomits all over the cold stone floor before her. She's crying, huddled over a pool of vomit and tears and spit, her shoulders shuddering. Gasping for air, fighting off a rising wave of panic and fear and terror. Her wings flutter feebly. Beneath them, her shoulder blades give a painful stab. She tries to remember, to pick something out of the muddle of her mind; nothing makes sense. Memories slip out of her grasp, leaving vague sensations of forgotten things in their wake. The world crumbles around her. Someone catches her before she falls. /3 Dying and living and dying. Time melts. She's given something to drink, hot and bitter, but she chokes it back up. Dreams of flying and wakes on the floor. Fragments of memory filter through her mind — the pungent smell/taste of magic. Confusion, fear. Swimming in her dreams, crying; she can't find her way to the surface. Her wings feel strange. Before her, everything blurs, and she finds herself drifting off into a fitful sleep. /4 She's lying on a cotton sheet, clad in a flimsy shift, the cold stone floor seeping through thin fabric. Her head aches dully. She's afraid of opening her eyes, uncertain of what she'll find. "Here," says a voice, tilting her head back roughly. She struggles against the grip — magic sings through the air, stinking sharply of forgotten things, forcing her muscles to relax. The metal edge of a cup is thrust against her lip. She tries to drink and chokes again on the bitter taste, coughing up hot liquid. Her lungs burn, nostrils flaring fire, and all over again she dissolves into tears. Footsteps on the floor. Her sobs fade away; the silence echoes strangely in her ears. She keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer. The dark is comforting with its lack of complexity. It reminds her of the place before this one, the world from which she came — blackness, unbroken and unchanged. Deep breath. Her eyes flutter open. It doesn't hurt as much this time. The new universe does not seem quite so dizzying or menacing as before — still, the oddness of it stabs at her heart. Everything – the stones that encircle her, the door at the edge of the room, the strange sensation of magic – is so strange, disorganized and unfitted and complicated. The lack of uniformity is distinctly unsettling. Shapes merge into shapes; every object has shadows within shadows. Even the light streaming in beneath the crack of the door is too bright, too harsh. This is not the way it was in my world, she knows. Her memories of the before-place are strange flickering ghosts, insubstantial in her grasp, but it was different and she remembers that. Less complicated, more structured. Simpler. Not this chaotic attack of blinding lights and tangled shapes. She can feel the oddness of this new place in her bones — she can taste the difference on her tongue. She wants it all to go away. If only she could close her eyes and wish her world back into existence. It doesn't work. She's sitting in the center of a circle, sketched in dusty chalk and shimmering with magic. It's surrounded by a ring of stones, some smooth and speckled, others jagged and harsh and forbidding. (So many different shapes, textures, colours. Why are there so many?) The room is bare, empty of anything save for the circle. She's alone. Dimly, she recalls vomiting, and realizes the floor is clean. Dusty but clean. Someone was here; someone who is not her, someone to clean up after her. Deep breath. She exhales, working the saliva in her mouth, and calls out. It's not a phrase or a word – just a sound, echoing off the stone walls. That's what my voice sounds like, she thinks. How strange. Footsteps, and the door bursts open. A man stands there, silhouetted against the light. She has to squint again — it's too bright and harsh, too new. They stare across the room at each other, man and angel, and she finds her voice again. "You're human," she says. "You're awake." He comes in, closing the door behind him. Walks towards her carefully. She thinks maybe she's seen his face before; not in the place before, but here. Now. "I know you," she says. "I remember you." "Yes." He doesn't offer any further explanation. She's content to adjust her eyes to the sight of another living being, to familiarize herself with the strange patterns of light and shadow that play across his face, the bizarre textures of his skin and confusing shapes that define his features. "I'm not human," she says suddenly. "No," he agrees, and this time his voice is surprised, as if maybe it was obvious. She says a strange word, a word that isn't a word but more of a flicker of magic, and he looks even more surprised and maybe a little confused. She tries again, searching for a word in her vocabulary, one that will make sense in this human world. "My wings," she says at last, panicking. She tries to move them, and they stab at her shoulder blades, painfully heavy. Her wings ... He doesn't move. Standing, he watches as she twists around, trying to feel the silken tips of her wings. The pain overwhelms her and she doubles over, gasping, hot tears already stinging her eyes. "They hurt," she manages. His face is expressionless. "You know, don't you?" Her voice trembles, accusing. "What's wrong?" "Do you want something to eat?" he asks, avoiding her gaze. She struggles to her feet. Her legs sway beneath her, but she manages to stumble to the edge of the circle. "What happened to me?" Her voice rises, tears blurring her vision. She steps over the edge of the circle, over the line of stones — Crack . She falls to the ground, bewildered, her head exploding with pain all over again. The world spins sickeningly over her. He moves to the edge of the circle, looking down at her. "You're bound to the circle," he says. Her stomach churns. She feels the bile rising in her throat. "I want to go home," she pleads. His face is calm, not a flicker of emotion marring its surface. "You're bound to this world, too," he says. She shudders. The last thing she remembers is his face, ever-passive, hovering over her. /5 He brings a steel cup steaming with black liquid. She sniffs at the odour as it wafts towards her and recognizes it; the bitter drink. She thought she'd dreamt it — apparently not. He crosses over the stones and into the circle, kneels and looks at her. "Can you drink it yourself?" he asks. She nods, wordlessly accepting the cup. Wrapping her fingers around it, she savours the warmth, lifts it to her lips. It's as bitter as she remembers, but this time she manages to swallow it without coughing. He watches as she drains the cup and hands it back to him. "What does it do?" she asks. He doesn't say anything. "Is it going to – kill me?" The word sounds strange on her tongue. Kill . Can she die? He shakes his head and stands, making to leave. "Wait, stop," she says quickly, before he can go. "Don't leave. I want — to talk." He looks awkward. Trapped. She's about to say more, perhaps plead, but he sets the cup down and sits on the floor across from her, carefully keeping outside of the circle. For a moment, they don't say anything. She's too busy drinking in the sight of another person – another person, real person, and a human at that – to say anything. He fidgets, still looking uncomfortable. "I'm Roman," he says at last. And then, in a rush: "Well, I'm not actually Roman , but that's my name." She blinks at him. "My name," he says again, slowly this time, "is Roman." "Your name." She tries to search her memories; ever-mercurial, they retreat to a shadowy corner of her mind where she can't reach them. "Yes." She looks at him. His name is Roman, she thinks. Aloud, she says: "What's mine?" Roman looks startled. "Yours?" "My name." "You – you don't have one." He runs a hand through his hair. "He never told me your name." She blinks again. "Who's he?" "I've never heard of you having a name, either," he adds, ignoring her question. There's an awkward silence, and he frowns, thinking hard. "Do you – want a name?" She looks bewildered. "Don't I need one?" "Yes — yes, I suppose you do." He picks up the cup and stands, hesitating. "I'll think of something." And then he leaves. /6 It's dark and she's cold. She wraps the thin cotton sheet around her bare arms and shivers convulsively. Her stomach is twisting into dry knots; she hasn't had anything since the drink he gave her forever ago, and she's hungry . She tries to remember what she used to eat, back in the before-place, but the only thing she can remember is a ghostly taste on her tongue, a flitting memory that disappears before she can pinpoint it. It must be hours after he left. Her shoulders start hurting again. She can feel the weight of her wings, strange and heavy and painful; she can feel her shoulder blades straining to carry them. Something trickles down her back and she reaches up to touch it. It's thick and bright red: blood. I never bled before, she thinks, and feels a familiar surge of panic. We didn't bleed. We couldn't bleed. The pain works into her bones, stabbing, white-hot, endless. It drives her every drop of being, until she can't see beyond the searing pain. I'm dying, she thinks. Dying dying dying ... Her head feels light and her wings are strangely heavy, and finally she wads up the sheet of cloth and places it under her as a pillow, falling asleep. /7 The sheet is wet with blood and feathers. Grey feathers, speckled black. She snatches one up and holds it to the meager light, heart thumping. It has power, her wings. Magic. It makes her dizzy all over again. Swallowing back a lump of tears, she balls up the cotton sheet again, this time so she won't have to see her own blood. She still holds the feather, turning it over in her hands. It reminds her of the before-place so strongly that something inside her crumbles. She can only remember little bits and pieces, fragments dancing teasingly in front of her, but she wants to go back so badly she can feel it tugging at her heart. It's killing her. The vast emptiness of the new world echoes; too confusing for her to grasp, too lonely and quiet. Too cold. She wants to go home . Huddled over the mess of sheets and feathers, she doesn't see him come in until he's standing right in front of her. "I want to go back," she says quietly, clutching the feather so tightly that it's crumpled in her fist. He doesn't say anything. She looks up at him — his face is blank. They stare at each other for a moment, and then he turns to go. At the door, Roman stops. "Your name is Birch," he says. His voice is low. He doesn't look at her. For a long moment, he stands in the doorway, and then he closes the door behind him. >> chapter two

Snoink

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Mon Mar 27, 2006 6:11 am

Snoink says... · Mon Mar 27, 2006 6:11 am

Okay!

When I look at chapters, I try to see how they blend with each other. For instance, with my own story, I read the chapters individuallly and then all at once so I can see how it flows. Now, for chapter 1, you end with a very very awesomely powerful ending. Usually, when you leave off at such a powerful ending, you want to slow down the pace just a little bit (unless it's near the climax). So, you need to slacken it.

Now imagine you are running. When you are running, you go full out. Then, as soon as you stop running, you don't stop moving. You walk off all the excitement. This will help your legs from cramping. Then you can do whatever you want.

When you start another person's POV after such an exciting awesome part, you need to have the character slow down a little, or else the story will cramp up. In the case of this story, it gets a slight cramp.

So... recap! POV switches aren't bad, but whenever something exciting happens, unless it's the climax, slow down things a bit before switching to another person's POV.

I hope that makes sense...

Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.

"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach

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smaur

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Tue Mar 28, 2006 12:06 pm

smaur says... · Tue Mar 28, 2006 12:06 pm

Hmm. Okay, yeah, that makes more sense. I'll see what I can do.

Would it work better if I switched /1 and /2? Obviously they'd both need tweaking to fit the new chronology, but would that sound too strange? My biggest complaint with that would be that it sounds excruciatingly repetitive, especially after chapter one, where Birch is all about the fainting and copious stupidity.

Or would it simply be better if I inserted one more subsectiony thing at the beginning to smooth everything out? Something nice and short and character-developmenty?

"He yanked himself free and fled to the kitchen where something huddled against the flooded windowpanes. It sighed and wept and tapped continually, and suddenly he was outside, staring in, the rain beating, the wind chilling him, and all the candle darkness inside lost."

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Caligula's Launderette

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Wed Mar 29, 2006 1:21 am

Caligula's Launderette says... · Wed Mar 29, 2006 1:21 am

So taking my crack at Wraith. I've read both chapters twice over, so I think I have more of a feel for it now (or atleast have something more to say, than smaur, you rule!) But since I'm a bit weird, and tend to go pretty indepth, I have decided to do all of it in Word, easier, I think, on both of us. So now, that I've got you all hyped up over a projected crit, it is the time to tell you that I'll email it to you, just tell me where to.

I know I'm evil. :twisted:

Cheerios, hon. CL.

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Fraser: You're an Arctic Wolf, for God's sake.
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Hatter: Do I need a reason to help a pretty girl in a very wet dress? (Alice)

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Snoink

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Sun Apr 16, 2006 1:07 am

Snoink says... · Sun Apr 16, 2006 1:07 am

Just to reinterate, in case you forget and get stuck...

You don't think he would rape her, which is fine, but you need to give more reasons why he wouldn't want to do this. After all, she's some awesomely hot angel dudess, right? So you have to convince us.

One of your thoughts was that he wouldn't be able to rape her because she would resist against him. Bad idea. I can understand a sense of honor, but if he is dehumanizing her already ("But she can't be cold, he tells himself. She's an angel.") and he doesn't give a damn, why not?

From the struggle scene of him cutting off her wings, we find that not only is she pretty lame in struggling, but he overcomes her in the end. To give us a heightened sense of drama, plus so it can make more sense, a better way might be for her to touch the circle's edges. This would render her incapacitated and give him freedom to do whatever he wants with her, which in this case would mean cutting off her wings.

Since she's not a complete idiot (I hope/pray) she will probably do a better job at avoiding him, which makes it a little bit more difficult for her to be raped.

There are a couple of other "bonuses" from doing that. The scene where she touches the circle becomes instrumental in the other scene, where it currently is a sort of throw-away scene. And it helps make a little more sense.

Anyway, the story is still awesome. Fun to read. You better edit Wraith during the break!

Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.

"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach

Moth and Myth <- My comic!

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Swires

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Sun Apr 16, 2006 9:38 am

Swires says... · Sun Apr 16, 2006 9:38 am

KayJuran wrote:I like this story muchily!

Although I do agree with what Snoink's saying --> A mysterious character does seem loads cooler. There's nothing wrong with switching characters - or at least I hope there isn't, 'cause that's what I'm doing... - but in your case, I think it'd be better if you stick with the angel. I'm feeling really sorry for her right now.. They way you described the moment when Roman cut off her wings was really scary!

The style you use is really different from anything else I've ever seen... but I definately like it. It works well with the way the angel is thinking at the moment. I reckon it makes it quite dramatic the way it's written, though I don't know if it would work so well in a calmer situation...

Waiting to read more..(!)

~KayJuran~

Well I agree with most things Kay said, I'd also like the thought of a mysterious character, maybe reveal more later on in the story? It was well written when the wings were cut off, I felt it was really interesting.

My only disagreement with Kay is that I hate present tense pieces, I can never get the hang of them and it was a chore for me to slog through, I think past tense would be better, but thats just preference.

Previously known as "Phorcys"
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