Well, my muse is timidly creeping back, so I'm finally starting to get the ball rolling. I should be done with the "Adahm" story (not to mention have a title for it) pretty soon--week and half or so for a rough--but completed--draft. I'm also gonna get a few more ''Poultney Tales'' and various other personal memoirish things out of the way. Besides that, I'm planning on starting a new fiction story (probably set in modern or recent times, besides that my only ideas are that I want the story to be able to be summed up with the sentence "It was clever"), but that's going to simmer on the back burner for a while. I'm still working and improving my untitled, unrevealed project too, of course. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, since "Adahm" is winding down, I'm starting a new fantasy story.
I thought about this one for a while. I've been playing around with a lot of (I think)pretty good ideas for fantasy stories lately, so there was somewhat of a mental clamor among them when I decided I was going to build one of them up from "idea" to "story". Among those were a story set in a wholly new world, focused on a member of a complex, trading archipelago based society, backstories for characters I've written about in other stories, a rewrite of an old, unfinished story called "Sword"....the list goes on.
I suprised myself with my ultimate choice. Completely out of the blue, I'm heading back to Arston. It's a feeling similar to dreaming your awake, then really waking up. Disoriented, confused, and still a bit hesitant to declare this as reality so quickly. I honestly thought I wouldn't touch Age of Shadow or Arston for years.
Which, as I should have known, has been impossible. I've been touching up a few of my older chapters and stories, to be completely honest, as well as reading through one of my old writing journals. (The other big one's at home, or I would have read that one too.). All this delving into my old work really put me in the mood for Arston, so I decided, at last, that I had to do an Arston story.
The thing is, I really didn't want to touch Age of Shadow. Not yet. It's like finally getting in touch with a long lost best friend, then the next day asking them to borrow a couple grand. So that meant no Gane, Corik, Kyrae, Torulath, Scrym....Not even Veranes (I want to build up more of his story eventually, though). I basically wanted a story about somebody who lived in Arston. That was it the same world, not the same story.
A solid idea, but where to start? It's hard to write a story when you can't really think on anything or anyone significant to wrapt the plot around. The dilemma nagged me for a few nights in a row before, finally, a great idea decided to give me the nod.
The story will be about refugees from Narpas, heading south. They've been putting up a scattered resistance to Torulath for the last half year or so, but have finally seen the futility of it (what with Carjiston falling) and are heading south to try and find a new home. Chronologically, this is a few monthes before the prologue of Age of Shadow.
What makes this idea brilliant is that they'll appear in Age of Shadow. The initial troop that Corik manages to call to arms, the only ones who give him a chance, the ragged band of soldiers who lead him to his monumental victory at the Riverlord's Dam---these guys. So I'm touching Age of Shadow without touching what's already there.
In a sense, I'm starting to work on it again, ever so slightly. It's a very purple thought; meaning I don't really know what to make of it (Red is anger, blue is sadness, green is life, etc...what's purple?).
In the book, they're hardened and famed, a travelling band of refugees whose famed skill is only superseded by their legendary hatred for Torulath. Nearly a myth they're so skilled and picky in their clients. And they're leader...not a man to mess with, in short.
But in the story. They're cold, hungry, alone in a new land. Their leader, Nathan, is decent, but pompous and overconfident. My main character, Arthe, is 'barely a man', though to be honest his experience in the war has hardened him quite a bit (though not quite so much as he might like to think, perhaps).
The story is about their hardships in the new land, their unsuccesful attempts to fit in, to find a place to belong. And the growing tension between Arthe and Nathan as his leadership falls from misguided benevolence to stubborn incompetence.
Not to ruin the ending, but...well, to ruin the ending (keep in mind, this is my rough sketch for the ending/plot. You'll find a similar skeleton, but once I've fleshed out the story and added on all of its personal characteristics, you'll barely recognize it. Like Tolkien said--The tale grows in the telling).
The ending. At this point all kinds of negative aspects from this 'new world' are leading the group into ruin, and Nathan is making it worse, etc. Arthe finally openly opposes him, leads to a direct conflict. (Arthe, at the beginning, would never imagine doing this; speaking to Nathan gets him nervous. He hardens and matures throughout the story, and is very changed by the new world. I'm really looking to put a lot more character growth in to this than "Adahm".)
In short, he wins, he's accepted as the leader. The story fades out with him recognizing the enormity of his task--so many people's lives in his hand. But he accepts this, resolves to become unparalelled. During the story, Nathan has been telling them to 'live in the city'--to fit in, etc, but it chokes the wild hearts of the winterlands people and so on, plus he's wasting their coin faster than stitchless purse. And so Arthe closes the story with a blind, but hopeful resolve, leaving the city, knowing he'll find a better life for them.
His next appearance? The battle hardened, tactically shrewd legend that becomes one of the key players in Corik's part of Aos.
Standalone story, a segue into Age of Shadow, and development/refinement of the long stagnant plot. If I can pull it off (if I put the effort in, believe me, I can) this could very well be one of my best works yet.
Here's a short, really rough possible intro. Keep in mind that at the point I wrote this, I'd been awake for 20+ hours, and had spent the last few reading. (Reading, for me, can have an effect on my writing like holding a magnet up to a TV screen. It distorts me, because my style is caught in a tug-of-war between my own style and whatever the style of the book I've been pouring into my brain is). Oh, and the [brackets] mean to put in a more specific noun/name/etc. Notes to myself I use in hurried first drafts.
Basically, don't judge. But it's a start. A seed.
It'll grow.
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The land felt wrong. Arthe noticed it almost as soon as they were into the Riverlands proper, and it only grew stronger as they went south. He watched as the Narpas’s snows gave way to faded greenery, as the great beds of ice disappeared, supplanted by angry, rushing rivers. The sun, a pale, yellow stranger his entire life, had suddenly become a fiery, intrusive presence that seemed to fill the whole sky. And the stillness. The stillness that had been as close as his shadow all of Arthe’s life was gone. A flock of birds on the wing, a squabbling pair of squirrels. Even the rustling leaves of a drab bush stirred by a tepid wind.
The land felt alive.
Arthe was sure the others felt it too. The growing unease was plain their faces, in the way they held themselves, how they grouped closer as they forged deeper into Ayamar. Besides Nathan, he was sure not one of them had been past the Tundras, let alone out of Narpas altogether. They were men who had grown up in a frozen, merciless world, a place where death lurked behind every snowdrift.
The last half hour had been the worst. Before it had still felt almost like Narpas, a Narpas kissed by the touch of life. But the trees had been thickening, they hadn’t seen any snow in a span of miles, and several of them had near lost a shoe from stepping in mud. Real, six-cursed mud.
Arthe flexed his neck apprehensively. The trees were becoming frighteningly thick. He cast about, looking for Nathan. It was an easy task; he was easily a whole head taller than any of the others, and in a group of several score men, height labeled a man as clearly as a beacon. Arthe quickened his pace and hurried up to the tall man.
Nathan’s blue eyes peered down at Arthe as he drew abreast, but he said nothing, merely lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
Arthe cleared his throat. “Nathan. I’m not trying to cause trouble, or question you or anything-“ a warning steeliness flashed briefly across Nathan’s eyes, “but...I think it might be best if we stopped. Found a place to setup camp for the night and all.”
Nathan answered him without breaking stride. “Arthe, I know you mean well. But trust me. I’ve been to Ayamar before, remember. There’s a ways we should walk yet it we want to reach [the capital] by tomorrow. And besides,” he shrugged his head to his right, “we still have at least an hour of day light. No point in wasting that.”
Natha was right, of course. He did know the road to [capital], and even without looking, Arthe could feel the unwelcome glare of the foreign sun beating against him. But...Arthe looked back at the rest of them. Barely two score men, some old enough to be his father, others not quite old enough to drag a razor across their cheeks. The ablest men they had, sent on ahead of the larger group of the women and children and elderly. Men who, once, had proudly stood united against Torulath’s army’s.
They had been proud, and they had been strong. But that had been nearly a year ago, and they intervening monthes had harbored nothing but misery for Narpas. For all their range in age, Arthe could see the same expression on every one of their faces. Weariness. Not exhaustion; he didn’t doubt that they could march on for hours yet if need be. No. This weariness went deeper. You could see it in the lines in their face, in the grim ground into those same lines, in the dullness of their eyes. Arthe knew that if he could see himself, he’d find himself in a similar state.
They’d lost it all. Their friends, their war. And now their home. They marched south because they had to, to fulfill the basic urge to survive. Not out of any particular hope or desire.
The newness of the world filled Arthe. The fading roar of a river some miles back. The twitter of birds. The glare of the sun. The thickening obscurity of the gathering trees.
It was too much, too fast. If Nathan made them walk any further, it would only force their spirits deeper into the ground.
“Nathan.” Arthe fought to keep his voice even. “Nathan, we should stop. We’re all tired. This is completely new to all of us.” Arthe waved his arms in front of him. “Another mile or so, and we’ll be in a forest. A forest, Nath. Maybe you’ve seen one before, but to me and the rest of us, a forest is just a place out a story. As real as the Reyde’s Hill or the Hall of the Six. Please. Just today. Let us rest.”
Hardness settled on Nathan’s face, as comfortable there as paints on a jester’s. “Arthe, you’re overstepping yourself. You fight a few battles, and you think your judgment holds significance?” He shook his head, not bothering to hide the condescension in it. “Arthe, you’re just a boy. Not a leader. You tell me things I already know, thing’s I’ve already considered.” His pace quickened almost imperceptibly. “Your concern is appreciated, but its misplaced. I know how to lead.”
More than a few voices started to rouse themselves in the back of his head. Arthe quickly silenced them. “Nathan, I know. I’m not questioning your leadership. I’m just saying that, tonight, maybe—“
Nathan halted in midstride, almost causing a few men who’d been keeping close pace behind him to collide with him. “Arthe. There are at least a dozen other men here with more common sense than you. And have any of them come forward? Have any of them complained? Try to be strong, Arthe. It’s another hour at most, surely you aren’t all that bone weary.”
Shame burned across Arthe’s face, as red as the foreign sun. More than a few of the others, halted by Nathan’s sudden standstill, had heard the exchange. They peered at Arthe emotionlessly, to drained curiosity, disdain, or whatever else they might be feeling, to show itself on their faces.
“Men,” Nathan barked, turning to face the rest of the group. “Arthe here seems worried about heading into a forest. As if I would lead you into danger” He paused, dramatically. “Obviously, it’s a false worry. Now, you’re all strong men. Another hour’s march is all I ask of you, and then we retire for the day. Do any of you find it too much to ask?”
Arthe watched the expressionless sea of faces that Nathan cast his words into. Nothing. No flinching. No despair, no annoyance. Nothing but stoic acceptance of the reality of the situation. They were tired refugees in a foreign land that only Nathan knew; if he said march, then they would march.
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