RightingWrite by Fadran - Fantasy

[KyL]

Oh this is rad! I think!

is this advice for book writing? or am I on a completely wrong chat, because that would be embarrassing. I'll probably delete this message if that's the case, If I can delete it

Oh frick I don't think that there's a way to delete this if i'm wrong, but watvr

Edited August 9, 2020 by KyL

[Channelknight Fadran]

24 minutes ago, KyL said:

Oh this is rad! I think!

is this advice for book writing? or am I on a completely wrong chat, because that would be embarrassing. I'll probably delete this message if that's the case, If I can delete it

Oh frick I don't think that there's a way to delete this if i'm wrong, but watvr

This is advice for book writing, yeah. Specifically fantasy. Also, welcome to the Shard! I just checked out your profile and you're evidently pretty new, so I'm glad that you've popped on over here!

Also, if you ever need to delete a post, you hit a little three-circle button at the top of your post and click the "Hide" option.

[KyL]

oh thanks for telling me that! and yes, I usually always contain fantasy elements in my stories, so that's pretty rad

[Channelknight Fadran]

27 minutes ago, KyL said:

oh thanks for telling me that! and yes, I usually always contain fantasy elements in my stories, so that's pretty rad

"Rad"

...

"Now that is a word I have not heard for a long time."

Also, just outta curiosity, is your profile prounounced "kill" by any chance?

[KyL]

1 minute ago, Channelknight Fadran said:

"Rad"

...

"Now that is a word I have not heard for a long time."

Also, just outta curiosity, is your profile prounounced "kill" by any chance?

Rad is the word of legend

and no, unfortunately that is not how my name is pronounced

[Mat he/him]

So... bear with me  Here's what I got for my fantasy book as of right now:

Map:

Spoiler

Prologue:

Spoiler

Prologue: The Killing of Secrets

Timpalion

 

Jorden Modiel, Keeper of Secrets, hustled down the dark alleyway, unconscious of the rats lurking in the corners or the rain drizzling from the half-clouded sky. He moved at a pace that could not be called lazy, but it certainly wasn't a sprint either. More of a brisk walk, like he owned the small cramped space and presided over the moths. Jorden was purposeful in his gander. 

He was an older man, fifty-seven years of age, though any onlooker would have guessed mid to late thirties. His dark hair was clean cut with a bit of gray creeping in on the edges, of which was so annoyingly often pointed out back in Westing. He had a hard face with sharp, angular features- long nose, sculpted chin. Many might consider him handsome, though many would not. He wore a sharp coat of fine cloth, fit to conceal the dagger at his belt by expert tailors. The outside of the coat was adorned with a small golden pin, with writing on the surface that read The Keeper of Secrets. Even out in the open, Jorden flaunted his made-up status for those who cared to read fine-printed words. Which was basically no one. 

The Keeper of Secrets. He had given himself that name, long ago when his ego was flourishing and striking down his reason left and right. Since then, he had grown wiser, if not by much. After all, decades had passed. Now his ego was a knife instead of a broadsword. A sharp edge that while sometimes underestimated, could strike deep if the angle was right. 

He continued his way through the stone passage, marveling at how little light showed over the buildings. They were only two stories tall, and the cloud cover was minimal, despite the rain. The shadows cast by the walls surrounding him cascaded onto the next one, creating an open-topped corridor of mounting shadows. The effect might have made Jorden dizzy, if not for his Superior mental state. 

Blessedly, he emerged from the alley and back into the streets. These had people, mostly townsfolk with some merchants and shopkeepers thrown in. There were probably thieves as well, looking for the next unlucky bill at just the right angle to pickpocket. 

On a whim of paranoia, Jorden slowly began to emit scanner waves, as he called them, the first of the abilities he had gained. He didn’t exactly know how he did it- those details were left for their scholars- but it had become a second instinct after over thirty years of practice. Forty, maybe. He remembered those days- when he had been a scared youth discovering powers from the tales his mother had told him. Powers he had long since mastered. 

Scanning was simple. As the waves pulsed, traveling through the streets, they ran into people. That’s when he started to get the returning signal. Emotions washed over him. A mind not used to this kind of information would surely have broken under the strain, though typically those not trained would be unable to manifest such waves to begin with. Greed, coming from a woman hidden in the shadows. Happiness from a couple walking hand in hand. Loss from a man in a trench coat leaning against a stone wall. Specifically noting the man, he increased the pulses directly at him, cutting off scanning elsewhere. The man’s thoughts entered Jorden’s mind. 

Dirty thieves, always going after me. How will my son survive if my wages continue to be stolen. These people walking by don’t care. I have a coat. It is itchy. The sun is hot. Those thieves. My money is gone. I’ll- 

They weren't so much as the man’s current thoughts- but more of the general state of his mind. The things he was feeling. They continued, breaking off into tangents and resurfacing to the main thought, the capital thought, on the man’s mind, that being the loss of his money and the despair of helplessness. Jorden cut off all his pulses and without sparing so much a glance at the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He tossed it over to the depressed figure who, looking up in surprise, took the money gingerly off the ground as if it were a joke. The man quickly turned and ran, surely for his son, but Jorden didn’t miss the tears welling up in his eyes.  

Jorden smiled, shaking his head. Dylan had always told him he was too abusive of his abilities. He spoke to him often, telling Jorden that the ability of a Mindward was not something to invade one's privacy with, but instead to serve and help others discreetly. Jorden knew better than to take the words with a grain of salt- after all, it was coming from Dylan- but he still found many excuses to step around that particular suggestion. Situations like this proved him to be right.

As he continued down the street, he slowly grew closer to the center of the city. The pavement stones became more clogged with people moving both in and out of the city. Numerous times Jorden spotted a pickpocket attempt out of the corner of his eye and stopped them with a well-timed suggestion to the would-be-thief's internal thinking. He had to stop himself from sneering each time. No wonder the man was angry. Any person should be able to walk through the streets of his own city without having to worry about if their wallet is still in their pants pocket. 

Subconsciously Jorden began to once again send out pulses out into the throng. He knew that if Dylan was here he would not approve, but that almost made him want to do it more. He was a good Mentaliar on the council, and well respected. But he had always -always- had an adventurous streak.  

He was nearing the center of the city, and along with that his destination, and the buildings were only getting taller. Two story complexes gave way to three, then four and five. Jorden even caught sight of some six story structures. He was once again amazed at the advancement of humanity. This city wasn't particularly large or of note, and it didn’t have any true skyscrapers like the ones back home. He grinned, imagining it, the rectangular boxes of metal spiraling fifteen stories into the air. Now those were skyscrapers. 

He left his pulses going. Why not? The emotions that coursed through him were not his own, so they did not distract him from his task. A good mind-reading session was always insightful.  

Jorden hustled down a side street and emerged into a road with almost no townspeople traveling it. Such a phenomenon was rare so close to the center of the city. There were no homes along the sides of the two-sided street; instead shops and smattered places of business lined the road. Jorden spotted a tailor, a bookstore, a blacksmith shop, and even an inn on this particular road. All three looked sharp and clean. The inn, which had a signpost proclaiming the place as The Hollow Horn out front, went so far as to leave the front doors wide open so that the laughter and warmth of the common room drifted out. While The Hollow Horn was a bit of a strange name for an inn, the place did look inviting. Of course, that was the intent. 

As he walked down the road, Jorden took notice of the secluded alleyways in between shops. There was a surprising number of them, for an area so dense in the city, that it seemed of note. Occasionally Jorden would sense the feelings and thoughts of an individual hiding in the shadows, unseen. When he could tell the street urchin was watching, he would wink into the darkness. What was the point of telepathy if you can’t have a little fun? 

As he walked past an old looking bakery on the left side of the road, a particularly strong emotion struck him, coming from an upcoming alleyway. It was a complicated one, almost like there were multiple people all with slightly different feelings. Anticipation, the thought of tensing up, a slight jolt of fear. 

And hate. Digging deeper, Jorden discovered the recipient for that hate. 

Himself. 

Stopping briskly, Jorden mentally cursed himself from being so petty. Maybe his ego was still getting in his way. Of course Spencer would set up an ambush- and of course Jorden hadn’t expected there to be one. He thought he had been careful about not disclosing his whereabouts, but Spencer was very thorough, if impulsive. Sometimes it seemed that Spencer had enough eyes and ears to know what Jorden had for breakfast. 

Jorden pierced the alley with his mind, further reading the intentions of the bandits. Jorden could sense four people waiting in the darkness, ready for when he walked past. There was Spencer, in the back of the four, always cautious so as to not take the brunt of Jorden’s initial counterattack. Two held guns, including Spencer. The other two drew knives from their belts. Fools. 

Thinking he could get the jump on them, Jorden reached out with his telekinesis and threw one of the knife bandits into the air. He flew just underneath the top of the buildings, so as to not draw attention. Jorden could hear his wails as he dropped back down to the pavement. 

Immediately, shots erupted from the alleyway. Jorden analyzed the direction and trajectory of each of the shots based on the position of the gun after recoil and knew out of the five shots fired only two would hit. So he used his telekinesis to push them slightly out of the way. Maybe half and inch, but it was enough to avoid an injury. 

All of this happened in a fraction of a fraction of a second. Jorden had that familiar sense of awe that always came at the beginning of a fight, that realization of how magnificently his brain functioned. Jorden wondered how he had ever lived without a Superior mental state. 

He whipped out his own handgun and blasted a few shots he knew would miss. These distracted the bandits and made it easier to dive for cover. Not that he needed it, but he relished a good gunfight. He could’ve easily thrown the remaining bandits into the air as quickly as the first, but where was the fun in that? And besides, it wasn’t good for his stamina, even if he was one of the few that could’ve managed it.

As shots pinged around him, Jorden found himself growing slightly suspicious. Spencer never just brought guns and knives. He always had a trick that made him think he could beat a Mentaliar in combat, otherwise attacking Jorden would be suicide. Jorden could wipe out entire armies by himself without getting so much as a scratch. 

He started using his telepathy again. He had subconsciously turned it off at the start of the fight, but he feared he might need it now. He pushed at the minds of the two bandits beside Spencer. The right one, with the knife, was thinking about how he might sneak around to stab Jorden. Nothing there. The left one, however, was thinking some pretty interesting thoughts. 

I can’t believe Spencer trusted me with this mission. He must like me. He says the gun will actually hurt Modiel. How can that be?  

It was enough, so Jorden cut off his scanning directly to the man, though he left the general telepathy on. The man on Spencer’s left had a gun with some special abilities that would somehow, theoretically, take him out. Jorden formulated a plan. 

He set his handgun onto the pavement and shoved with his telekinesis into the man with the special gun. He flew backwards and dropped his weapon on the floor. 

In the same second Jorden jumped from his hiding spot, he detected a fifth man hiding inside the building. The man fired his rifle and Jorden barely had time to leap out of the way. 

Into another shot. 

He gasped and dropped to his knees as Spencer’s shot burned his insides. It had hit his lower left gut area and the pain flashed in Jorden’s mind, mentally blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he extracted the bullet from his chest, forcing the bit of metal out with pure mental energy. 

He cursed. He had been played like a deck of cards! Feeling like a fool, he focused on easing his wound. Why hadn’t they shot him yet? Why hadn’t he done something? 

Another shot rang and hit him in the head... but didn’t puncture his scalp. Instead of a bullet, the gun had fired a device that was now attached to his skull. Glancing up, he saw that the man he had thrown had regained his gun and shot the device out of it. 

Instantly, the bullet inside of Jorden stopped moving. He frantically prodded at it with his mind but felt nothing. He felt his powers as always, but there was no receiving end to this call. 

Jorden raised his arms to remove the device but found he couldn’t. Either he was too weak from the initial gut wound, or it was latched on too tightly. Instead, he raised his head and met Spencer’s eyes. They glittered with glee and hate. 

“What have you done to me.” Jorden snarled, the words coming out weaker than he would have liked. “What has happened?” 

Spencer's maniacal grin widened. “Just a little something my scientists and engineers worked out. It effectively puts a break on your kind, makes you easier to shoot.” 

“And I was the test subject.” Jorden finished. He groaned as another wave of pain ran through him.  

“Actually, no. Last week we jumped some random Mindward in Montry. I must admit, we were pleasantly surprised at how well it bound her. I assume you are experiencing something similar.” 

“Who was it.” Jorden asked, not fully expecting to get an answer. 

“I believe her name was Ellie.” 

Jorden gritted his teeth, recognizing the name. Ellie had been an accomplished Brainwalker and a good friend from his early days. “I will kill you.” Jorden snarled. “Every one of you rotten deserters!” 

Spencer’s grin faded. “Actually, no. I will kill you. And it will be so, so satisfying.”  

He raised his gun and fired. 

Jorden closed his eyes to meet his fate, sure that Briana would have his hide for failing the mission. 

 

       

 

Danny Cruxató thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. Sure, he was thrown around some, but at least he hadn’t been poor Wil. His friend would never walk again, if they found him. And if he wasn’t dead. But Danny had been instrumental in the defeat of the legendary Jorden Modiel! There was reason to celebrate. 

Spence walked ahead of him, along with the other two of Spence’s goons. Danny didn’t know their names and didn’t see a pressing need to ever find out. He had never met them before this expedition and probably wouldn’t see them again. Mikal had so many threads of allies it was hard to keep them straight. 

Danny knew that Spence didn’t do small talk, so he examined the roadways. He had never been to Timpalion before this trip, so it was exciting to be in a new city, especially a capital city of a renowned province. Studying the architecture proved it to be very similar in style to that of what he was used to, so Danny grew bored. He stopped reading street signs and instead began looking for Wil. 

He glanced down every street they passed but saw no sign of a smashed corpse or a hobbling figure. Didn’t Modiel launch Wil only like ten feet? Danny thought it would be easier to find his friend. 

Finally, Danny admitted the truth to himself. There was no sign of his friend, and to be honest Danny didn’t even know if they were walking in the direction he had been launched. Danny slowly realized that Spencer didn’t care that Wil was gone. He hadn’t even mounted a search! 

Oh well. Nothing you could do, if Wil was launched by Modiel, let him be launched by Modiel. Let flying Wil’s fly, as they say. 

He shrugged off the pain of losing a friend and instead focused on what to do to avoid being shot by Spencer on the way back. 

Part One:

Spoiler

 

-Part One- 

-To Learn- 

 

Chapter One:

Spoiler

Chapter 1: Tracked

Rue

________________

Six Months Later 

 

Caleb Volan ran through the streets of Rue, grasping a cloth sack filled with stolen fruit in his grimy hands. He huffed and puffed, out of shape from his months on the streets.   

He turned and risked a glance behind him as he ran, sure that constables would be descending upon him at any time. Luckily, he only saw the crazed shopkeeper from which he had stolen from, chasing him down with a corn on the cob in hand. The scene might have been humorous, if the shopkeeper wasn’t after him.                       

He sprinted past other shops and stores on the roads, and dodged pedestrians, rich people in carriages, and richer people in automobiles. The shouts behind him proved that the shopkeeper was still after him. Caleb was silently impressed. With the size of the man, it was remarkable he was still keeping up.  

Caleb felt a sharp pain spike in his back, and he stumbled. He turned around and saw the corn on the cob rolling on the pavement. The shopkeeper had thrown the vegetable at him in his fury. Starting his run again, slower this time, Caleb reluctantly activated his detection, seeing as the shopkeeper was much closer than before he had thrown the corn. 

He had discovered the power only recently and it had already proven to be very useful. He had woken up one day, about a month ago, and could feel a new section in his brain. It couldn’t be described any other way. It was like he developed a sixth sense overnight, in the inner workings of his head. 

Caleb could prod at other people, with his mind. Occasionally he got complete thoughts, though most of the time he only felt impressions. Feelings. If a man he was watching needed to go to the bathroom, Caleb found he was more likely to get the sense of urgency and need rather than the thought I need to go to the bathroom. It was interesting, the way it worked. 

He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t really care. The world was a strange place.

In the last month, his detection had made stealing food far easier. He simply had to hang around until the shopkeeper felt he had to leave, for a needy customer or something more personal. Then Caleb would get ready and pounce at the first opportunity. This time, he had gotten unlucky. The shopkeeper had changed his mind before turning around and by then, Caleb had his hand guiltily reached out onto some apples. He had ended up grabbing the whole bag in his panic and running for it. 

Now he searched for the shopkeeper’s mind and sensed annoyance, with a slight bit of anger. No, more anger. No thoughts this time. Caleb tried to sigh, but failed because of his ragged pace. So he shook his head instead and turned off his detection. It would be no use to him. 

Caleb didn’t know why, or how, he gained this ability. He could think of at least five people he would consider to be more worthy of such a gift- his older siblings- but currently Caleb had no personal relationships in his life, unless you counted the various shopkeepers. And those were’nt exactly good ones, so five was a pretty solid number. Unless they were dead. 

Happy thoughts, Caleb. He told himself. Happy thoughts. 

Anyway, Caleb wondered how long the ability had been inside him. Had he had it his own life? Had it been given to him by some mystical force in a meeting he doesn’t remember? He wasn’t completely convinced that his detection was real, anyway. He could be making the whole thing up in his head, pulling a hoax on himself. 

But no. It was real, as sure as the apples in his hand. Caleb could read minds, to a certain extent. He was terrified by the power. And even more so by the thought that it was only the beginning of his powers, despite how cool it would be. 

Realizing the elaborate nature of his thoughts, Caleb turned, expecting to see the shopkeeper out of sight. He was greeted with the sight of only heads turning to look at the strange gangly boy running down the middle of the street. Thankful, he slowed his pace to a walk and grabbed an apple from inside the cloth sack. When he bit into the red fruit, the flavor that exploded into his mouth was unlike anything he had ever tasted, unless you counted the rare other times Caleb had tasted an apple. He was sure he had eaten them in his childhood, though his oldest clear memory was that of ten years ago. When he was only six. His mother’s tear streaked face, her hands clutching his own cheeks. 

Go. She had said, pain wreathed in her voice. Don’t let them catch you, my dear. She had pushed him, all of his crying child self, out the door and he had obeyed, running as far as he could manage on his weak, scared legs. 

When he had returned the next day, his home was deserted and empty. Blood stained one wall and the furniture had been overturned. He had curled there and cried. 

Caleb shook his head, forcing the memory out. He hated to think of that day when his life had ended. Ever since then, he had lived on the streets, trusting his gut. He still didn’t have a clue to how he had survived those first few years. The other thing he couldn’t figure out was his mother’s parting words. 

Don’t let them catch you. 

Caleb shivered, further banishing the thought. Who would want to chase him? It was too much for his juvenile brain to handle at the time; it was a wonder he didn’t go insane. Now, though, the memory had resurfaced stronger than ever. 

He finished the apple and disposed of the core in a middle-class looking woman’s handbag, taking a banknote worth ten on the way out. He allowed himself a small grin as he pocketed the note and continued on his way. Caleb had gotten very good at sleight of hand during his years on the streets, so performing a switch like that was simple. He had gotten many meals that way. 

Paying attention to the signs naming the shops along the road, Caleb found his bearing and changed his course toward his home. If you could call it that. It was where he lived, and it had been that way for years now, but the wooden box he slept wasn’t exactly homey. He had built it when he was younger and had been too lazy since getting older to remodel at all. So, he slept and hid inside of a fortress made from the splintered remains of potato crates. 

That was what awaited him. But he was used to it; he didn’t mind. It was better than a lot of other accommodations he had seen during his years on the streets. 

As he walked, he made a game out of guessing the thoughts of the townsfolk beside him. Two points if he was spot-on. One if he was close, and zero if he was nowhere near. He had done this before, though only sparingly. While it was fun, Caleb’s good side eventually won out and he stopped the intrusions, minor they would. Often he would think what would Mother think as if she was still with him. He always shook his head at the flood of memories that returned to haunt him. Then he wouldn’t play the game for a week or so. 

Now, though, he found no trouble in the slight emotion tugging he sometimes did. The lady with a decent cloak and a handbag of fine leather? Most likely he wouldn’t get any direct emotions. Those kinds of people just kind of lived and had no worries strong enough for Caleb to sense with the kind of detection he was using. The super-rich folks always had a lingering sense of pride that they were not always aware was there. But most of the time they did. Rich people, Caleb had found, were not nice to basically anybody else. 

The poor and homeless, like Caleb himself, typically radiated a survival aura. These people were concerned about what the rich gave no thought to, but were the basic necessities of life. Food, water, and a place to sleep every night. Rarely had Caleb met someone living on the streets with a good source of all three. Caleb felt extremely lucky for what he had. 

He spanned his detection out, getting a feel for everyone within a ten-foot radius of him, looking for an interesting candidate. Most of the people he passed by were in a gray area. Nothing they did had a lasting effect on them; nothing they said or wore or bought really mattered. Most people were like this, just living. They could die and no one would really notice. 

Occasionally he sensed a particularly strong emotion. Passion and anger were the two most common, but those he stayed away from. If he detected a surge of joy, he typically dug deeper. Today, nothing of interest caught his eye, or rather his magical detection mind-reading powers. 

As Caleb walked the sun began to sink in the sky. Evening was approaching, and he should really be getting to his potato crate home. The streets were not a nice place once the lights went out. 

His detection wore down to the point where he didn’t notice it anymore. It was on as he passed common rooms alight with fires and singing voices, and he drunk in the emotions he felt eagerly. Joyfulness brought him joy. The hungry people made him wish for food. Skepticism from the gamblers made him wonder if his abilities were a stroke of good fortune or a product of expired fruit. And that lone sense of carefulness, and wariness mixed with scholarship, from behind him on the slowly emptying roads? 

Pausing, Caleb wrinkled his mind around the impressions. It was a set of emotions he hadn’t felt before but-unfortunately- could easily pick out due to his own experiences on the street. It was the feelings of a spy, an interloper tracking someone. 

Caleb admitted to himself that he wasn’t certain- but it made sense, except for the probability of himself being the target, a chance he didn’t want to believe. Who would want to follow him? No one knew of his abilities. 

He looked over his shoulder in an attempt to spot the interloper behind, but there were still enough people in the streets to point out an obvious candidate. Caleb shook his head, frustrated, and moved on. He subconsciously quickened his pace. 

As he moved through the streets, he started looking for various places he might need to hide in case of an emergency, even though that behavior was out of character for him. Normally he just ran until his feet felt like they were about to burst into flames, and even that didn’t happen very often. Thankfully.

He reached out with his detection again, focusing the waves in a stream behind him, searching for the interloper. He was surprised when the returning impressions came back without any trace of  the spy. Had they turned onto a side road? 

He felt a sudden paranoiac chill, and found himself looking at all of the passing alleyways for places to sneak off to in order to avoid anyone who would want to find him. He needed to get there, cover himself, hide from something, anything!

On a whim, he found himself making a sudden turn into a dark alleyway to his left. He shook his head. He was being ridiculous! But no, he was being tracked! He had to hide!

He started jogging down the alleyway, and looked back behind him fully expecting to see someone, or a group of people, even, following him, searching for his powers and wanting to apprehend him. No one was there.

Caleb turned back forward just in time to see a black-cloaked man standing in the middle of the alleyway. He tried to skid to a stop, but ran into the man’s chest and fell over.

The frightened instinct from his mind that had drove him to run so hurriedly vanished, leaving his mind blank and confused, as if the thoughts of preservation that had made him run down the alleyway were artificial, but there by some outside force.

He looked up at the man. He stood over him, nearly six feet tall, hooded cloak shadowing the majority of the man’s features. But from what Caleb could see, the man was smiling, but in a cunning way. He inched backwards, ready to run, but a feeling of peace suddenly overtook him. This man must be here to help him escape! 

Just then, the man spoke. “Hello, young Mindward. What is your name?” His voice was smooth, and practiced.

Caleb opened his mouth, but didn’t speak his name. “Who are you?”

The man pushed back his hood and smiled. He had short brown hair that was buzzed less than an inch over his scalp, and he looked to be about thirty. His dark green eyes glimmered in the little light that shone over the buildings. “A friend.” he said, then turned. “Come. You have much to learn.”

Caleb shook his head. Was he crazy? Why would he go with this man? What could he possibly teach Caleb?

But for some reason, he found himself following the man, down further into the alleyway, a tingling feeling in the back of his neck that his life would never be the same.

So... yeah. Chapter 2 is from a different perspective. And not written yet  Once I get a lot more done, I'll probably post it in its own thread like Fadran's.

Edited August 11, 2020 by Matrim's Dice

[Gears]

My problem is that I have worlds but no plot to drive them and no names for anything. Here are some things that may or may not be related.

A continent has been dominated by a hive-mind sentient plant species/entity [also not sexual dimorphic, so I have no idea what I should do for pronouns [and it doesn't use pronouns amongst itself because it are one massive entity and consider each "individual" to be the equivalent of body parts, so...] from the perspective of the invaders without seeming rude in some way. I would prefer it/its for each "individual", but is that dehumanising? It is a tree though.] that is very difficult to kill because it are actually one massive root system of trees, like Pando except the connections are psychic, not physical [though they can be if the individuals bury some tendrils in the ground]. This continent has been isolated from the rest of the world by ocean until other continents discover ships. Then the invaders chop down trees which are actually the "dead" [they aren't really dead, they've just slowed down to the point where they are useless to the species/entity] so the tree entity goes to war [it doesn't actually have war, it's just eliminating a threat to its species/self]. [As I'm typing up this post, I just realised that I genuinely have a plot, but just let me tell you about the world.]

An island has a species that was a parasite for a plant that is similar to anemones but on land [basically, they're human clownfish] that grows a moss-like thing that the species has evolved to consume [maybe, I don't really know, something bad]. Other food sources became more viable as time went on and the species stopped eating the moss. However, industrialisation is killing the anemone things [whether through a change to the gasses in the air or some other mechanism that I haven't thought of] and there are protests against. [I stole the idea of a ruined land from the Marshall Islands and Wendover Productions' wonderful documentary on Nebula.] 

A culture that has the primary objective of remaining unremembered. "To leave no imprint on the path, to walk only where others have tread before, to hide in the shadows of giants." They only risk being remembered when one of their own has broken their sacred commandment and has impacted the world in some fundamental way. At the end of the story, the person of this culture will have a toast with the protagonist, recount some memories, and reveal that they have added a memory-altering substance that will remove them from the protagonist's memories. Epilogue opens with the person walking past the protagonist and the protagonist saying, "Do I know you?" and them replying, "No, I just have one of those faces."

I have more, but this post is so long that I'm scared that the Shard will eat it, so I'll just let it be.

[Channelknight Fadran]

@Matrim's Dice I read through yours and @Gears I kind of looked at yours but was intimidated (human clownfish? What does that even mean?). I'll try to incorporate them into my future "lessons."

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This is a post.

On 8/11/2020 at 11:25 AM, Matrim's Dice said:

So... bear with me  Here's what I got for my fantasy book as of right now:

Map:

  Reveal hidden contents

Prologue:

  Reveal hidden contents

Prologue: The Killing of Secrets

Timpalion

 

Jorden Modiel, Keeper of Secrets, hustled down the dark alleyway, unconscious of the rats lurking in the corners or the rain drizzling from the half-clouded sky. He moved at a pace that could not be called lazy, but it certainly wasn't a sprint either. More of a brisk walk, like he owned the small cramped space and presided over the moths. Jorden was purposeful in his gander. 

He was an older man, fifty-seven years of age, though any onlooker would have guessed mid to late thirties. His dark hair was clean cut with a bit of gray creeping in on the edges, of which was so annoyingly often pointed out back in Westing. He had a hard face with sharp, angular features- long nose, sculpted chin. Many might consider him handsome, though many would not. He wore a sharp coat of fine cloth, fit to conceal the dagger at his belt by expert tailors. The outside of the coat was adorned with a small golden pin, with writing on the surface that read The Keeper of Secrets. Even out in the open, Jorden flaunted his made-up status for those who cared to read fine-printed words. Which was basically no one. 

The Keeper of Secrets. He had given himself that name, long ago when his ego was flourishing and striking down his reason left and right. Since then, he had grown wiser, if not by much. After all, decades had passed. Now his ego was a knife instead of a broadsword. A sharp edge that while sometimes underestimated, could strike deep if the angle was right. 

He continued his way through the stone passage, marveling at how little light showed over the buildings. They were only two stories tall, and the cloud cover was minimal, despite the rain. The shadows cast by the walls surrounding him cascaded onto the next one, creating an open-topped corridor of mounting shadows. The effect might have made Jorden dizzy, if not for his Superior mental state. 

Blessedly, he emerged from the alley and back into the streets. These had people, mostly townsfolk with some merchants and shopkeepers thrown in. There were probably thieves as well, looking for the next unlucky bill at just the right angle to pickpocket. 

On a whim of paranoia, Jorden slowly began to emit scanner waves, as he called them, the first of the abilities he had gained. He didn’t exactly know how he did it- those details were left for their scholars- but it had become a second instinct after over thirty years of practice. Forty, maybe. He remembered those days- when he had been a scared youth discovering powers from the tales his mother had told him. Powers he had long since mastered. 

Scanning was simple. As the waves pulsed, traveling through the streets, they ran into people. That’s when he started to get the returning signal. Emotions washed over him. A mind not used to this kind of information would surely have broken under the strain, though typically those not trained would be unable to manifest such waves to begin with. Greed, coming from a woman hidden in the shadows. Happiness from a couple walking hand in hand. Loss from a man in a trench coat leaning against a stone wall. Specifically noting the man, he increased the pulses directly at him, cutting off scanning elsewhere. The man’s thoughts entered Jorden’s mind. 

Dirty thieves, always going after me. How will my son survive if my wages continue to be stolen. These people walking by don’t care. I have a coat. It is itchy. The sun is hot. Those thieves. My money is gone. I’ll- 

They weren't so much as the man’s current thoughts- but more of the general state of his mind. The things he was feeling. They continued, breaking off into tangents and resurfacing to the main thought, the capital thought, on the man’s mind, that being the loss of his money and the despair of helplessness. Jorden cut off all his pulses and without sparing so much a glance at the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He tossed it over to the depressed figure who, looking up in surprise, took the money gingerly off the ground as if it were a joke. The man quickly turned and ran, surely for his son, but Jorden didn’t miss the tears welling up in his eyes.  

Jorden smiled, shaking his head. Dylan had always told him he was too abusive of his abilities. He spoke to him often, telling Jorden that the ability of a Mindward was not something to invade one's privacy with, but instead to serve and help others discreetly. Jorden knew better than to take the words with a grain of salt- after all, it was coming from Dylan- but he still found many excuses to step around that particular suggestion. Situations like this proved him to be right.

As he continued down the street, he slowly grew closer to the center of the city. The pavement stones became more clogged with people moving both in and out of the city. Numerous times Jorden spotted a pickpocket attempt out of the corner of his eye and stopped them with a well-timed suggestion to the would-be-thief's internal thinking. He had to stop himself from sneering each time. No wonder the man was angry. Any person should be able to walk through the streets of his own city without having to worry about if their wallet is still in their pants pocket. 

Subconsciously Jorden began to once again send out pulses out into the throng. He knew that if Dylan was here he would not approve, but that almost made him want to do it more. He was a good Mentaliar on the council, and well respected. But he had always -always- had an adventurous streak.  

He was nearing the center of the city, and along with that his destination, and the buildings were only getting taller. Two story complexes gave way to three, then four and five. Jorden even caught sight of some six story structures. He was once again amazed at the advancement of humanity. This city wasn't particularly large or of note, and it didn’t have any true skyscrapers like the ones back home. He grinned, imagining it, the rectangular boxes of metal spiraling fifteen stories into the air. Now those were skyscrapers. 

He left his pulses going. Why not? The emotions that coursed through him were not his own, so they did not distract him from his task. A good mind-reading session was always insightful.  

Jorden hustled down a side street and emerged into a road with almost no townspeople traveling it. Such a phenomenon was rare so close to the center of the city. There were no homes along the sides of the two-sided street; instead shops and smattered places of business lined the road. Jorden spotted a tailor, a bookstore, a blacksmith shop, and even an inn on this particular road. All three looked sharp and clean. The inn, which had a signpost proclaiming the place as The Hollow Horn out front, went so far as to leave the front doors wide open so that the laughter and warmth of the common room drifted out. While The Hollow Horn was a bit of a strange name for an inn, the place did look inviting. Of course, that was the intent. 

As he walked down the road, Jorden took notice of the secluded alleyways in between shops. There was a surprising number of them, for an area so dense in the city, that it seemed of note. Occasionally Jorden would sense the feelings and thoughts of an individual hiding in the shadows, unseen. When he could tell the street urchin was watching, he would wink into the darkness. What was the point of telepathy if you can’t have a little fun? 

As he walked past an old looking bakery on the left side of the road, a particularly strong emotion struck him, coming from an upcoming alleyway. It was a complicated one, almost like there were multiple people all with slightly different feelings. Anticipation, the thought of tensing up, a slight jolt of fear. 

And hate. Digging deeper, Jorden discovered the recipient for that hate. 

Himself. 

Stopping briskly, Jorden mentally cursed himself from being so petty. Maybe his ego was still getting in his way. Of course Spencer would set up an ambush- and of course Jorden hadn’t expected there to be one. He thought he had been careful about not disclosing his whereabouts, but Spencer was very thorough, if impulsive. Sometimes it seemed that Spencer had enough eyes and ears to know what Jorden had for breakfast. 

Jorden pierced the alley with his mind, further reading the intentions of the bandits. Jorden could sense four people waiting in the darkness, ready for when he walked past. There was Spencer, in the back of the four, always cautious so as to not take the brunt of Jorden’s initial counterattack. Two held guns, including Spencer. The other two drew knives from their belts. Fools. 

Thinking he could get the jump on them, Jorden reached out with his telekinesis and threw one of the knife bandits into the air. He flew just underneath the top of the buildings, so as to not draw attention. Jorden could hear his wails as he dropped back down to the pavement. 

Immediately, shots erupted from the alleyway. Jorden analyzed the direction and trajectory of each of the shots based on the position of the gun after recoil and knew out of the five shots fired only two would hit. So he used his telekinesis to push them slightly out of the way. Maybe half and inch, but it was enough to avoid an injury. 

All of this happened in a fraction of a fraction of a second. Jorden had that familiar sense of awe that always came at the beginning of a fight, that realization of how magnificently his brain functioned. Jorden wondered how he had ever lived without a Superior mental state. 

He whipped out his own handgun and blasted a few shots he knew would miss. These distracted the bandits and made it easier to dive for cover. Not that he needed it, but he relished a good gunfight. He could’ve easily thrown the remaining bandits into the air as quickly as the first, but where was the fun in that? And besides, it wasn’t good for his stamina, even if he was one of the few that could’ve managed it.

As shots pinged around him, Jorden found himself growing slightly suspicious. Spencer never just brought guns and knives. He always had a trick that made him think he could beat a Mentaliar in combat, otherwise attacking Jorden would be suicide. Jorden could wipe out entire armies by himself without getting so much as a scratch. 

He started using his telepathy again. He had subconsciously turned it off at the start of the fight, but he feared he might need it now. He pushed at the minds of the two bandits beside Spencer. The right one, with the knife, was thinking about how he might sneak around to stab Jorden. Nothing there. The left one, however, was thinking some pretty interesting thoughts. 

I can’t believe Spencer trusted me with this mission. He must like me. He says the gun will actually hurt Modiel. How can that be?  

It was enough, so Jorden cut off his scanning directly to the man, though he left the general telepathy on. The man on Spencer’s left had a gun with some special abilities that would somehow, theoretically, take him out. Jorden formulated a plan. 

He set his handgun onto the pavement and shoved with his telekinesis into the man with the special gun. He flew backwards and dropped his weapon on the floor. 

In the same second Jorden jumped from his hiding spot, he detected a fifth man hiding inside the building. The man fired his rifle and Jorden barely had time to leap out of the way. 

Into another shot. 

He gasped and dropped to his knees as Spencer’s shot burned his insides. It had hit his lower left gut area and the pain flashed in Jorden’s mind, mentally blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he extracted the bullet from his chest, forcing the bit of metal out with pure mental energy. 

He cursed. He had been played like a deck of cards! Feeling like a fool, he focused on easing his wound. Why hadn’t they shot him yet? Why hadn’t he done something? 

Another shot rang and hit him in the head... but didn’t puncture his scalp. Instead of a bullet, the gun had fired a device that was now attached to his skull. Glancing up, he saw that the man he had thrown had regained his gun and shot the device out of it. 

Instantly, the bullet inside of Jorden stopped moving. He frantically prodded at it with his mind but felt nothing. He felt his powers as always, but there was no receiving end to this call. 

Jorden raised his arms to remove the device but found he couldn’t. Either he was too weak from the initial gut wound, or it was latched on too tightly. Instead, he raised his head and met Spencer’s eyes. They glittered with glee and hate. 

“What have you done to me.” Jorden snarled, the words coming out weaker than he would have liked. “What has happened?” 

Spencer's maniacal grin widened. “Just a little something my scientists and engineers worked out. It effectively puts a break on your kind, makes you easier to shoot.” 

“And I was the test subject.” Jorden finished. He groaned as another wave of pain ran through him.  

“Actually, no. Last week we jumped some random Mindward in Montry. I must admit, we were pleasantly surprised at how well it bound her. I assume you are experiencing something similar.” 

“Who was it.” Jorden asked, not fully expecting to get an answer. 

“I believe her name was Ellie.” 

Jorden gritted his teeth, recognizing the name. Ellie had been an accomplished Brainwalker and a good friend from his early days. “I will kill you.” Jorden snarled. “Every one of you rotten deserters!” 

Spencer’s grin faded. “Actually, no. I will kill you. And it will be so, so satisfying.”  

He raised his gun and fired. 

Jorden closed his eyes to meet his fate, sure that Briana would have his hide for failing the mission. 

 

       

 

Danny Cruxató thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. Sure, he was thrown around some, but at least he hadn’t been poor Wil. His friend would never walk again, if they found him. And if he wasn’t dead. But Danny had been instrumental in the defeat of the legendary Jorden Modiel! There was reason to celebrate. 

Spence walked ahead of him, along with the other two of Spence’s goons. Danny didn’t know their names and didn’t see a pressing need to ever find out. He had never met them before this expedition and probably wouldn’t see them again. Mikal had so many threads of allies it was hard to keep them straight. 

Danny knew that Spence didn’t do small talk, so he examined the roadways. He had never been to Timpalion before this trip, so it was exciting to be in a new city, especially a capital city of a renowned province. Studying the architecture proved it to be very similar in style to that of what he was used to, so Danny grew bored. He stopped reading street signs and instead began looking for Wil. 

He glanced down every street they passed but saw no sign of a smashed corpse or a hobbling figure. Didn’t Modiel launch Wil only like ten feet? Danny thought it would be easier to find his friend. 

Finally, Danny admitted the truth to himself. There was no sign of his friend, and to be honest Danny didn’t even know if they were walking in the direction he had been launched. Danny slowly realized that Spencer didn’t care that Wil was gone. He hadn’t even mounted a search! 

Oh well. Nothing you could do, if Wil was launched by Modiel, let him be launched by Modiel. Let flying Wil’s fly, as they say. 

He shrugged off the pain of losing a friend and instead focused on what to do to avoid being shot by Spencer on the way back. 

Part One:

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-Part One- 

-To Learn- 

 

Chapter One:

  Reveal hidden contents

Chapter 1: Tracked

Rue

________________

Six Months Later 

 

Caleb Volan ran through the streets of Rue, grasping a cloth sack filled with stolen fruit in his grimy hands. He huffed and puffed, out of shape from his months on the streets.   

He turned and risked a glance behind him as he ran, sure that constables would be descending upon him at any time. Luckily, he only saw the crazed shopkeeper from which he had stolen from, chasing him down with a corn on the cob in hand. The scene might have been humorous, if the shopkeeper wasn’t after him.                       

He sprinted past other shops and stores on the roads, and dodged pedestrians, rich people in carriages, and richer people in automobiles. The shouts behind him proved that the shopkeeper was still after him. Caleb was silently impressed. With the size of the man, it was remarkable he was still keeping up.  

Caleb felt a sharp pain spike in his back, and he stumbled. He turned around and saw the corn on the cob rolling on the pavement. The shopkeeper had thrown the vegetable at him in his fury. Starting his run again, slower this time, Caleb reluctantly activated his detection, seeing as the shopkeeper was much closer than before he had thrown the corn. 

He had discovered the power only recently and it had already proven to be very useful. He had woken up one day, about a month ago, and could feel a new section in his brain. It couldn’t be described any other way. It was like he developed a sixth sense overnight, in the inner workings of his head. 

Caleb could prod at other people, with his mind. Occasionally he got complete thoughts, though most of the time he only felt impressions. Feelings. If a man he was watching needed to go to the bathroom, Caleb found he was more likely to get the sense of urgency and need rather than the thought I need to go to the bathroom. It was interesting, the way it worked. 

He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t really care. The world was a strange place.

In the last month, his detection had made stealing food far easier. He simply had to hang around until the shopkeeper felt he had to leave, for a needy customer or something more personal. Then Caleb would get ready and pounce at the first opportunity. This time, he had gotten unlucky. The shopkeeper had changed his mind before turning around and by then, Caleb had his hand guiltily reached out onto some apples. He had ended up grabbing the whole bag in his panic and running for it. 

Now he searched for the shopkeeper’s mind and sensed annoyance, with a slight bit of anger. No, more anger. No thoughts this time. Caleb tried to sigh, but failed because of his ragged pace. So he shook his head instead and turned off his detection. It would be no use to him. 

Caleb didn’t know why, or how, he gained this ability. He could think of at least five people he would consider to be more worthy of such a gift- his older siblings- but currently Caleb had no personal relationships in his life, unless you counted the various shopkeepers. And those were’nt exactly good ones, so five was a pretty solid number. Unless they were dead. 

Happy thoughts, Caleb. He told himself. Happy thoughts. 

Anyway, Caleb wondered how long the ability had been inside him. Had he had it his own life? Had it been given to him by some mystical force in a meeting he doesn’t remember? He wasn’t completely convinced that his detection was real, anyway. He could be making the whole thing up in his head, pulling a hoax on himself. 

But no. It was real, as sure as the apples in his hand. Caleb could read minds, to a certain extent. He was terrified by the power. And even more so by the thought that it was only the beginning of his powers, despite how cool it would be. 

Realizing the elaborate nature of his thoughts, Caleb turned, expecting to see the shopkeeper out of sight. He was greeted with the sight of only heads turning to look at the strange gangly boy running down the middle of the street. Thankful, he slowed his pace to a walk and grabbed an apple from inside the cloth sack. When he bit into the red fruit, the flavor that exploded into his mouth was unlike anything he had ever tasted, unless you counted the rare other times Caleb had tasted an apple. He was sure he had eaten them in his childhood, though his oldest clear memory was that of ten years ago. When he was only six. His mother’s tear streaked face, her hands clutching his own cheeks. 

Go. She had said, pain wreathed in her voice. Don’t let them catch you, my dear. She had pushed him, all of his crying child self, out the door and he had obeyed, running as far as he could manage on his weak, scared legs. 

When he had returned the next day, his home was deserted and empty. Blood stained one wall and the furniture had been overturned. He had curled there and cried. 

Caleb shook his head, forcing the memory out. He hated to think of that day when his life had ended. Ever since then, he had lived on the streets, trusting his gut. He still didn’t have a clue to how he had survived those first few years. The other thing he couldn’t figure out was his mother’s parting words. 

Don’t let them catch you. 

Caleb shivered, further banishing the thought. Who would want to chase him? It was too much for his juvenile brain to handle at the time; it was a wonder he didn’t go insane. Now, though, the memory had resurfaced stronger than ever. 

He finished the apple and disposed of the core in a middle-class looking woman’s handbag, taking a banknote worth ten on the way out. He allowed himself a small grin as he pocketed the note and continued on his way. Caleb had gotten very good at sleight of hand during his years on the streets, so performing a switch like that was simple. He had gotten many meals that way. 

Paying attention to the signs naming the shops along the road, Caleb found his bearing and changed his course toward his home. If you could call it that. It was where he lived, and it had been that way for years now, but the wooden box he slept wasn’t exactly homey. He had built it when he was younger and had been too lazy since getting older to remodel at all. So, he slept and hid inside of a fortress made from the splintered remains of potato crates. 

That was what awaited him. But he was used to it; he didn’t mind. It was better than a lot of other accommodations he had seen during his years on the streets. 

As he walked, he made a game out of guessing the thoughts of the townsfolk beside him. Two points if he was spot-on. One if he was close, and zero if he was nowhere near. He had done this before, though only sparingly. While it was fun, Caleb’s good side eventually won out and he stopped the intrusions, minor they would. Often he would think what would Mother think as if she was still with him. He always shook his head at the flood of memories that returned to haunt him. Then he wouldn’t play the game for a week or so. 

Now, though, he found no trouble in the slight emotion tugging he sometimes did. The lady with a decent cloak and a handbag of fine leather? Most likely he wouldn’t get any direct emotions. Those kinds of people just kind of lived and had no worries strong enough for Caleb to sense with the kind of detection he was using. The super-rich folks always had a lingering sense of pride that they were not always aware was there. But most of the time they did. Rich people, Caleb had found, were not nice to basically anybody else. 

The poor and homeless, like Caleb himself, typically radiated a survival aura. These people were concerned about what the rich gave no thought to, but were the basic necessities of life. Food, water, and a place to sleep every night. Rarely had Caleb met someone living on the streets with a good source of all three. Caleb felt extremely lucky for what he had. 

He spanned his detection out, getting a feel for everyone within a ten-foot radius of him, looking for an interesting candidate. Most of the people he passed by were in a gray area. Nothing they did had a lasting effect on them; nothing they said or wore or bought really mattered. Most people were like this, just living. They could die and no one would really notice. 

Occasionally he sensed a particularly strong emotion. Passion and anger were the two most common, but those he stayed away from. If he detected a surge of joy, he typically dug deeper. Today, nothing of interest caught his eye, or rather his magical detection mind-reading powers. 

As Caleb walked the sun began to sink in the sky. Evening was approaching, and he should really be getting to his potato crate home. The streets were not a nice place once the lights went out. 

His detection wore down to the point where he didn’t notice it anymore. It was on as he passed common rooms alight with fires and singing voices, and he drunk in the emotions he felt eagerly. Joyfulness brought him joy. The hungry people made him wish for food. Skepticism from the gamblers made him wonder if his abilities were a stroke of good fortune or a product of expired fruit. And that lone sense of carefulness, and wariness mixed with scholarship, from behind him on the slowly emptying roads? 

Pausing, Caleb wrinkled his mind around the impressions. It was a set of emotions he hadn’t felt before but-unfortunately- could easily pick out due to his own experiences on the street. It was the feelings of a spy, an interloper tracking someone. 

Caleb admitted to himself that he wasn’t certain- but it made sense, except for the probability of himself being the target, a chance he didn’t want to believe. Who would want to follow him? No one knew of his abilities. 

He looked over his shoulder in an attempt to spot the interloper behind, but there were still enough people in the streets to point out an obvious candidate. Caleb shook his head, frustrated, and moved on. He subconsciously quickened his pace. 

As he moved through the streets, he started looking for various places he might need to hide in case of an emergency, even though that behavior was out of character for him. Normally he just ran until his feet felt like they were about to burst into flames, and even that didn’t happen very often. Thankfully.

He reached out with his detection again, focusing the waves in a stream behind him, searching for the interloper. He was surprised when the returning impressions came back without any trace of  the spy. Had they turned onto a side road? 

He felt a sudden paranoiac chill, and found himself looking at all of the passing alleyways for places to sneak off to in order to avoid anyone who would want to find him. He needed to get there, cover himself, hide from something, anything!

On a whim, he found himself making a sudden turn into a dark alleyway to his left. He shook his head. He was being ridiculous! But no, he was being tracked! He had to hide!

He started jogging down the alleyway, and looked back behind him fully expecting to see someone, or a group of people, even, following him, searching for his powers and wanting to apprehend him. No one was there.

Caleb turned back forward just in time to see a black-cloaked man standing in the middle of the alleyway. He tried to skid to a stop, but ran into the man’s chest and fell over.

The frightened instinct from his mind that had drove him to run so hurriedly vanished, leaving his mind blank and confused, as if the thoughts of preservation that had made him run down the alleyway were artificial, but there by some outside force.

He looked up at the man. He stood over him, nearly six feet tall, hooded cloak shadowing the majority of the man’s features. But from what Caleb could see, the man was smiling, but in a cunning way. He inched backwards, ready to run, but a feeling of peace suddenly overtook him. This man must be here to help him escape! 

Just then, the man spoke. “Hello, young Mindward. What is your name?” His voice was smooth, and practiced.

Caleb opened his mouth, but didn’t speak his name. “Who are you?”

The man pushed back his hood and smiled. He had short brown hair that was buzzed less than an inch over his scalp, and he looked to be about thirty. His dark green eyes glimmered in the little light that shone over the buildings. “A friend.” he said, then turned. “Come. You have much to learn.”

Caleb shook his head. Was he crazy? Why would he go with this man? What could he possibly teach Caleb?

But for some reason, he found himself following the man, down further into the alleyway, a tingling feeling in the back of his neck that his life would never be the same.

So... yeah. Chapter 2 is from a different perspective. And not written yet  Once I get a lot more done, I'll probably post it in its own thread like Fadran's.

That is also a post.

On 8/13/2020 at 6:39 PM, Channelknight Fadran said:

vbas

That is not a post.

[DramaQueen she/he/neopronouns]

Hey, you ever gonna post the next lesson? @Channelknight Fadran

[Channelknight Fadran]

Just now, DramaQueen said:

Hey, you ever gonna post the next lesson? @Channelknight Fadran

In theory I will. I just keep forgetting/being lazy.

[Turtle they/them]

need more LESSONS

[Channelknight Fadran]

6 minutes ago, turtle said:

need more LESSONS

YESH I'M SORRY!! JUST SCHOOL AND WRITING AND DUMB TEACHERS MAKING ME REWRITE MY ENTIRE ESSAY BEFORE IT'S DUE IN TEN HOURS!!!

[Frustration]

If you need I can act as a sub @Channelknight Fadran

Edited October 2, 2020 by Frustration

[DramaQueen she/he/neopronouns]

Hey, @Channelknight Fadran, it's been a while and I need more advice.

[Channelknight Fadran]

1 minute ago, DramaQueen said:

Hey, @Channelknight Fadran, it's been a while and I need more advice.

AH!! NEW THREA---oh. Old thread. Very old thread.

What was I going to do next?

[DramaQueen she/he/neopronouns]

1 minute ago, Channelknight Fadran said:

AH!! NEW THREA---oh. Old thread. Very old thread.

What was I going to do next?

I don't know, but you need to do it.

[Channelknight Fadran]

On 8/8/2020 at 0:05 PM, Channelknight Fadran said:

I'll be getting into Realism after Character and Plot Development, which is happening... now.

Come one! Come all! Come see, Character and Plot Development in worldbuillding! Not to be confused with good 'ol fashioned character and plot development; that's completely different.

Therefore, without further ado...

LESSON NUMBER which one am I on? Three? Five? Oh, four. FOUR.

Lesson 4: Character and Plot Development in Worldbuilding --or-- Worldbuilding in Character and Plot Development

So we've made worlds. We've developed a cool factor. Now we need to know how that fits into the story as a whole. Particularly, we want to how and why it affects our characters, and how and why it affects our plot. I'm going to start with plot affection, then move onto characters, because characters are cooler and plots are meh.

It's important to note that almost every single fantasy story to ever permeate the earth has been a save the world story. Good versus evil, final battle, that sort of thing. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm writing a save-the-world, you guys are probably writing a save-the-world, all of the Cosmere has been save-the-world at this point (except White Sand, but that's a graphic novel so I DON'T CARE), which means what I'm going to be discussing is a save-the-world story! I might discuss other forms of writing in a fantasy later, such as heist fantasy (like in Six of Crows which I haven't read so I might be totally wrong and it also might be save-the-world), or *gags* romance fantasy (like Twilight, which I haven't read and never plan to).

So, save-the-world stories! The good guy's gotta kill the bad guy so the bad guy doesn't kill all the good guys. Sometimes they win, and sometimes their books never hit the shelves (I.E. they always win). Now, designing a plot is something we've been doing since middle school. First, you got the exposition, right? And then rising action, climax, then falling action, and resolution. Right?

Right?

WRONG!

It is so much more complicated than that! People always think it looks like this (spoiled for size):

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But it actually looks more like this:

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I may or may not have just borrowed a stock market image for this, but it is pretty accurate. I'll be referring back to it now and again, so keeping it open might be a good idea.

So here you have a nice plot outline. Exposition at the start (that flat part of the blue line at the beginning), and then things start ramping up. You hit that first hump, go back down, hit the climax, and then plummet.

Well, yeah, Fadran! I hear you think (yes, I can hear your thoughts). That's how plotline works. Where does worldbuilding and magic come in?

Shh, my little minions. All will be explained in time. Three seconds of time, actually, because I'm talking about that... now.

I'm going to refer to our good friend Brandon Sanderson and his lovely Laws of Magic Systems, because they don't just affect magic systems; they affect worlds, as well. I'm going to pull on his first law, which is "An author's ability to solve conflict with magic Worldbuilding is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic World." I'm also going to tear it up for scraps and build something new.

Behold, everyone! Fadran's First Law of Worldbuilding! "An author's ability to create conflict with Worldbuilding is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said Worldbuilding." To return to the stock market plot outline, I'm going to refer to that first big hump. That first big hump is important. Sometime around then, you need things to go downhill. Sometime around then, the characters have to fail at something big. Because we're talking under the context of save-the-world stories, then it's probably something to do with the big bad guy being prepared for the characters and screwing them over. Take The Last Airbender chapter 3, for example (spoilers, btw). That first hump would be the invasion of the Fire Nation capital. Azula was ready for them, she stalled for time, the Fire Lord stayed alive, literally everyone except the main protagonists and a few unimportant side characters were captured--in other words, a failed false climax.

However, as you might've noticed, that wasn't exactly worldbuilding-based. This failed false climax isn't just an inciting incident for the characters--it's also the point at which the reader needs to understand your world. They don't need to understand all of it; in fact, they don't need to know any of it. When I say that a reader's understanding of your world is proportional to how well you can create conflict with it, I mean that a reader's understanding of the characters' understanding of the world is proportional to how well you can create conflict with it. Mystery is very important to a story, so you can actually introduce new worldbuilding elements in this failed false climax (I'm calling it an FFC from now on) to intrigue your readers. Nobody knew what Hemalurgy was or did back in the first Mistborn book, but that didn't mean that Brandon couldn't create conflict with it--that meant that Brandon was basically obligated to create conflict with it, because it was a mystery to characters and readers both why you couldn't kill the inquisitors.

So I guess I'll go back and revise my First Law of Worldbuilding. It is now "An author's ability to create conflict with Worldbuilding is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well a reader understands a character's knowledge (or lack of) of said World." Boom. It's there. Feel free to quote me on it, it is a thing!

Oh dear... this is already a really long post. Okay, this is lesson 4/1, and I'll cover characters in the next one (hopefully it won't take me too long to post that).

Don't die!

~ Fadran.

Mmkay, then. I'll read over this again when I have the time and post something... maybe for my Shardiversary?

[Enter a username]

51 minutes ago, Channelknight Fadran said:

Mmkay, then. I'll read over this again when I have the time and post something... maybe for my Shardiversary?

Whenever you do it, be sure to actually do it.

Edited October 16, 2020 by Enter a username

[Channelknight Fadran]

My last lesson was two months ago? If you guys haven't finished your homework yet, then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you dirty procrastinaters!

We left on a cliffhanger, last time, after a pretty dang long post about Plot Development in Worldbuilding. I said I'd write the Character Development in Worldbuilding next, so... I guess that's what I'm doing?

LESSON NUMBER FIVE wait, no, no... it's a two-parter. LESSON NUMBER... uh... 4.5? 4, Part 2? Lesson number 42? Four-two? Uh...

You know what? Screw it. Moving on!

Lesson 4 [redacted]: Character Development! We all love it, we all need it, we all know it's notoriously difficult to pull off. The hardest part about Character Development is making it work in the context of the setting. I once wrote a short story called "Division of Occult" or something like that (I don't actually remember its name), and as a story it was pretty good. The characters interacted well enough, I think, but there was one glaring problem that made it not-good: the setting.

The World in this short story was one of oppression. The wizards (called Occults) were the peasant class, and the muggles normal people were the ruling class. I have my own opinions that the Worldbuilding for that, alone, wasn't very good, but that isn't the point; the point was that the character arcs could've been executed exactly the same without the setting. The setting was flavor; the worldbuilding existed, but it didn't matter.

This is the first step to character development in worldbuilding: you need to make the world matter. In the vast community of authors, you'll find factions of people leaning towards one element of writing or the other. You'll hear things like 'a good world is the most important thing for a fantasy book,' or 'believable characters are the most important thing for a fantasy book.' Unfortunately, you need both of these things, entertwined, to create a good fantasy story. The world and the characters aren't separate; they have to be so closely related that the story couldn't go on without either.

Nice, nice. Very nice, Fadran. Now, uh... could you maybe EXPLAIN HOW CHARACTER ARCS WORK BEFORE YOU EXPLAIN HOW THEY WORK IN WORLDBUILDING? 

Geeze, guys. Chill out. Honestly, I did nothing at all to provoke that anger, but you're acting like I wrote it myself!

You're right, though; understanding how characters work is... kind of important. Only relatively. Just a little bit.

Anyways, there are a variety of archetypes for character arcs, but they all follow a basic formula:

• False belief
• Growth
• Change

It's... really that easy to write a basic character arc. Step one: write a character with some flaw. Shallan's only purpose in becoming Jasnah's ward was to steal the Soulcaster; she had no other reason to be there, and believed that that was the only way to help herself and her family.

Step two: write some character growth. Shallan learned to enjoy being Jasnah's ward. She felt like she belonged there as a scholar of the Vorin faith.

Step three: write some change. Shallan was willing to change and realize that she should be Jasnah's ward instead of going back to her family with the Soulcaster.

Now, obviously, it isn't that easy, but those are the basic steps. Belief, growth, change. Boom, done.

But Fadran, that's boring. What about fallbacks and failures? The double-f's?

First of all: never again say the term "double-f." That sounds way too wrong. Second of all: You're right! Again! It's the bumpiness of the ride that makes a character arc entertaining and enjoyable. Shallan giving Jasnah the Soulcaster after stealing it was quite the shaker. Kaladin being able to suck in Stormlight was quite the shaker. Throw potholes into your unkempt gravel road of writing: the drive wouldn't be any fun without them!

Anyhoo, back on track with the worldbuilding character arc thing. Perhaps you might be asking yourself how the heck you're supposed to entwine worldbuilding and characters. I mean, in English class, your teachers tell you that you need characters, plot, and setting in order to make a book: they separate the darned things! WHY DO THEY SEPARATE THEM?? THEY SHOULDN'T BE SEPARATED!!!

*Clears throat, straightens vest, and puts on a calm face*

Where was I? Oh, right... ranting. Hmm... I'd best be moving on from that.

Entertwining! Let's do this.

It's actually a lot easier to combine worldbuilding and character arcs in fantasy than it is to combine setting and character arcs in regular fiction. This is because of our unspoken agreement that almost all fantasy stories are save-the-world. In a good fantasy save-the-world, your worldbuilding should be very directly correlated to the plot. I think the best example of this is Harry Potter, because (rant in spoiler box):

Spoiler

BECAUSE DUMBLEDORE'S MEGA-PLAN IS SO FREAKING COOL AND MAKES SO MUCH SENSE, AND THE CHAPTER KING'S CROSS STATION IS SO AMAZING BECAUSE DUMBLEDORE EXPLAINS ALL OF IT AND IT'S SO FREAKING AWESOME AND AOSIDHGOEUGBQWQEI!!!!!!!

*Ahem*

Anyways, in short, if your plot and world are closely correlated, then it's relatively easy to make your characters entertwined with the world as well. The characters change because of events in the plotline, and the plot changes because of worldbuilding elements, so who's to say that characters can't change because of worldbuilding elements?

I really want to cite the Iconar Collective right now, but... I seriously doubt that you guys want spoilers for the climax of the third book, nor do I want to give it out (because it's gonna be SCUDDING EPIC), so I'll settle for some Mistborn. Turn your mind back to the climax of Hero of Ages. The reason Vin's able to defeat Ruin is because her Identity's been touched by the power of Ruin and Preservation. She's not held back by the anti-destructive Identity of Preservation because she's partly Ruin as well.

Phew! Finally managed to write a good example. You know, the past six or so paragraphs were basically just me stalling until I could think of a good book to cite.

So... there you go. Does that make sense! I'm always really insecure about these.

Don't die!

~Fadran

[Bearer of all agonies he/him]

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll take advice from a god. . . 

[Experience he/him]

Why are you so darn good at this?! It really is good advice. 

[DramaQueen she/he/neopronouns]

Thanks!!! 

Spoiler

Took you long enough...

That is some scudding good advice.

[Frustration]

3 hours ago, Bearer of all agonies said:

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll take advice from a god. . . 

No Fadran cults. Cults are my thing, although Fish is showing me up while on the Shard..........

 

Also, I am now going to argue debate @Channelknight Fadran about this point

Character arcs are overrated

I'll explain

Who here likes Batman?

Everyone, everyone like Batman because you aren't monsters.

What is Batman's character arc?

there isn't one

well, maybe in some niche story but for all intents and purposes there isn't one.

Why do we still like Batman? Because he's Batman, he's awesome just how he is, change would make him less interesting.

Now, are character arcs useful? Yes, OB would be super boring without Dalinar's arc.

Can they be overdone, yes, ever re-read OB? The arc being fulfilled is a one time thing and there isn't enough WOW! to make up for it.

TL;DR

Character arcs are more of a seasoning than a main course and anyone who tells you they are necessary is dead wrong.

[Experience he/him]

@Frustration, you should start a righting wrong.  

Edited October 18, 2020 by Experience