So here it is. The first chapter (+ prologue) of the "novel" I wrote last November, during "NaNoWriMo". I've been editing and improving on the very rough, original draft, so the version you see here will be the version I have polished as much as I can (which could go either way, to be honest).
Another fun fact; I haven't actually finished the novel yet. I stopped just after 50k (the total required to 'win' NaNoWriMO), and haven't started back up. But you can bet I'm going to go ahead and get it finished, now that I'm slowly putting the chapters online.
I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts on it, good or bad, so long as it's constructive. "It's shit lol" won't fly.
(inb4 "It's shit lol").
Also, Creative Commons apply yada yada yada; this is my work, don't steal it, it's my Intellectual property. If you do, things will happen. Bad things).
I hope you enjoy!
-----
The
Frozen Moment
A
NaNoWriMo Accident; by Peter Stewart
Prologue
The
Audience Chamber was still.
A large, circular, domed room, the
chamber was filled with people. Some were pointing, some were shouting, others
were running and fighting and dying. All of them were motionless and silent.
Frozen.
The room was a tableau of chaos.
Those who were sitting down were trying to stand up. Those who were pointing
were screaming. Those who were shouting were wide-eyed, afraid. And all of them
were still, held in place. Dozens of men and women halted in-situ, stuck
between steps, fear forever etched onto their faces.
In the centre of the auditorium, a
battle was unmoving, paused at its peak. Men with swords and spears were
thrusting, stabbing and blocking the weapons of those attacking them--their
enemies. Some had not been so lucky, and their faces were the halted, haunting
images of death; expressions of agony, shock and disappointment wrought on
their features as they were indiscriminately slain.
From their opened, unmoving wounds,
gushes of dark, crimson blood had erupted and been suspended in mid-air. Bone
and sinew and flesh hung motionless in the air, trailing streamers of solid
state caught in time.
Above this macabre portrait, a
large portion of the domed roof had collapsed. Stone and glass and mortar had
caved inwards and fallen arbitrarily. Several large chunks of masonry lay
strewn across the chaotic scene below; some had fallen on patches of empty
ground, whilst others had claimed those unfortunate enough to have been in
their path, their broken twisted limbs held forever as a testament to the
scene.
Much like the blood, other pieces
of the collapsing ceiling had frozen during their descents. Large boulders were
seized in the space, as were the multitude of smaller, cascading rocks and
pebbles. A thick cloud of dust had erupted with the roof's implosion and hung
above the scene like the descending swarm of some angry plague.
Beyond the roof, hanging in the
sky, was the source of the destruction. The airship floated loftily in the near
distance, the ripple of explosions still blossoming across its broadside,
frozen like everything else, a still shot of destruction. Bunches of cannon
shot loomed ominously between the vessel and the auditorium, as if waiting for
the perfect moment to descend.
At the centre of this portrait of
madness, in the high seat at the back of the Chamber, a solemn figure sat. He
wore sharp, elegant clothing befitting of a man of power; an elaborately
decorated breastplate covered his upper body, a deep burgundy half-cape draped
over the right shoulder, clasped to the breastplate by a brooch in the style of
a sword, stabbing through the material.
Unlike the rest of the crazed,
terrified people around him, his face was a passive, still mask. His eyes gazed
at something just out of sight, oblivious to any one point of the chaos around
him; it didn't seem to be reaching him. His pupils, however, were tiny black
specks in a deep blue ocean; whatever this man was seeing, he feared it.
Like the rest of the madness around
him, he was a statue; an image locked in stasis. His power, his dress, his
feelings were all stilled, irrelevant and ceased. Whatever he had hoped to
achieve was stuck; his aspirations were lost. This maddening scene of chaos
around him was deafeningly silent, a void of sound trapped within this bubble
of timelessness.
And then, with a desperate rushing
of air, he moved.
-------------
One
The
balustrade of the balcony was cold when Lucé placed her hands upon it and
looked out over Paceguard. In the crisp morning air, the dense smog that
covered the city so many hundreds of feet below looked almost like nothing more
than an early mist, settled over the city whilst it slept.
Would
that it were so, she thought, gripping the steel bar tighter.
The balustrade was always cold in
the mornings, even in Summer. Her balcony faced away from the rising sun, so it
was the middle of the day before the first trails of sunlight began to warm her
side of the Viscount's Tower. The long dawn shadow of the tower stretched out
before her, lying contented against the city below it. It would slowly wake,
receding inch by inch before stretching itself out once again on the other side
of the city.
Lucé shivered as a crisp winter
breeze whisked around the heights and through her thin bedclothes, yet she
remained outside, gazing at the slowly rousing city. Below the smog, the first
echoes of awakening began, breaking the fragile morning silence. Her eyes
darted to the source of every sound she heard, squinting desperately, as if by
narrowing her vision she could penetrate the opaqueness. As ever, though, it
was no use. All she had was sounds to go by as the city below--her city--rose to face another day.
"Madame?" came an
inquiring voice from behind her, within her bedchamber. It was a warm voice,
but it frustrated her nevertheless. "You mustn't be out here so early,
it's always so cold this side of the tower, especially in Winter".
"It's quite alright, Suse,
I'll be fine for another minute or more. I'm just enjoying the city". Go away, woman. "See to my
breakfast, would you? I'll be along shortly. I'll have the usual".
Suse hesitated a moment, concern on
her face, before she nodded, backed away from the window and headed out of the
bedchamber. At the door, she paused a moment again, muttered something to
somebody outside, then busied herself with Lucé's request.
Lucé took a deep breath in through
her nose. The morning air was cold,
as Suse had said; it burned its way through her nostrils and down into her lungs.
She shivered again, but savoured the sensation of the chilled air within her.
It was refreshing, like a splash of cold water in the face. She couldn't stay
here forever, she knew that, but she would linger as long as she could.
"My lady, that's enough gazing
for one morning". Another voice. This one cold, clipped; It brooked no
argument. "Time to come back inside and prepare for the day".
Lucé turned, but kept one hand on
the railing, the cold a sharp tether. "Just a while longer, Traech. You
know I love these mornings. The city is so beautiful"
Traech frowned. He was a tall man,
and thin. He was dressed entirely in black; formal, as suited his office. His
face was cast seriously, stern, but it held the potential to be kinder.
"You can barely see the city, my lady, and there is nothing to gaze on
past the walls. This is idle folly. Dare I say, procrastination. Your father
expects you to be prepared for a morning's officiating with him today and
instead I find you wasting time?"
"What is time, Traech, if not
to be wasted?"
He snorted. "A precious thing,
Lady Lucé. One you understand so little of, it seems. Am I to report to your
father that this is how you are frittering the responsibilities of state?"
She sighed. There was no arguing,
she had lost. She let go of the balustrade and began back into her bedroom.
"Fine", she huffed, deliberately exaggerating, "but it simply
won't do for me to be interrupted like this. Father best be prepared for me at
my worst today".
Traech smiled behind her back.
"As ever, my lady".
---
Viscount Armén was not a man who enjoyed being kept waiting. The one thing he held precious beyond everything else was time, and that was something he was certain everybody else held dear as well. It baffled him, then, that some people chose to dawdle with their arrangements so much.
The Viscount had more patience for
his daughter than most, admittedly, but at the same time he though she, of all
people, should understand the value of the time she took for granted. Instead,
he sat, waiting, in the high seat in the Chamber of the Senate--bereft of any
Senators. The seat next to him, reserved for his daughter, was empty when it
shouldn't be. The room was silent. Outside the hall, the regional Senators
waited for their weekly opportunity to address the Viscount directly, explain
their grievances and requests, and await his official decree on the matter.
The Viscount loved the notion of
this democracy, but did so despise having to sit through their wearisome
complaints and squabbles. Having his daughter accompany him--or perhaps, suffer
with him--during his official business was the only thing that kept him going
through it.
Finally, twenty minutes later than
they had agreed, the side door to the to the chamber opened, and his daughter,
Baroness Lucé stepped through, the look on her face when she saw her father a
beaming picture of insolence. Nothing I
say can harm her, Armén thought. Or
rather, I can't bring myself to say anything that can harm her. His Chief
Steward, Traech, stepped through the door after Lucé, flanking her. He wore his
usual impassive mask of stern day-to-day business upon his face. On meeting the
Viscounts gaze, he gave an insignificant shrug and bowed his head.
"Sweet child", Armén
began, as stern as he dared, "I asked for you twenty minutes past. The
Senators will not like being kept waiting".
His daughter, to her credit, at
least tried to look contrite. "They will not like it even more when you
say no to their requests, Father. Besides, you know how I enjoy looking out of
the window of a morning. The city is so beautiful".
"The City so-- Lucé, the City
is invisible from up here; a blanket of smog from wall to wall. What is so
beautiful about looking down at nothing?"
She laughed. "You don't
understand, Father. Nobody ever understands. You don't look with just your
eyes. There are things beneath the smog, I can hear them, and when I hear them
I see them. Not with my eyes, but I see them all the same. Little ideas in my
head".
Armén smiled. He had lost again.
"As you say, child. Come, take your seat. The day's business is to begin.
The sooner we start, the sooner we can be done".
With a sigh, Lucé crossed the
distance to her seat and, with another--deliberate--sigh, lowered herself into
it. Besides her, the Viscount patted her head with a gloved hand, then looked
up to his steward, who had moved to the Chamber's large, ornate central doors.
"Traech, show them in would
you? Let's get this over with".
"As you say, my Lord".
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