The Frozen Moment: Part 2

Two

                  

                   Captain Valant stood at the aft of her Airship, the Sweet Temptation, with one hand on the helm and the other around the telescoped monocular placed against her eye. In the distance, she could see the unmistakable gas bags and vapour trail of another airship. Through the telescope, she could see clearly it was a merchant vessel; its hull swollen to accommodate the  goods she could carry, making her look like some giant, wooden, airborne whale.

She'll do, Valant concluded, smiling.

She contracted the eyeglass  and placed it back on her hip, alongside her blade. Turning to her First Mate, she nodded. "Mr. Ghost, prepare for offensive action. I shall have that ship".

Mr. Ghost, as pale as his namesake  but no less intimidating for it, returned the nod. "Aye, ma'am. They're putting distance between us from the looks of it, no doubt they've spotted us". At six and a half feet tall, Mr. Ghost, or the Ghost as he was often called, was an imposing figure all in dark grey. He was thin, but lithe. His silence and emaciation belied his nimble strength. It was said that the man was everywhere at once, and heard everything. Whether or not it was true, Valant didn't care; it kept her crew in line.

"A wise choice, really" she smiled. "I wouldn't want to be caught by Temptation either".

"Nor I, ma'am, but there'll be no outrunning us. They may prolong the inevitable, but there's no Airship in the sky that can match us for speed".

"You have the truth of it, Mr. Ghost. See to the preparations".

The Ghost nodded once more, before making for the foredeck, barking orders to awaiting crewmen as he went. Valant watched him go, before turning to her other side. "Helmsman, take us after her. I'll be in my cabin. Call me when we're on top of them".

The helmsman made no motion to acknowledge her order, beyond taking the wheel firmly in his hands. He is much more silent since I had his tongue out, to be sure, but a nod wouldn't go amiss. Thinking no more of it, the Captain made her way down the stairs of the aftcastle and then into the interior of the Airship. Arriving at her private cabin, she closed the door behind her and locked it.

The cabin itself was fairly spacious, and not lacking for luxury. The centrepiece of the room was her desk; a huge, varnished Oak table, with gilded corners and strong, narrowing legs that ended in strong claws. The animal they had belonged to was unknown to her, but its feet were fierce. The desk was fierce. Atop it was littered all manner of trinkets and paraphernalia that the Sweet Temptation had plundered over the course of its illustrious career.

Moving around the table, she stopped before her window, and gazed out. Windows were a rare thing aboard War-faring Airships, but Valant had insisted. In an uncommon moment of capitulation, the Captain had agreed to have the window inset somewhat, and to reduce its size, thus minimising the danger of it shattering or providing too much of a target to enemies. What was originally intended to be a window spanning the entire length and breadth of the back wall, was now markedly smaller. It still ran the entire length of her wall, but was now a strip of glass, a meter from top to bottom, broken only in the centre, where the bare wall was covered with a map of the major airways and secret hideouts that only she and a select few knew of. From outside the ship, it gave the impression that the aft of the Temptation was glaring.

Let them think that, Valant had thought, There's nothing on the Temptation for them but death. They would do well to stay away.

The view out of the window was nothing but sky as far as she could see; roiling white clouds not far below her, everywhere else blue, fading slowly to orange, as the daylight began to accede to night's advances.  It was a beautiful view, but one she had seen many, many times before.

She moved away from the window and gazed at her map. It was mainly decorative; she had another map for annotations on her desk, but she enjoyed looking at this one. The main Air-trade routes were marked with thick dotted lines. At either end, the names of their terminus' were written in an elegant, delicate handwriting.

The route they were winding their way down now was called the 'Wispway', a smaller sub-route branching off the main 'Cloudline', as it was known. This sub-route was less patrolled by the vessels of the Unified Navy, so Valant had decided that any ship brave, or foolish, enough to travel it deserved whatever befell them. It was, admittedly, a shorter route to the mountain city of Aclivite than the main, heavily defended, 'Nimbusline', so a number of larger trade ships, thinking themselves invincible, made the journey in order to maximise on time and money.

They were her favourite; the ones who thought they could fight her.

The Temptation wasn't the largest Airship in the skies, but she was larger than some of the official Navy warships, and more than a match for any Tradecraft flying. What she lacked in power, she made up for in speed; It had been known for the Temptation to disable its prey and be boarding before the poor, unsuspecting target could get to their ready-stations.

Oh and we can fight, too, Valant thought. We can fight with the best of them. Her crew did not lack for bloodlust, and dozens of battles above the skies of a dozen cities had made them hardened, skilled and truly ruthless warriors. If their speed did not win the day, her crew would.

She reached out and touched the map. The rough parchment was coarse against her skin, but she welcomed it. Slowly, she traced the route of the Cloudline from its starting city, up north at Paceguard, down and down past where the Wispway branched off, travelling further south still, until her finger rested against the end of the line. Marked next to her finger, in the elegant scrawl of the Cartographer, Chronos Bastion. Next to it, in a much scruffier, capitalised scrawl, someone had written one word.

Home.

Her finger lingered on that point of the map a few seconds. Her eyes slid closed. In her mind, huge stone walls reared up, their distant battlements peaked with flagpoles, their heralds snapping sharply in the ever changing wind. Turrets and minarets peered over the wall at those beyond the defences. At the top of the highest tower, a window lay open. Through the window, she could see the face she always saw, peering out at her. The face of--

Three sharp knocks at the door brought her back to reality with a gasp. Her finger slipped from its place on the map, and she remembered herself. With a cough, she turned, and made for the door.

It was The Ghost waiting, when she opened the heavy wooden breach. He tilted his head slightly when he saw the slightly distant look in her eyes, but thought better than to ask. "Captain, we're almost upon them. They appear to be coming about".

Valant coughed again. "They're bigger fools than we could have hoped for, then. Mr. Ghost, tell the men to prepare their battle stations, I shall follow".

The First mate nodded curtly, and disappeared down the corridor. The Captain took a moment to compose herself, unnecessarily smoothing down her tunic, and then followed.

---

 

On deck, it was frantic, but composed. Men were running back and forth across the deck, fulfilling orders that just kept being barked from The Ghost. Cannonballs were being drawn in crates from  below decks to supply the artillery on the main deck. Below the boards, the Temptation housed a hefty broadside of heavier cannonry, but the accuracy and speed of the smaller, above-deck shots were invaluable.

Valant moved through and around the scrambling crew and to the foredeck, to get a better view. Leaning on the bow and looking out across the sky, she could the Tradeship in the near distance, no more than a kilometre away. It was indeed coming about to present her broadside to them, and it looked more heavily armed than she had anticipated. Two sub-decks of cannons poked from her hull's flank. Black noses, suspicious and twitchy. She was certain that if they were to exchange broadsides in straight combat, the Temptation would not fare well.

What can you be carrying that's so important as to be defended so heavily? She wondered. The cost of the ship and all those armaments would offset the price of transporting almost anything. It had to be something special. Something exceedingly valuable.

Valant was determined she would have it. Whatever it was, somebody had gone to a lot of trouble for it.

When she returned to the Helm, she was joined by her First Mate, who had finished shouting orders. "The crew awaits your command, Captain" he said.

"Very good, Mr. Ghost. They're boasting a two-deck broadside and I don't want so much as a splinter on my hull". She turned her head to address the helmsman, "Take us higher. Above their  guns". Again, with no acknowledgement, the mute man put his foot to a pedal just below the large, brass steering device. Down at the very stern of the Temptation, the altitude rudders raised their heads curiously. The airship began to steadily ascend.

She turned back to her First Mate. "Tell the engine room, take us to attack speed ".

Ghost looked as confused as she had at the prospect of the ship being so heavily armed. "My Captain, are you ... certain about this? A two-deck broadside is a powerful showing. Who knows what else they--"

"I am always certain, sir. Now tell the engine room. I need speed". There was no more arguing. With another curt nod, the pale man headed for the Communications deck. Valant turned to the helmsman.

"Prepare for evasive manoeuvres, Mr. Domm. And be ready to flank them. Like I said, not a splinter".

This time the helmsman did nod, his grip on the wheel tightening.

Valant looked to the fore. Ahead of them, the Tradeship loomed, dropping below the prow of the ship as the Temptation rose higher. She could just make out the figures of men on-deck, braced and ready for combat. Briefly, the Captain considered the possibility that she was making a mistake, but she soon banished the thought.

There was a hiss from next to the helm; the small two-way mouthpiece was sounding off. Valant grabbed it, taking the mouthpiece in one hand, and putting the receiver to her ear. "Mr. Ghost?"

"Aye, Captain. Engine room complying with orders. Awaiting further command".

"Very good. Stay where you are, I'll need a direct line to the Engines".

"As you will".

Ahead of them, only the gasbags of the larger ship could be seen as the Temptation reached a height that Valant was comfortable with. Along their sides was emblazoned their insignia, swelling in the centre with the curve of the balloon. Something struck Valant about this particular insignia; a large red oval formed the background. On top of that was a treasure chest, mostly closed, but straining somewhat under the amount of gold and shining material trying to burst forth from it. In front of the chest, three large serpents reared up, facing anyone who looked at the insignia. Their hoods were wide and their eyes were angry.

Valant didn't like it. Worse still, she recognised it.

There were no Trading Companies that used such brazenly defensive imagery in their logos, nor did any she know have them screened across the ships themselves. It had been a long time since she had seen anything like this on an Airship, save her own simplistic insignia, and yet she couldn't quite remember it. Those snakes, defending that chest, and their hoods.

She realised what it was just as there was another hiss from her ear. "Captain. We're being hailed".

She took a moment to respond, still struck by her realisation. "Y-yes, Mr. Ghost. Hailed by whom?"

Ghost did not sound happy in his reply. "By the trade ship, ma'am". Something about the way he said 'Trade' made her feel uneasy. "They demand to speak to the Captain".

Valant balked at that. "Demand? Who do they think they are, to demand anything from me!?"

There was a short pause. "They demand to speak to the Captain. They demand it, by order of the Guild of the Three Cobras".

That was it. The Guild of the Three Cobras. Notorious across the world as the best, and perhaps more famously, most expensive, escort-cum-courier service that money could buy. If you could afford it. They carried enough guns and armaments aboard their Galleons to cause even some of the strongest self-proclaimed Skylords to keep their distance. Through loopholes and caveats in the legal system, they were not bound by how many guns and weapons they were allowed to carry--a gap in the 'Disproportionate Firepower' act that had yet to be plugged.

Whatever the Cobras carried aboard their ships was defended by enough men and gunpowder to start a war in the skies that could be seen from the Frozen wastes of the Eastern Fringes.

The wind seemed somehow stronger to Valant. She took a heavy step forward and placed her hand on the railing to steady herself, lest this wind blow her away. Glancing around, she saw that the rest of the crew didn't seem to notice the sudden gale.

"Ma'am?" Ghost's voice was still in her ear. "Ma'am. The Cobras demand a response... Captain!"

Captain. Yes, Captain, that's what I am. She remembered. Of course she remembered. How could she forget? She was the scourge of the skies. She got what she wanted; she always got what she wanted.

"Tell them they have 30 minutes, Mr. Ghost. There will be no negotiations but for this; tell them to lower their standards, present her aft to us, and surrender. If my demands are not fulfilled in that time, then we're coming aboard, and there will be no quarter".

Ghost's voice was stern. "Captain Valant, these are Cobras. We could be starting a war with the entire compa--"

"Thirty minutes, Mr. Ghost, tell them". There was a pause. She waited. After a few, long moments, her First Mate finally replied.

"As you will".

Three

                He stood up suddenly, far faster than he should have. The world span, his vision blurred. He swayed on the spot, reached out to grab something to support himself and, when nothing presented itself, fell to his knees. He took several long moments to draw breath, place himself, and remember.

Fighting. There had been fighting. Blood. Death. Explosions. He had sat in his seat and he had ... he had ... what had he done? He hadn't ... he hadn't ... agreed? No, he had said no to someone. To something. Someone.

He drew himself back to his feet. Slower, this time, with determined purpose. Once he had composed himself, he took a look around the scene. The Chamber of Governance was a picture of chaos. Senators were fleeing, their deep crimson robes flowing behind them and, in some unlucky cases, below them, as they tripped or fell. Some were people he knew, had seen before, some were unknown, their faces obscured behind masks, hoods, or blood.

In the centre of the room, the battle he had committed to raged. His faithful guard, emblazoned in their Golden armour, struck out at the opposing foe, Blood splashed across their gleaming silver breastplates and stained their sky-blue capes a deeper, navy shade of night. For all their skill and courage, however, his men appeared to be losing at the moment of their cessation. They had fought valiantly, but everything had turned sour just before the roof had imploded.

The roof!

He turned, suddenly terrified, to gaze wide-eyed at the gaping maw in the ceiling. He was briefly afraid it was still collapsing, and staggered backwards away from it. In his panic, he nearly tripped and fell down the great stone stairs behind him, but he managed to regain his composure as he realised that, much like the men around him, the Airship's attack had frozen in time as well.

Frozen in time. I thought it was a fairy tale.

He drew himself up again, to his full height. Proud, rigid. Fear and panic are not feelings that the Grand Prince of the Empire should show.

This Empire, his Empire had been born in the ashes of his Father, the Grand King of the Second. His father had succumbed to an illness not long after declaring war on the North. It was an official declaration, backed by both the Senate and the people. They had mobilised that very same moment, the Empire’s airfleet sailing forth with speed and strength to engage the Unified Navy in the skies over Chronos Bastion. It would be their first great victory. With it, they forced the capitulation of the Bastion without the loss of a single man within its walls.

The battle in the skies above had been so fierce, and lasted for so long, that many doubted anybody would win, but when the drumbeat of cannons had finally stopped, and the mist cleared, the great standard of the Empire snapped and fluttered angrily above them, with not a single Unified Airship left.

The Bastion had welcomed an end to the fighting, then. They had even welcomed him, the Crown Prince of the Empire, when he had arrived to be their Regent; Commander of their foothold in the north. From his seat in the 'impregnable' Chronos Bastion, the castle that nobody thought could be taken, he had launched his offensive along the skylines and shores of the entire Northern continent. Within a month, five of the eight shoreline cities had surrendered, and the Trade-routes all flew through the Bastion to refuel and resupply.

Traders didn't care who was in charge, they just cared about the profit. The Prince understood this, the Prince accepted this. The Prince welcomed this. Other despots would have shot them out of the sky, and there'd have been no trade in Chronos Bastion for a hundred generations. The Prince welcomed them with open arms, making sure the Castle produced as much as possible to trade and resupply traders who had flown all the way to the end of the line.

It was in this way that the Bastion had grown, and soon become the central point of the entire Empire, second only to the Grand Capital. But the Bastion was his, the victories were his. Chronos Bastion was the stage from where the war was fought. The Grand Capital was half a world away, stagnant and delicate, untouched and unknowing of the war and glory that existed to the North. The Grand Capital was no longer the Empire. The Empire, in reality, was his.

But what Empire? He thought. What now? I have lost everything. I lost my trade, I lost my Bastion, I lost my war, and then I lost time itself. And now here I am, trapped. Trapped by the last, dying act of a vengeful woman and an even more Vengeful Viscount.

No, he suddenly thought, gazing around him. No. Not trapped. Freed. I walk again, I feel. For me, time flows again. Something must have gone wrong. Gone right! She failed, because time flows through me again, and I through it. The rest of this world may be frozen, but not I!

He almost skipped down the steps. He strode with purpose through the scene before him, glancing left and right at the madness that had stopped around him. In a way, he thought he should be thankful. The stopping of time may well have saved these people's lives. His people's lives, anyway. Not his enemy's.

No. For his enemies, death would be welcome thing when the Empire of the Second was reborn around them.

The Frozen Moment: Part 1

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".

Pinch, Punch … Second of the Month?

So, 2012 is here; how about that. Who’s going to miss 2011?

…No, me neither.

Although, to be fair, 2011 tried its hardest in the last few months to bring the average mood of the year up, and to give it credit where it’s due, it did. The rating, after September to December, for 2011, rose from “Kill me now” to “meh”. So that was a pretty good few months.

Anyway. Let’s not rehash what was so bad about 2011 for me, most people know. If you don’t, forget about it. I’m done with self-pity. It took me far too long to realise it doesn’t earn me anything and, in fact, makes me look like a bit of a dick. I’ve done some stupid things this year, said a lot of things I regret. I wish I could take a lot of things back, but I can’t. There are also a lot of things I could still say, but I won’t.

So we’ll leave it at that, shall we?

The good things about 2011, though, were really good, I mean life-affirming good in some cases. At first, they were momentary distractions that made me feel better for a short time. As it turned out, though, those ‘distractions’ proved to me that things were still actually pretty good, that life wasn’t all the doom and gloom that it had become for me. And so I felt better.

It was a year for firsts. My first gaming convention – Eurogamer – was a maddening, frenetic, queue-a-thon, but I loved it. For the curious, interested mind, every little nook and cranny had to be explored, every game discovered, every technology analysed. I was only there for one day, and there was far too much to see in that time. Next year, I’ll do it bigger and better. So long as there’s enough to go for, obviously.

Next; my first (and then my second) gaming symphony. The first was the Legend of Zelda 25^th Anniversary Symphony; that was something special. It was really amazing to celebrate the series that made me such a big gamer, and and the same time anticipating (at the time) the next Zelda game just made for a magic night.

Then, not two weeks later, it was Distant Worlds: Music from Final Fantasy. The long-awaited first UK performance of the long-running show, my friends and I bought our tickets almost a year before the event, and perched expectantly, waiting impatiently, for almost that long again. It did not disappoint. Much like the Zelda Symphony, it was special to be able to sit and revel in the sounds of the franchise that helped make me a gamer, as well as reinforcing the idea (as if I needed it to be) that games are creative art. Distant Worlds is returning on the 2^nd November this year, and I’m already excited for it. Again; bigger, better.

So those are the firsts, the big events, the headlines of the year, and they were brilliant. There were other things, though, more subtle things, that redeemed the year, and they’re just as important as the big events. NaNoWriMo was a big thing I went on about a lot, but I suppose it really is quite a personal undertaking. You can tell people ‘I’m writing fifty thousand words in a month’ and have them be adequately impressed or horrified, but the act of writing those words, forming the story, and getting anything out of it, is ultimately intrinsic to the individual. I wrote that novel (that novel that, despite being over 50 thousand words long, still isn’t finished…), it is my achievement; its successes and failures lie entirely with me. Luckily, I can call the whole thing a huge success and, hard as it was, I’ll be giving it another crack next year.

I figured out who my friends are, and made a group of new ones that I’ve grown really rather fond of. These are people who helped me out of the deep rut I was thrown into this year, and for that, for them, I'm eternally grateful. And finally, after a year or two of wobbling around sort of thinking I’d like to do one thing, but maybe another, I think I’ve figured out what I’d really love to do. At the very least, I’ll give it a crack when I get the chance and see if I like it.

Oh, also I'm a published Editor. Twice. No big deal.

2011 will be a year, in the end, I will try not to remember, especially if 2012 builds on it in any meaningful way. Personally, it was a rollercoaster year, but outside of this little naive bubble I call my life, the world went to hell in a big way. A big, tragic way. Tsunamis, revolutions, bloodshed. It was, in so many ways, horrific. Woefully bad year in general terms. So, hard as it might be for many more people than myself, looking forward and trying to move on is the best, if not only, thing we can do.

So this year, 2012; what’s the plan? Well, simply put:

Write more, do more, live more.

Maybe I’ll explain more as the year goes on. We won’t know until we’re there, will we?

Happy New Year, everybody. <3

- Pierre

NaNoWriMo

First a blog post on Monday and then another on Monday again!? I can't make a habit of this, people will think I'm actually reliable. Can't be having that.

At any rate, you may or may not remember in my rambling, bumbling, obfuscating blog post last week, I made mention of something I was planning on doing in November called NaNoWriMo. I also vowed I would expand upon what it was and what it mean, and so here I am. And here we go!

For those of you unaware of what NaNoWriMo is, other than an bizarre sounding, annoyingly puncutated mountain range of a word, let me explain; NaNoWriMo is the National Novel Writing Month. The month is traditionally November and this year is no different.

You start on November 1st. The goal is to write a 50,000 word mini-novel (that is roughly 175 pages) by midnight on November 30th; 50,000 words, in one month. The point of it all is not to be good, but to be consistent. I am essentially endeavouring not to write 50,000 words of beautiful, elucidated prose that will change the face of literature, but just to write 50,000 words.

Fifty thousands words about whatever takes my fancy on that particular day. I might end up thinking of an overarching story, I might not; I might write about monkeys on one day, and then train-tracks on the next. I do in fact have, on my desktop, a Word Document slowly filling up with ideas and half-thoughts about what to write. So I won't be going into this adventure blind; just with a serious astigmatism. But really, who cares, so long as it's 50k and makes a reasonable amount of sense by the end?

The idea is to teach yourself how to persevere, how to endure and how to break through blocks and fears and just create; to be organic in the writing process. You can look back later and refine if you want, or laugh at the abysmal prose you've created, yet still feel an inimitable sense of pride.

It will be a challenge, no doubt. It will require me to write an average of 1,667 words a day; a feat I haven't done since University, and a feat I have never done for 30 solid days. It will be scary, exhiliarating, exciting, painful and amazing, and I'm excited by the very prospect of doing it.

I'll no doubt be updating my blog with some kind of weekly progress, as well as perhaps posting exerpts from what mad bullshit I've written. Or I may fail and cry into my pillow.

WHO KNOWS!? IT'S SO EXCITING!

If you'd like to give it a go with me, or find out anymore information about the whole thing, then you can sign up, or just browse around, here http://www.nanowrimo.org - Go on! Do it! Do it!


DoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoItDoIt.

Or don't. No pressure 


(DoItDoItDoItDoIt)

I'm not dead; just regenerating.

Hello internet!

It's been quite a while since I updated this blog. I know I only have a few readers, really, if any, but I still find it bad practice to make the effort to create a blog and then never use the damn thing. I said I'd do reviews, and I did one. I said I'd do a weekly update of something, and then I didn't.

Well. I intended to do all of those things and more, I really did (except not more), but life has a funny knack of sometimes getting in the way. I feel I don't need to explain the major plot point of my life; those of you who've seen my ramblings on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, or just know me will be aware of what I've been going through for the last 4 or 5 months. It doesn't need to be rehashed; suffice to say, that's pretty much the reason why every concerted effort I've made to be productive or, in fact, any use whatsoever has failed.

Well, no more! If from here on out I don't update this blog or don't do the things I say I will, it's because I'm a lazy son of a bitch, and you can take that to the bank! (May not be worth anything).

So, the obvious aside, what have I been doing? Trying to keep busy, mainly, and deciding that I'm not going to sit around and waste my time like I have been doing. Sure, I game still, I love gaming, but that's not really wasting my time; those hours inbetween games, or inbetween talking to people where you sit, and idle, and do nothing at all, just waiting for that something that never happens.

I'm bored of those moments, so I think I'll get rid of them.

First of all, I'm writing again! And I mean it this time! I've written a few seperate pieces over the last few weeks that I'm cobbling together. It's a lot like when you get annoyed at a Jigsaw and force the pieces together, regardless of whether or not it's the right piece in the right place or not. That's me, that's what I've been doing with these disconnected pieces of writing; forcing them all into the same universe whether or not it should work. I will make it work. Much like the jigsaw, when I'm done I may have created some monstrosity of a seaside scene with sand falling from the sky and upside down parasols in a splotchy blue beach, or a train made of pine trees and steel and smoke and bits of people's faces, but by God I'll have done something productive. Or horrifying. Productively horrifying, perhaps.

The drafts are forming into something a bit more thorough, and when they've got a tad more coherence, I'll put them up in a blog post. There might be some snippets somewhere on my Tumblr, I'm not sure; It's a mess in there!

Speaking of writing, though, I have been discussing it round and about, and as such I am seriously thinking of participating in NaNoWriMo this year. I will detail NaNoWriMo and my motivation for it in another blog post in several days time. Suffice to say, it's more of a foregone conclusion that I'm actually doing it than I'm letting on.

But what else!?


Well, as well as getting back into the swing of writing, I have been doing a lot of work for  Inspired Quill, an organisation set up by my friend Sara-Jayne, and nurtured over years by her, myself, and a small team of others. Those of you paying attention to the foibles of my life the last few years will have noticed the articles I've written or edited, or just promoted, for Inspired-Quill. Well it's becoming more than just an article/review based blog; that element definitely remains and, although on hold right now, will definitely be all systems go once more when everything stops being so hectic.

The exciting part, however, is what IQ is doing now. At the time of posting this blog, Inspired Quill will have cemented itself as a Publishing House by releasing its first .... ? 

Book. Yes, that's right, a book. If you said Marmalade, I'm afraid you were incorrect, please leave. Take your Golden Shred and get out.


As an editor for Inspired Quill (my job title is actually Editor In Chief. F'nar, f'nar), I've been editing the manuscripts that will become the final, published, bound and printed books. That, again, is actual novels. People's work has been placed into my hands and I have, timidly at first but with an increasing sense of vindication and, in some cases, pure malice, gone through them with a fine tooth comb and highlighted where I think they need to change something, or thoroughly ridiculed them when I think they've been stupid.

Some of the stages of editing may have been only in my head. At least, I hope they were...

The first of the novels, Fall From Grace, is releasing as we speak--Sara-Jayne and I attended the launch party with the Author, Matthew, on Saturday night; there was much gurning and gushing and preening and, most of all, stunned, stupid grinning. Matthew is a human being drawn from a very particular stock; talented, easygoing, faultlessly friendly and groundbreakingly determined. He has set the bar very high; if every author I work with is like Matthew (and I fear they all will not be), then my job is going to be a constant delight, as it has been working with Mr. Munson.

It's an extreme honour to be editing a person's novel. Even if I don't particularly like the subject matter, or if I were to hate the way it was written (so far, that hasn't happened), it is nevertheless a real priviledge for someone to give you their work, work that may have taken years to create, and knowing that they've said 'yes, I've done my best, it's time to know what somebody else thinks of it, for better or worse'. It's incredibly humbling in one respect, whilst at the same time rather daunting; you don't want to be the person to possibly have to tell them what's wrong with what they've written but, in many cases, you have to, for the greater good (The greater good).

I don't presume to be the person who knows what makes a good novel. I can only say what I think makes it good for me to read, and what other readers might think. I don't know how the editing process works for the rest of the publishing world, and I understand some editors have to be particularly harsh, but I never want to be the person who thinks they know, better than anybody else, what makes a book good. 

I mean I know English. I know English so hard and so well that when English sees me in the street it blushes, so I have a fairly good knowledge of how structure and narrative should progress as dictated by the laws of the language. As to what makes a novel good, though? A story good? I can only aspire to attempt to be the reader, and edit accordingly.

I've nearly finished editing the second manuscript, and after that, there'll probably be more for me. That, however, and the rest of my news and writings and random thoughts and streams of consciousness, will have to wait, as I've rambled on for far too long, and there are more important things we could all be doing. I have to see a man about some orange preserve...

So, until next time: EXCELSIOR!

- Pierre

(Also I got a haircut in the style of Matt Smith's Doctor from Doctor Who THAT'S WHY THE TITLE WAS ABOUT REGENERATION HOW CLEVER AM I!?) 

The Dash - Linda Ellis

“I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth…
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars….the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard…
are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at “dash midrange.”)

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile…
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy’s being read
with your life’s actions to rehash…
would you be proud of the things they
say about how you spent your dash?"

Review: Portal 2

This was a triumph.

It was inevitable I would say that in this review if Portal 2 was good. And Portal 2 is good. Very good. In fact, watch this.

Huge success.

There, I made a note.

OK, really, I'm getting all the Portal 1 quotes out of my system now so that I can actually give a proper review here. Despite my quotes and ramblings so far, however, my point is the same; Portal 2 is a staggering success and marks not only the release of a hugely entertaining, challenging and fun game, but also a return to form for Valve; a company that has been silent for almost 2 years (we don't count Alien Swarm, good as it is) since they made Left For Dead 2.

It's impossible to say that Valve isn't relevant in the modern gaming age; Steam is the number one, probably unmatchable Digital Delivery System in the world, and it has made Valve a lot of money name people can't forget, even if it has been about 4 years since the last Half Life game. You can say that their presence hasn't been felt as much in an industry that has been recently dominated by EA and Activision. Their return to the world of videogames is nevertheless a welcome one.

Portal 2, though. Portal 2. Some might say that, seeing as they acquired a development team (essentially buying the idea for Portal) they liked and putting them to work, that it isn't a Valve thoroughbred. That's irrelevant; Portal 2 has all the charm, panache, humour and raw enjoyment that Valve games are famous for.

The game takes place many, many years after the original Portal (the exact number is indeterminate, although we know it's more than 9999 days, and insiders have been quoted as saying it's "hundreds of years" later). You are still Chell, the voiceless protagonist from the original, who wakes to find the Aperture Science labs in a state of dilapidation. With a little help from Wheatley, a personality sphere (delightfully voiced by Stephen Merchant, who should win awards for this) you manage to battle your way through the facility to the remains of GLaDOS, in the hope of escaping the mangled enrichment centre.

After that, it all goes a bit pear shaped.

Without spoiling the story, it unfolds itself elegantly and efficiently as you pass through the game, with some surprising and emotional twists to keep you interested and engaged, as well as the expected Portal humour, with some genuine laugh-out-loud moments. In a game franchise that is renowned for its innovative gameplay and the brevity (which isn't bad) of its story, the amount of detail and intertwined narrative in the game is shockingly pleasant and emotive. The story manages to surprise with some moments of seriousness, too, that aren't expected, but neither are they disliked, and the ending? The ending is simply [Redacted].

The main characters you encounter throughout the game can be counted on one hand, but the impact they have on the story and on the player themselves is incalculable. You start off, as I mentioned, with Wheatley, the well meaning but clumsy Personality Sphere, wonderfully and hilariously voiced by Stephen Merchant, who teaches us how to speak and, more importantly, jump.

GLaDOS, as we all know, makes a triumphant return, and her barbed sarcasm and sociopathic tendencies are as sharp and cuttingly hilarious as ever. There is more to be discovered, however, about the matriarchal overseer of Aperture Laboratories, than just how much of a frigid psychopath she is, and it's surprising what you find out about her as the game progresses. Ellen McLain delivers another sterling performance of a classic character, which is all the more impressive considering her resumé consists of GLaDOS, the Combine Overwatch from Half Life 2 and the Announcer from Team Fortress 2. Bravo, good woman.

The third character (and my personal favourite) is heard only via pre-recorded messages. It is the voice of Aperture Science Founder and CEO, Cave Johnson, performed with the eccentricity and convincing, emphatic gusto that only J.K. Simmons can provide. Mr. Johnson is the driving force behind Aperture Laboratories early forays into Science and then, as times goes by, into madness. In a moment that reminded me of Network, Cave delivers one of the most memorable, hilarious and staggeringly brilliant (if not brief) rants of our generation, which is nearly worth the price of buying the game in itself.

Visually, the game perhaps doesn't carry the graphical punch of some contemporary modern games, but it's not a noticeable problem. Valve's Source engine makes up for a slight lack of pure texture power by creating some of the most impressive and convincing shadow, lighting and animation work I've seen in a game; all of this demonstrated in the opening sequence of Portal 2 when moving through the facility in a portable (no plays on words, please) container that is rapidly falling apart. The crumbling roofing panels and girders all cascade into place through the engine's painstakingly crafted physics engine, and the grey half light floods in through the gaping holes in the structure.

You only have to compare a shot of Portal 2 with its predecessor, however, to see how far along Valve has really brought the visuals of their games. In short, despite not being 'cutting edge', Portal 2 looks brilliant.

As for the puzzles themselves; it's hard to describe them without telling you how they're done, obviously, and that would be not only counterproductive but also incredibly convoluted. Seriously, some of those puzzles are dense. Despite the complexity of some problems, however, they never feel unnecessarily difficult, and provide the same level of elation upon completion, if not greater, than those of the original Portal. The challenges with the new inventions, particularly, make you feel like a genius upon completing the more layered challenges. The basic laws of Portal physics from the first game still very much apply, just with a new set of toys to play with, so it never felt as if any puzzle was ever out of my depth.

Whilst Portal 2's Single Player puzzles are terrific (and despite what I'm saying next, nothing can take that away from them), the puzzles encountered in the Co-Operative campaign are where the level design really shines. It's not so much that they dwarf out the Single Player, but being able to work together with a partner on some truly devious, ingenious and downright staggeringly good puzzles is just a joy. You'll learn new highs of love for a friend, and new depths of absolute hate as well. Personally, I can quantifiably compare the two campaigns and say the greatest "aha!" moment of solution came in the Co-Op campaign, and not the single player.

The Co-Operative campaign is, although rather short, not something that should be thought of as a quick buck for Valve; it is robust, it is ingenious and if you have a friend who you trust (and don't mind repeatedly killing) then you must play it. It's really that good.

A word to the wise, however. The Co-Operative campaign takes place after the events of the main single player campaign. Although the story in the Co-Op campaign is light on detail, it nevertheless has an eventual narrative point that may be hard to understand in context without having finished the Single Player. Just a warning.

Closing Comments

Portal 2 takes the cautious ingenuity of the original Portal and makes it into something bigger, deeper and more refined. It really is the perfection of a formula that was very much in a half developed, but still great, state. With the addition of a cast of hugely engaging and likeable characters that are superbly acted, Valve has made a fully fledged narrative from something that was originally just a brief story to tie the original game together.

Combining this narrative power with a raft of startlingly clever, mind-bending and just-taxing-enough puzzles that teaches you how to think with Portals whilst simultaneously furthering the story and history of Aperture Science, Valve has created something truly special.

Doug Lombardi, Director of Marketing at Valve, was quoted as saying "Portal was a test bed. Portal 2 is a game", and he's right. Perhaps more than that, though, Portal 2 demonstrates more than its predecessor what an FPS, or even what games in general, are capable of when you're not concerned with killing, ammunition or bullets (OK, so maybe there's still some killing going on).

Even moreso, Portal 2 is an argument for the power of videogames to stand as tall as any other storytelling medium with a narrative that, although primarily known for its humour, delivers emotional and often serious tones that are unexpected but never unwelcome.

Portal 2 is pure entertainment. Pure fun. Pure genius.

A huge success.