Category: Writing

Writing: Wizards & Work, Part 6

All the best things come in sixes, maybe? I had a midnight flash of inspiration for more of these, so have some new character scribbles! (Standard disclaimer: very very loosely based on people at Rebellion, and not intended to be a comment on anyone at all!)

You can also read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.

 

She spoke in strange tongues as she worked, littering her speech with odd syllables and unknown words. We were not sure where she had picked it up, for the language was none of the known spell-speeches, but her words often made her work go faster. None of us could replicate her effects, although our efforts caused her much amusement.

But the mystique was undone when one day a visitor laughed, and said something in the same tongue. The staccato reply made it clear that their input was not welcome, but they just laughed again.

“What did she say?” I asked them as we retreated from the sorceress muttering her alien spells to her machine.

“Oh, she is calling it a plate of… I don’t know the word. It is an insult.” The visitor shrugged. “It makes it work better.”

 

Hir wisdom was boundless, deep as the sea and old as the mountains; hir thoughts ran in ages and aeons, and disdained such human notions as “hours”.

Hir colleagues eventually reached a compromise on the concept of “months”, mostly by pointing out how inconvenient it would be if they passed away from old age in mid-conversation.

 

The story of the princes who turned into swans is not exactly inaccurate; but the stories don’t say what happened to the ordinary folk caught in the same circumstances. Those without a beautiful sister to make them sweaters with spells woven into the patterns (an ancient art in itself), or without a handy hero to see them dancing in worn-out shoes, or without anyone to remember that they were once human.

Some do remember, though. Both humans, and birds.

And so if the wildfowl on the river flock to his handfuls of bread more quickly and readily than they do anyone else, maybe it is because they alone understand his murmured words, and appreciate his remembering what they once were.

 

“That was a terrible joke!”

“Oh, really?” the selkie says in his broad accent, not at all offended. “Ah thought it was alreet. I’ll get mah skin.”

 

The machine had been built to write routine spells: put a script in one side, and get a functional spell out the other. The problem came when it somehow got infected with sarcasm, irony and an awareness of current affairs.

Everyone agreed that the resulting weekly newsletter was very good, and even won some awards; and the machine’s notably radical leanings didn’t seem to affect the reliability of the spells at all.

They kept a wary eye on the effects, though.

 

She was usually cheerful; round-cheeked and smiling between sips of coffee and bursts of work. But woe betide if you crossed her.

The burned holes in the roof had been patched, and the tail-smashed desks replaced: but nothing could quite erase the soot-stains in the corner, or the memory of the dragon raging in the middle of the office on the day the coffee machine had finally broken.

And whether it was repairable was rather a moot point, now that it was a charred and melted heap.

Writing: Home #2

I was given a writing prompt – “home” – for a trip to Amsterdam a while back, and I’ve been musing over it since. This is the latest scribble on the subject!

Home is the sunlight golden glow, and the ripple of winds across the grasses.

Home is the gate where I leave a kiss waiting for you, if you’re not with me.

Home is the stack of books waiting to be shelved; the scribble of foreign tongue waiting to be learned; the scrabble of song waiting to be released.

Home is the spire that pinions the skyline; the pylons that march overhead; the gentle hill that tugs me on.

Home is a city of familiar potholes and unfamiliar tongues; of nooks and recommendations; of drizzle and traffic and smiles.

Home is the spiderweb of cracks that is slowly weaving into the word; here.

Writing: Wizards & Work, Part 4

These are still entertaining me! They often need a moment to click; a phrase or comment, or a mannerism linked in to a fantasy setting. I’m really enjoying it when they do come to me. As usual, no offence intended to anyone who is inspiration, and definitely nothing implied; it’s often just the initial inspiration that I’ve borrowed, and then gone off in a completely different direction!

You can also read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5 and Part 6

 

He has a way of looking at you; a sharp-eyed, sideways glance that takes in everything before he gives a friendly smile. In that red-hot moment, you’re never entirely sure what the judgement will be. Are you interesting enough for a longer look? Considered useful enough for a smile? Judged unimportant and politely dismissed?

Or is the smile that of a predator, approving of his prey?

 

The curse was subtle and vicious: it cursed the bearer to tiny bad luck, to those small twists of fate that wear down the hardest mountain with grey disappointment. It dulled his days to tedium, spiralled his thoughts into circles and worked every project into knots and snarls. The problem was that no one could figure out what he had done to earn such a costly revenge. He had no drama in his backstory, no offenses placed against his name; and that seemed the final jab of the curse – to not even deserve another’s carefully-crafted hate.

 

He preferred ‘adaptable’ over ‘slippery’; his pride in his ability to get things done was almost as strong as his stubbornness in staying his course. But it was rare that he was taken aback; he even went so far as to blink.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever offered…help…before.”

The small elf blinked in turn. “It’s called being nice.”

“Yes. Well. That’s not something I’m very good at.” But the tall, imposing necromancer managed something approaching a smile, creasing his face into new lines. Nice… it would need some practise, but this new plan might just work.

 

He was a true Knight in Shining Armour; one that blinded the vision when he appeared, glowing and explosive, inspiring and righteous. Around him, faces would shine and bodies would bow. And when he approached, for a moment everything would be perfect; ideas would flow, projects would work, twists would unsnarl. For a moment, the world was good.

And then he would be summoned away, sweeping off to the next perfect moment, and we would be left in the grey, shattered ruins of our normality.

 

He is friendly, smiling, affable, cheery; always up for a conversation, or a chat and always open to suggestions or ideas. But sometimes, mid-conversation, you’ll see his eyelids flicker for a few seconds – almost as if a thought has been stopped, or a plan redirected.

“I heard he was one of the supreme evil overlords,” kitchen gossip tells me. “Rehabilitated, of course. That’s the therapy kicking in whenever he gets ideas.”

“But we were only talking about cute bunnies…”

“Well, you can make anything evil.”

Writing: Wizards & Work – Part 2

So I was having fun using my workplace as character inspiration – and I did some more silly character studies! These are definitely not intended to be any comment on the character of the original person, even if you do recognise someone as the inspiration – I have absolutely taken liberties 😀

You can also read Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6.

 

The first thing visitors saw on entering the building were the corpses; gigantic monuments frozen into stillness in their last battle, a testament to the ferocity and conquest that we built our history on.

The second thing was the sign, pockmarked with shrapnel and battered by the elements, left rusting and tattered as it announced the company name.

The third thing was the smiling face of the organiser as she prepared to assist, direct or otherwise help the unwary guest.

The entrance would likely be far quieter if more visitors took it upon themselves to wonder what role that smiling face had in the history of the other two items.

 

He was a mischievous sprite, sold into indenture by a previous master and given no way to buy out his contract – but the work suited him, and so he contented himself with tiny pranks on those around. A spell pinned to the back of a cloak that would make the wearer say what they truly thought for the day; a team of imps that rearranged the papers out of order every time they were shuffled; a wandering spell on items to make them amble and hide when least expected. And then, when the prank was discovered, his tiny giggle would ring out, brightening the office for that brief moment of joy.

 

Ze did not like direct sunlight, but that was not particularly unusual for a place that attracted many of the shadow folk; no one had dared ask zir opinions on garlic, and it would have been rude to comment on zir preference for working through the hours of darkness over the day. Ze occasionally spoke of zir homeland, or zir other name, or zir mother tongue: occasionally wistfully referred to somewhere ze had left behind. We never found out why ze had left, or what event had made zir come to us; but ze was a knowledgeable and esteemed worker, and if zir smile occasionally appeared a little too pointy, well – it would have been impolite to mention.

 

He had been granted two wishes; immortality, and speed. Immortality was plain, for he did not age in those long years that he worked within the building – but the speed, that had its price. He was often to be seen zipping around the office, a cheery smile and a welter of chatter heralding his unexpected appearance; but then he would retreat to his cave, and we would find him curled amid the wrappers and packets of his fuel, slumbering until his next mad dash.

 

It was rumoured that he was a shapeshifter; and that he’d accidentally shifted to a human and now couldn’t move back: or that he had somehow split himself in two, sundering his soul into two vessels that he was now searching for ways to combine. Certainly he was frequently in the company of another shifter, an imperious cat, and certainly he disdained humanity – any conversation was brief and annoyed, and he spent most of his days buried in intricate spellwork. But I found that he would answer any direct question, although whether that was spell-driven or not I was never sure; and he did so with something of a smile, as if grateful that someone had discovered the trick.

 

The gentleman was effortlessly polite and charming; always with a bow, a smile or a compliment. His bushy hair was kept trimmed, his dress was always immaculate, and his manner light-hearted; he was often serious, but never dwelled on weighty subjects long enough for that to be noticed.

It was not until I chanced across him one day, crouched in the darkest forests far from the beaten path, that I understood what he kept at bay with his careful walls: the visage of the bear snarled at my hasty retreat, even as the human in his eyes begged for forgiveness.

Writing: Wizards & Work

I seem to have a thing for being inspired by workplaces…Madcap Library came out of a previous library (although without the Sloth, sadly) and I’ve spent the last few days being inspired by my current one – or, more accurately, by the people in it.

The original inspiration came from thinking about books as spells, and working the words into an intricate illusion to delight the reader…and then I started thinking about the people, and putting them into a fantasy setting. While I still want to write something using the book-illusion idea, the people one spiralled on me! I’ve taken an aspect of some of my colleagues, and built a fantasy character around it. That said, for anyone reading who might recognise themselves, it’s definitely not intended to be true to life! The core might be one aspect, but I’ve then bounced off in a completely different direction – and I hope you find them entertaining.

You can also read Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6.

 

The journeyman had walked miles in his previous life, speaking to every spirit, rock, mountain, plant. Some joker had put a spell on his tea-mug to make it walk when it was empty, and so he spent many hours wandering around the office in search of it. “Why did you leave?” I asked him, meeting him in the potions cupboard on one of his frequent excursions.

“They hate us,” he confided. He smiled often, but it rarely reached his eyes. “We’ve put so much pain and mess into them, and they have nothing but dislike. I keep trying, but it’s hard.”

 

He was a wizard of some fearful power; and yet he was a far cry from those power-hungry and rapacious seers I had known before. He filled the office with snatches of song to speed our work, and charm-spoke anyone who came by, making them smile and bow to him with the most willing of hearts. He was a word-weaver of considerable talent, yet one who spent his days helping others with their own spells. He spoke frequently of the world outside, and with the wisdom and foresight that spoke of long hours of study in a previous life – and yet he would often be the source of the frequent laughter rising into the ceiling-panels, ringing out into the still air and making the space above our tables shimmer and shine.

 

She was a weaver of spells and illusions, and of more practical things – she could turn the most chaotic of tresses into beauty as easily as she could fix a broken spellwork, turn raw ingredients into delicacies as simply as she brought order to a vision. But those around knew to tread carefully: the spells that turned so casually to beauty could also be turned to chaos, and one did not step within her reach if the air was dark.

 

An illusionist, he spun the most elegant of clothing, the most dreaming of landscapes, the most terrifying of monsters. He could pick your face out of a blank pad and capture your spirit in nine brush-strokes. He was a creature of sunshine and air, moving with a grace and surety that made the breezes dance around him, bringing light and life to the room anytime he smiled.

“Why here?” I asked him, gesturing to the sterile box around us, filled with bent workers and the hum of magical suppressants.

He shrugged. “Where else should I have gone?”

 

The photographer was one of the first people we met on entering the company; and yet he was unassuming, hiding behind the camera, counting on his diffident air to grant him anonymity. Despite his care, I heard the rumours; he could kill a person in four different ways before their potion had finished brewing; could play any instrument handed to him, charming the creatures out of the trees with it; and could disappear from notice at will, even in an empty room.

His true role was always given as a simple “community support”. If he travelled for occasional periods of time, and at similar times the most vocal disapprovers of our work unexpectedly changed their tone or took refuge in silence, what of it?

 

The fortress has only come under attack once, and it is now the stuff of legend – half truth, half myth, both woven together into a morass of glorious grandeur and terrible feats, raw courage and horrific slaughter.

But those who were there, who remember, carry the scars. And they do not speak of it.

He never changes place, despite eloquent speeches and logical plans; first in from the door, and facing anyone who enters. A necromancer, they say, or an enchanter: sly and cunning with his strategies, ruthless when provoked, and rarely speaking of anything beyond his current work. But take one look at his desk, and one may find a hint of what lies behind the calculating strategist: his walls are lined with tiny figures in rows, frozen into stillness, their weapons at the ready.

 

[I am having fun writing more – and they’re definitely a work in progress! Suggestions always welcome.]