Thread: Night Patrol

The World Engine

Synopsis:

When an explosion tears through the docklands of the port city Grand Gateway, guardsman Jor T'Lesse wants nothing to do with it. But when the investigation is buried and people start disappearing, he finds himself drawn into a conspiracy that runs to the core of his world. Pursued by an enemy that will go to any lengths to silence him, he must survive long enough to answer two questions; Who are they? And What is the World Engine?

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Jor glanced about him, wincing as the salt air touched his stitches. He resisted the urge to raise a hand to it, as touching the scarred ruin of his left jaw only made the pain worse. Focussing elsewhere, he turned his attention to his surroundings. Even at night the docklands were busy, though it didn't compare the full on throng of the day. Ships still docked and unloaded cargo, stevedores still bellowed orders to one another, and the taverns and bars still rocked with the songs and shouts of sailors enjoying their time ashore. The Grand Gateway wasn't so named for nothing. A pity it wasn't as welcoming to outsiders as the name suggested. In the distance, the beacons of the guide towers pierced the sweltering air, illuminating the rocks of the bay for the unwary, and chasing the gulls that still took to the air. He loosened his collar, wishing that the chainmail hauberk of the watch was less constricting, and eased his sword in its scabbard. The other seven members of the patrol shifted their positions and spoke in hushed tones, sensing the mood. Though music poured from every other doorway, the threat of thieves and gangs never waned here.

"Jor?"

He caught a bar or two of a tune he recognised from the Isles, but a motion by the doorway caught his eye. There was a man relieving himself by the doorway. That wasn't it. He raised his lantern, stepping closer. What was...?

"Jor?"

The voice was more urgent. He started and turned quickly, immediately wishing he hadn't as his jaw flared up again. He swore under his breath and looked to Shen, who was staring at him expectantly. The others had stopped too, and Guardsman Herric's bald head was turned in his direction. Wonderful. He glanced back down the alleyway again, but save the one drunkard he saw nothing. He narrowed his eyes, signalling the all clear, and moved off reluctantly. Anyone could be moving in those alleyways, from a cat to a cutpurse. So why was this bothering him? A sharp clatter behind his ear brought a swift end to his train of thought and he swung out instictively, punching Shen in the ribs.

"Ass."

It was painful to speak, each word coming out haltingly. Shen grinned harmlessly, enjoying Jor's discomfort.

"I'm not the one lost in mindless contemplation..."

"And here I was thinking I was doing my job," Jor said, rolling his eyes.

"...of the myriad possibilities of the docklands at night," Shen went on, as though he hadn't heard.

John grinned, shaking his head.

"Look at you with the big words."

"Your eyes should be moving more than your mouths, gents."

The two friends touched their forelocks as Herric's voice cut in. The man hadn't turned around, but it was force of habit. Jor raised an eyebrow, wincing slightly again, and continued in an undertone.

"Still studying?"

"Three nights a week at the House of Three."

"Jenna still onto you to get a new gig?"

"Every damn night."

The two laughed, earning them another look, which they saluted dutifully.

"She's too smart for her own good," Jor continued.

"Figured I might put in with a merchant house once my term's up. You?"

Jor was silent for a moment. The extent of his injuries didn't exactly open doors when it came to careers.

"I might re-enlist."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?!"

"Yes! Why not?"

"You know why not."

All too well. The city was still reeling from the war and the guard especially was horribly understaffed. Under the Stepladder Iniative background was immaterial when hiring for the rebuilding work, if not for that Shen and Jor would be fighting an uphill battle to get a job in the inner city. It didn't bother Jor much, he'd just go back to guarding taverns or debt-collecting. Anything to stay off the ocean. His eye twitched and he raised a hand to still it.

Anything to stay off the ocean.

Shen was looking at him again.

"You never know," Jor said, "I put in my time during the riots. I work every hour Ora sends. Maybe they'll give me a break."

"Maybe. Why you'd want to give this up is beyond me."

Shen didn't look convinced. Jor found it hard to argue with him.

"How're the kids?"

"Still breaking my heart," Shen said, looking glad for the change of subject, "any sharper and they'd cut themselves."

"And you were never as bad? Sh'e'el Kaareth un."

Shen shook his head, turning to eye up a ship loading its cargo. Jor caught another glimpse of motion but when he turned his head it was gone.

"Look," Shen went on, "come over for dinner tomorrow. The kids love you and it'll get Jenna off my case for a few hours."

"Well..."

"We'll even cook that disgusting fish you like."

"Gods, alright, whatever."

Shen grinned.

"So who do you fancy in the cage fights?"

"That blacksmith with the eyepatch...Koorth?"

"Never happen."

There was a spark down the next alleyway.

"You say that now, you just wai..."

There was a flash like a thousand sunrises, a wall of heat hit him and he saw no more.

I really enjoyed this! Your style is very sharp and carries the mood and thoughts of the characters well. There were one or two scentences that jarred a bit, but other than that, very impressive. I really enjoyed the tension of the piece; you know you're waiting for something to happen.

Thanks for reading! I think I know which ones you mean. I've always been stronger at dialogue than the longer descriptives. How to continue now is the trick.

This world seems very well developed. Good job, I can't wait to see what happens next.

though not look-too-developed as it is only a one paragraph, its is written good, iliked it.
sadi before - several sentences were not that good, though as a complex it looks nice. ive that problem too - with descriptions. just focus for a few paragraphs on descriptions and itll be ok - thats what i did at least and i found myself writing description more and better after that
hope you enjoy, i did.

I felt tension and waiting, but still was shocked when it happened, so it's working for me.
As to how to continue, I hope you figure it out soon, because I'm ready to read more!

I know a few things need to be trimmed out and a lot more detail of the world needs to be added, but that can come along in time. For now, I think I know where to go next. Watch this space.

The light, it was so bright. It was the horizon of his childhood, going on forever. He saw his father. Wait, that wasn't his father... It was Herric. Why was he wearing that kilt?

"That's a strange thing to dream of."

Who said that? Jor turned and jumped as he came face to face with a pair of insanely green eye framed by locks of black hair. The face laughed and started getting further away. Where was it goi...?

JOr hit the floor with a thud, crying out in pain as he jerked awake. Where? What? He grabbed at the nearest solid object and tried to pull himself upright. His arm, however, wasn't cooperating, and he fell back heavily. His head ached, throbbing out a rhythm he could almost dance to. Laughing bitterly at how stupid he must have looked, he lay back a moment to catch his breath. This obviously wasn't the docks. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. There was a spark, and then something hit him. There was too much noise after that. So how did he get here? Where was here?

One thing at a time, Jor.

He still had the full set of arms, legs and eyes, so that was something. There was a spot on the ceiling. He'd seen it before, hadn't he? He tried to sit up, but fell back again, clutching at his side. Something smooth and very unlike skin met his touch. A bandage? Was he injured? He blinked, breathing faster. What was going on? Where was everybody? The floor smelled of polish, mud and brinesoap, and lingering somewhere under that was another smell.

Blood.

Slowly, he reached out for the bedboard and levered himself into a sitting position. The world tilted for a moment, taking his stomach with it, but he fought through it. He just needed to focus on breathing. In and out. A minute of this and he was ready for the next step, rising to his feet in a manner not unlike a drunk tackling a stairs. He smiled at the image, wincing as his jaw flared up. It felt different. He put a hand to it tentatively, his fingers meeting the same material that covered his side. Had he torn his stitches? He tucked that question away with the rest.

Alright, Jor, you're upright. Now wake the hell up.

He blinked again, glancing around. The room was long and narrow, with plain, whitewashed walls and lined with bunk-beds and wooden lockers with a few tables and chairs scattered about. Light spilled in through three narrow windows, casting shapes across the floorboards and picking out the dust motes that hung in mid air. He could hear voices and movement below him. Bellowed orders and marching feet. The barracks then? He swallowed, and made his way to the nearest window. The floor was warm, and smooth from the passing of countless feet. He wasn't limping, which was welcome news, and the world wasn't whirling quite as fast anymore. Taking solace in small mercies, he rested his weight against the window frame and looked outside.

The lower city guard kept a barracks in each of the four districts, each designed to hold a hundred people in relative comfort, with room for more if need be. The courtyard below him was thronged, though only a fraction of the bodies wore guard tunics. He saw upper city uniforms, castle guards, unmarked garb that could only be mercenaries and even the red sash of an Arbiter. Something big was going down, and he intended to find out what. He straightened, glancing down at himself. Just as soon as he found his clothes.

Opening the nearest locker, he paused a moment. It was empty, but he looked himself up and down in the mirror beside it. A tall stormkin with a mess of black hair tucked behind his lobeless ears looked back at him, blue skin marred by scars and the two bandages. He leaned in, checking the damage to his face. The bandage hid the worst of the scarring. His jaw was swollen, but his hawkish features and flat nose seemed no worse than when that mace had pushed them all to the right. The blue eyes looked haggard. Holding his gaze briefly, he shook his head and resumed searching. His uniform had to be here somewhere. Damn the quartermaster and his 'no quarter for foreign squatters attitude'. Finding his gear was like a lucky dip sometimes. He was so annoyed, he almost didn't hear the scuttling steps from the door.

"You're up," said a high-pitched, chittering voice. "We thought you'd be nursing that scratch for a while yet."

He hissed in pain as the voice cut through the throbbing in his head.

"You know me," Jor said, reflexively, "I have to be awkward."

It was a knee-jerk response; the kind that didn't endear him to anyone and he regretted it instantly. The silkin didn't seem to mind, its six legs moving in concert as it crossed the room to him. He resisted the urge to shiver. There was always something predatory about silkin, and this one was no different, all red chitin, mandibles and glassy black eyes, its movements deliberately slow. It, or rather he, now that Jor got a good look at the colouring, wore a loose fitting guard tunic over his thorax and tilted his bulbous head to the side as he approached, clutching a sheaf of parchment in one three clawed hand.

"You are well?"

Jor straightened and shrugged. Who was this? He could barely make out the rank pins on the collar, and he had the unsettling feeling that the man knew more about him than he'd like.

"That's one word for it, sir."

The man chuckled, a sound somewhere between a chirp and a squeal, his mandibles twitching oddly. There was tension in Jor's stomach. The man seemed to sense this and motioned for him to relax. Jor tried to.

"That's to be expected. You took a bad knock even before you were gassed."

Gassed? He just took a bad hit from the blast, there hadn't been any gas. Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, as the man pointed to a nearby seat, which Jor took reluctantly.

"Relax, guardsman," he said jovially, his chittering voice grating on Jor more and more, "we've met before. Arbiter Qerx."

Had they? Jor had his doubts. The lack of a sash was conspicuous, but he kept that to himself. Qerx was looking at him expectantly. Not knowing what else to do, Jor extended his hand, which Qerx shook briefly.

"Nice to meet you....again."

"You too," Qerx said, chuckling again, then turning serious. "Have you remembered any more since we last talked?"

Jor narrowed his eyes. A spark and a blast were all he recalled. For some reason the woman in his dream was trying sidle into that memory. He shook his head.

"Before you passed out," Qerx went on, "you stated that you saw someone moving through the wreckage, correct?"

This was news to him. His mouth moved wordlessly and he shook his head. The tension was back in his stomach and his head felt two sizes too small. He focussed on the light cast by the window, fighting down a wave of nausea.

"If you say so."

Qerx looked up sharply.

"Are you saying this isn't true?"

What did he want him to say? That he had all the answers? Probably. Jor tapped out a tune on the seat, restlessly, his other hand moving in tandem. He shook his head again slowly, trying to find the words.

"No...I just...can't...remember."

"That's not what you said yesterday. Or the day before."

Jor looked at him with such a look of perplexity that Qerx just stopped.

"Nothing at all?"

"Just the blast."

Qerx stood motionless, measuring him. Jor met his gaze levelly. Finally Qerx lowered the parchment and passed a hand over his eyes.

"You're being placed on medical leave for three days," he said, "get some rest, and try to think back. We'll be in touch."

Shaking his hand once more, Qerx turned and scuttled off. Jor groaned and gripped his head with both hands. What the hell had he done except get knocked out? Three days. Why didn't they just sack him altogether and save themselves the effort? The light moved on the floor. Sighing, he forced himself upright and went back to the lockers.

Hey, Slayer, long time no see. Really glad to read your writing again, this is coming along well. The silkin was a pleasant shock, I didn't expect to see characters other than humans in this for some reason and this is a creative idea. Good stuff, I hope you continue.

Don't be a stranger.

Heya. None of the characters you've met so far are human. And yeah, I hope I do too.

He spet ten minutes tearing every door open and tossing every bed before he gave up and headed for the door. This was ridiculous. Everything else was still there, so where the hell were his things? Traipsing around in his small clothes was fairly low on his wishlist. He stepped out into the hall, scratching his head. Where the hells could it be? He stopped short, catching sight of the room number over the door.

"That would be it, wouldn't it?"

He calmly took a breath and just as calmly forced his hand to unclench. It did explain a few things. Such as how he had a view of the practise yard despite his bunk being on the wrong side of the building for it. The fact that he was recovering from what was probably a serious head injury was irrelevant. He didn't need this sort of thing happening. Bad enough he'd had to present himself to an Arbiter in his unmentionables. Grumbling under his breath, he crossed the hall to room one and opened his locker.

"Three days."

What was he supposed to do for three days? He mulled it over, pulling his shirt on. He hadn't the coin to do more than stroll around, but maybe the taverns were hiring. He reached for his trousers. Yes, and with the explosion all of the punters had probably relocated to other taverns. New bodies stirred up tensions, which made plenty of opportunity for security work. Would they hire a guardsman on leave though? He smiled to himself.

Only one way to find out.

And hey, if he lucked out and landed some work he might even get the skivvy on what really happened. Three nights of free beer and gossip while he watched the wenches work the room. Jor shook his head at the fantasy, but couldn't stop the smile from spreading further. This place was a bad influence on him. He had his jacket on and was halfway down the hall when obvious occurred to him. If he'd been brought in unconscious, then why wasn't his gear in the room with him? Why had it been in his locker? He did a quick double take, the worn leather of the jacket creaking with the motion. It was probably Slek or Harf playing tricks on him, that was all. Hells, just the week before they'd carted some poor bastard out into the parade grounds while he slept, bed and all. The man woke up mid parade and missing half his facial hair. Jor smiled. They'd laughed hard after that one. How hard were they laughing now?

He felt his hand twitch and he took a deep breath, massaging his wrist. It had to be that. But what had Qerx said? He'd spoken to him yesterday and the day before? He shook his head. No, the last Silkin he'd spoken to was that tailor that tried to rob him blind, and that was a month ago. Yesterday indeed. Thus reassured, he redoubled his pace, straightening his clothes as he went. He had to keep a straight face; it was the only way to survive the wave of abuse he'd get once he made it outside. Even so, he'd never seen the barracks so empty. The whole contingent must have been out there on the square. It wouldn't have surprised him. That explosion happening so soon after the riots was like kicking the anthill all over again. He shivered, deliberately not touching his jaw. The bites from the last time were sore enough.

He paused halfway down the stairwell, glancing at the stonework. It never ceased to amaze him how big these buildings were on the inside. You could squeeze the full complement in here and still have a job finding them. It just went to show that the Stonewalkers thought ahead. Being an Islander, he nothing to compare this to. Not on the same scale, but then nothing really could compare to the Gateway. He was more familiar with ships and woodwork than stone and glass. Or at least he had been. His hand twitched again. It was starting to ache.

Something about this piece is missing, and i think visual detail is what it is. more sights, sounds, smell, felling etc kind of detail would bring this piece up a long ways. Other then that i like what you have so far.

Like it's said before, your style is very sharp, quick, and grabbing. It's not hard to follow, and is in general well written. I especially like the way you finished the first chapter.

Thanks for reading, both of you! Right now, I'm trying to concentrate on actually following the story through to completion, but I understand what you mean about the descriptions. Is that really what we notice every minute of all the time though? I still need to get through the airships, the description of the city, not to mention all of the other races that populate this colourful place.

Putting stone from his mind, or at least trying to, he breathed in the smell of polished timber and continued downstairs. The barracks was eerily quiet, with the exception of the usual support staff, coming and going through the rooms, cleaning or carrying papers. He never really knew if they were as put off by foreigners like him as the rest were, but in the end, he supposed, it didn’t matter. More to the point, the fleeting glimpses of civilisation they represented were comforting in a way.

He rolled his shoulders, listening to the soft creak of his leather jacket as it echoed off the walls. The sound was like laughter; mocking and musical. He smiled to himself. Perhaps he needed the leave more than he thought he did. He passed training rooms, interrogation rooms, stores and more, and none with more than the basic complement of staff. Some of them even waved to him, which he dutifully returned. They weren’t all bad, and he was groggy enough to ignore the concerned looks he was getting as he passed. All he noticed was the smell of oiled metal overlaying the older smells of dust, sweat and the sea.

“T’lesse! Ya finally got your malingering arse up then I see.”

That was a voice he recognised. He stopped midstride, halfway to the main door. He was so close too. Turning, he came to attention smartly and saluted, fist to heart. Technically he didn’t have to, not being in full uniform and all that, but it never hurt. Plus it caught people off guard. The Cattan standing ramrod straight in the doorway however, didn’t even blink.

“As you were.”

He relaxed a bit.

“Soras, just the cat I wanted to yell at me.”

“Can it filth,” said the quartermaster, a little too gruffly to have meant it.

“As if you could make me.”

Soras could, and then some, but no sense in giving him ideas. The man’s eyes sparked dangerously, but Soras kept his arms folded, pink tongue running lightly over his too sharp teeth and ears twitching rhythmically. Though no less predatory, Cattan were a lot easier to stomach than Silkin. Two eyes was the right amount of eyes after all. Although, he reflected, taking in the gray-black fur that covered Soras from head to paw, they did overcompensate a bit for their cuddly appearance. He just needed to make it through this conversation and he was away. Forcing an insolent grin onto his face and pray it wasn’t too lopsided, he waited for what came next. Soras tilted his head to one side, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t start, kitten,” he growled, flexing one clawed hand, “the bug find you?”

“They always do.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Silkin were very, very good at finding things. It probably had something to do with all those eyes they had. He suppressed a shiver. Creepy, sodding, scuttling attic lurkers the lot of them. Soras raised an eyebrow. It was an old trick of his, trying to get you to give something away. It didn’t work on him. Mostly. Jor leaned back, letting the moment stretch.

“Three days, he tells me.”

Jor said nothing, simply raising both eyebrows as though it were obvious. Three sodding days. Soras’ jaw was working independently of him. And was he imagining it or was that same look of concern dancing across Soras’ eyes. The sooner he was out of here and could down a good drink the better. Not knowing what to say, Jor turned to leave.

“I didn’t dismiss you, filth.”

“Hell with that, I’m on leave.”

The next thing he felt was an impact across his jaw as he was lifted into the air. He hit the ground heavily and spat blood, feeling to make sure he still had all of his teeth. The Cattan stood over him, breathing heavily.

“If you hadn’t saved my brother, you’d be out on your ass,” he said, finally. “Dismissed.”

“Thought I was out,” Jor said, more for the satisfaction of having the last word than anything else.

Soras didn’t reply, all but marching off and out of sight. Saved his brother though? That was a new one. Coughing, Jor made his way slowly to his feet and spat after him. Gaters, they were all insane. Maybe that was why he got along with them. He put a hand up to his now bleeding, bandaged jaw and headed for the door, nodding to the guard as he approached. The man, a Sandskin who stood a good head and shoulders taller than him, looked him up and down briefly before pulling the lever next to him. There was a metallic thunk and the mechanism clattered into motion. Jor loved watching it even more than he loved the stonework walls. The gears and latches rumbled and clicked with a precision that was beyond frightening, pulling weights and counterweights as the heavy steel doors swung home and sunlight flooded in. Nodding his thanks , he stepped out into the practise yard and there was another thunk as the doors shut behind him.