Sparx

Very interesting, indeed. I'd definently read on because i'd love to know more about this strange, junkyard city. Ive always wanted to write steampunk and you've pulled it off briliantly with this opneing chapter. I'll read the rest of it soon. Is this a new novel project by any chance or an extention of the pocketworld universe.

PS. LOL, are we still up for that pocket world project?

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"KNIVES AND RHYMES"

MiloDaePesdan

Yep, this is an extension of the pocketworld universe. I'm about to drop the relatively peaceful pace of the story off the cliff, by the way, so expect things to get much, much faster by the end of the next post.

But there's something about the city and not just the junkyard that's very odd, which I've been hinting all along. *evil grin* There's a reason why I haven't put a name to any places.



PS: Lmao, any time you're ready. I've a technical idea I want to try out, nothing to do with the plot itself but how we're going to write it.

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c21lostboy

Lurkin! Didn't spot any nits in your last major post. Lurkin at the back for the next...

By the way (going to reveal my ignorance now) where does your name, MiloDaePesdan, come from and/or what does it mean? It's been bugging the hell out of me, believe it or not!

MiloDaePesdan

Author's Note: you know the first snippet of chapter III? Well, that happens after a couple of scenes. I wasn't happy with the way it started. Thank the Lord for drafting! I chose to rewrite that chapter, and here is a snippet of the result:

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III

Hans groaned and raised a hand over his head to ward off the morning sun. He blinked, then squinted up at the timbers of the cottage roof. The rattling noise still clattered and clicked in his ears, and he threw off the thin sack coverlet over his pallet to sit up.

"It's worse than I thought."

The old master rested on a stool and leaned his hands on the hilt of a sabre. The blade reflected the box-like device tucked in a corner of the shack. Gerald's iron features hardened the longer the machine continued to rattle away on the small table set for it.

"Something wrong, milord?" Hans jerked upright only to flinch when his stomach protested from last night's hasty actions. He stretched, slowly. "Ouch."

Gerald turned from the telegraph and cursed. "The army's reconnaissance elements are on the move. Dirigibles, spies, the whole can of worms. This is sooner than I thought--I should've kept the old maxim in mind. No plan survives contact with the enemy. That's why they're called the enemy."

"What happened?" Hans looked around. "Where's Priscilla?"

"Taking a bath. Veronica's standing guard." Gerald rose and put a hand to his back; the audible pop and crack was loud in the room. "Damn. Why of all days do I have to feel my age today?"

"Something the matter, milord?" Hans asked again. They had discussed many things long into the night, and by his master's grim tone half the plans they'd woven had just unraveled.

"Yes. But that is nothing for you to worry about now. All your concern should be for my niece."

Gerald slung the sword over his shoulder back into its baldric. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, scratching the fuzz on his chin. Hans wished, not for the umpteenth time, that he could follow his master's line of thinking. Logic is a straight path. But with others who had their own schemes to oversee, the conflicting strategies tended to tangle things. Hans held his head. Even thinking about it prickled his brain with needles.

The master straightened. Hans knew that determined poise of old. Knew it well enough to have seen the decisions that followed cast him from on high and out of the Patrician post. "Well, I suppose there's no other option. Hans. You're still going to escort my niece and Nile to Little Willie's graveyard. But the instant the situation turns hot, pull out and let Nile's men deal with it. There'll be enough blood spilled by the end of this."

"Milord? You mean they're attacking already?"

"Of course. The reinforcements from upriver were sitting in barracks for over a week."

Hans stiffened. It felt like someone had caught his heart in a vise and was ready to squeeze the blood out of it. "But, milord, that means--"

Gerald looked at him sideways, and nodded. "That the information we have is a week old. They're not going to give us time to prepare any further. Or any time at all. All I have are the remnants of 13th Battalion: four companies of light infantry, one company of dragoons. Skirmishers and raiders. About five to six hundred able-bodied men. The irregulars among Nile's people don't count; they'll be busy with the evacuation."

He hesitated. "And maybe the ghosts of Little Willie. That'll give us armor and another hundred men."

He saw bewilderment on Hans' youthful face, and the smile Gerald shared was bitter to see. "By the Book, they're rebels and traitors to the Crown. But they were...dismissed from service a long time ago. Then again, they're all supposed to be dead, so how can you hang a dead man?

"Look after my niece, Hans. You're the man for it."

Hans watched his master leave. Inside, he grappled with his demons. He recalled the confrontation before the church, and the strange, disciplined men in Sunday clothing. Now he knew how the rats became so organized. Without Gerald or those dissatisfied men to keep order they would dissolve into anarchy. Well, perhaps not. There was the formidable Nile to consider. He still couldn't get over the fact a woman was his master's executive officer. Good thing he'd kept his lips shut.

If he thought about it, his master's parting words had a ring of finality to it.

No, that wasn't possible. The master was made of stern stuff.



-----
Comments? Peeved I had to go and rearrange the nice, comfortable furniture? If you catch any nits, do tell.

On another note:

Lostboy--can I call you that?--my name is a mess. Lol.

Milo - corrupted from a character in Lois McMaster Bujold's space opera, The Warrior's Apprentice.

Dae - first-name attached to many a dwarf name in the dwarf/Hylar arc of the Dragonlance universe.

Pesdan - completely and utterly random. I was thinking of pandas and pests that day.

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c21lostboy

Nope! Prefered your rewrite so you did the right thing, I believe. Plus I found a nit in this one, whereas I didn't in the other!!!

I'd replace 'over' with 'from'. Having 'coverlet' and 'over' side by side doesn't work.

Thanks for explaining your name. I can quit trying to work it out now! And calling me Lostboy is fine.

Quote:

Good writing is like crack and magic mushrooms.

Haven't you just added 'magic mushrooms' in? Does this mean we've got to mix magic mushrooms with crack before we can find out what good writing is like? lol.

Fortunately, if this is true, I don't have to do it as I can just pick up a good book and then I'll know what crack and magic mushrooms are like!! - hehe.

MiloDaePesdan

Lol. Good writing is really addictive, though. I've seen people with a direct link to an author get so addicted they pay so much for the final rough draft of an e-book when it comes out--$20 American dollars--when they could perfectly wait for the editors to polish the end product, which is only $3 to 4 American dollars. And when the hardcover/paperback comes out, they bloody well buy like mad! Ain't pulling your leg.

Next snippet:

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Gerald found Nile perched on the luggage rack of a broken-down carriage. She dangled her legs over the side like a child of seven, boots banging against the fogged windows. She flashed him a tired grin, then tossed over a small object. "Here. What d'you think, old man?"

Dawn fire caught in the frame's smooth gray metal. Gerald kept up a semblance of calm examination. What he truly wanted to do was disassemble the handgun to its component pieces and hammer his brain on how it worked. From the snakeskin pattern running down the stock to the bulky barrel and action, it exuded a lethality no small revolver could match.

"Smith and Wesson's 1911 model. Single-action, semi-automatic, what with the magazine and all. Not a piddly Colt revolver. Ripped it out of a spy's arse we found sniffing about the troops. It'll make a good keepsake along with the spare ammo for your niece. That is, if she knows how to fire a gun. Lord deliver me from fool girls with guns. Shoot and weep."

Nile gazed at the azure-pink sky. Clouds splotched with orange crawled across the heavens. She pulled copper strands of hair back into her ponytail, and nodded to herself. "Today's a good day to die."

He made sure the safety was on, then tucked it in his belt. "How far did these spies get?"

"Far enough to make me shoot two men and one woman," Nile said in a very low voice. "They saw this coming since the time they dropped you on me. Maybe the bluebloods planned this out since that day. And you being their oblivious pawn. I don't like it."

Gerald shot her a weary look. "But they have no knowledge of the full extent of the...abilities or of Skinner's kind. They think the forest is filled only with dumb animals."

"Oh bollocks, I know and I don't care. I told you, I've my ground to protect."

"What if we evacuate our people to the forest?"

"And shoot for the pot, then get all the beasts mad at us? We you first arrived here, you told me the bloody cats were grumbling about how we keep poaching prey in the woods. But we can only get so much food smuggled in! It's harder now, anyway. A runner told me they've blockaded the river ports."

She dropped from her seat with a feline's grace and faced him squarely. "The Lost Battalion is all fired up and ready to go. I don't know about Little Willie's ghosts since they're under a completely different command, but they've got the crews on standby if it drops deep enough in the pot. We need to figure out where the bastards are coming from."

Gerald nodded at the logic, but his heart was no longer in it. Always keep an eye out for escape routes. If things got as messy as he thought it'd be, and the possibility of fighting again presented itself, discretion was the better part of valor. The mantra from years of a difficult, clandestine fight was heavy on his back, and he found he could no longer carry the weight alone.

"They'll come upriver from East End, right on Little Willie's doorstep," Gerald replied.

Nile stepped closer to him. She stood a good head shorter, so she had to crane her head a bit. "Then we'd better have the reception committee forewarned and forearmed, doncha think, old man?"

Her eyes blazed a startling hazel brown. When the sun came up over the junkyard's debris, they kindled with all the fires of a harsh, unforgiving lifestyle with little reward along the way. Gerald took a deep, controlling breath, and looked away.

"I'll be sure to pass them the message. Now I must talk with my niece."

The fires died down to cooled embers. Nile wiped dust from the corner of her eye, and sighed. "'New love! True love! The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, and you'd best go look for a new love.'"



-----
Comments appreciated!

__________________

MiloDaePesdan

This here is the first portion of the chapter y'all read before the redrafting. I gave the POV to Hans, since I realized something I hadn't till Priscilla spoke up in the earlier version. This is not just a story about the runaway girl. This is the story of the people she meets.

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By mid-afternoon, the junkyard was packed.

Hans kept on the alert, acting rearguard to the three women ahead of him. The people all had the look of cutthroats weathered by hard living. Even the women looked dangerous. A thin screen of dust motes swirled in the sunlight and blanketed streets, homes, and passersby alike.

Since the general alarm was sounded--a military bugle from the cab-stack towers every other hour--the entire population had turned out. They were all on the move, never stopping at one place too long or taking the time to admire how high the sun had risen. All were being evacuated. If a few were stubborn enough to insist on staying inside whatever nook or hovel they'd grown attached to, they got blackjacked and dragged out by their mates along with whatever loot was to be found.

He glanced at Priscilla, sandwiched between Veronica and Nile. After being with her for so long he was able to gauge her feelings. Hot and flustered, she clutched Skinner to her breast. She looked too conscious, too aware of herself in her clothes. The many bandages wrapped around her wounds brought on the heat, but so did the free movement offered in trousers and a blouse. He worried she'd trip in skirts, and Hans didn't want anything to slow them on the way. But seeing the number of eyes on them, he wondered again. Many of their women were clothed in a similar fashion: pantaloons, trousers, and breeches of the gaudiest colors. If anything, they flaunted their femininity.

Skinner purred and nuzzled her cheek.

"Thank you, Skinner." Priscilla allowed a faint smile to brighten her pale features.

Hans relaxed. Maybe they were staring at the cat. His fuzzy orange fur and huge jade eyes were so irresistible. He weighed very little in the nest of her arms. The pets at home--when they weren't trying to avoid her--had the tendency to look spoiled, mean, and pudgy. And he was cute, too! Not that he was willing to admit that in front of the preening furball.

Then again, there was an untouchable something in the sight of three women, each of a different class and stature, walking arm-in-arm down the street together.

The marmalade simply looked smug. He purred again, a warm, vibrating mass of fur and comfort.

Nile squinted. "What the blazes is up with that darn cat? He's been purring non-stop since we left the old man's place."

Veronica sniffed under her bonnet. "Milord is not an old man."

"Old is old," Nile riposted, and grinned. "He's got iron in his hair. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was steel. Oh, don't worry, handmaid, he's a tough old man."

"You're in severe need of a bath and a grooming. Wench."

Determined to draw the topic away from her uncle, and seeing how the two women glared at each other, Priscilla touched on their destination. "Where are we going, by the way?"

A squad of men in scruffy brown uniforms saluted Nile as they approached. The reek of gunpowder, blood, and unwashed bodies hit the roof of Hans' nostrils, and he snorted to clear his nose. An officer in his white bowl helmet with an unshaven chin allowed the patrol to carry on. He bowed from the waist, and the saffron ribbon of a tarnished medal gleamed on his chest.

Nile returned the courtesy before moving on. "A friend's. He's got enough maps to supply all the officers in the army twice over, and we need maps of the city."

"Oh. The invasion of the city, you mean?" Priscilla asked.

"Trips so casually off your tongue, eh, you little witch." Nile's grin subsided into a grimace as if she'd bitten something tart. "But it looks like we're going to be invaded first. Bloody bastards are already here. And don't think they aren't looking for you now that your mother's two best blackguards here have defected. If it weren't for the Lost Battalion I'd insist on a larger guard for you."

"Lost Battalion?" Veronica inquired.

"A gift from the colonies of the sunny southern lands." Now her grimace turned into a snarl. She slowed her walk. "'Missing in action' my right leg! Don't get me started. Enough men have survived, only to find their country screws them over. 'Oh dear, we've no employment for poor Tommy.' 'Wash your own uniform, imperialist pig!' 'We serve no redcoats here.'

"Don't ask, handmaid. Just don't ask."

Nile walked on, head lowered and subdued in memories Hans knew he couldn't even begin to comprehend. He looked long and hard at her back, at those sculpted shoulders rigid with anger. But another observation struck him. These people were tired. Very, very tired of it all. Just because they lived in a junkyard doesn't mean they want to live here. The thought made him feel as small as a child again.

He made a mental note not to call them rats again.

Skinner peeked over Priscilla's shoulder, as if he'd heard Hans' resolution. "Miaou."

Times were worse than he thought.

Nile straightened and drew to a halt. They'd been steadily traveling eastward, and the imposing walls of junk broke open to reveal a wide plain. "He's in there."

Hans stared at the mass of armored tanks scattered throughout the sun-golden field, and thought of sleeping lions.



-----
C&C?

__________________

MiloDaePesdan

Okay, things are gonna get a little confusing, but the next post after this should just about clear up most of the questions.



-----

Gerald put down the brass eyepiece and cursed. The bloated shape of an airship was approaching from the south and showed no signs of stopping. Too high for guns, and they hadn't any anti-air countermeasures with the range to reach it from here. They kept their distance, but chances were that if he could see them, they could see him.

He tucked away the scope in the folds of his rags, then looked down from his vantage point atop a pyramid of scrapped tractors and farming equipment. He wished they had a more secure location to set up headquarters. Within minutes of his niece's departure the Lost Battalion had rigged up a command center.

His lean-to was gone, and the cottage was converted to a communication's shack. Runners darted in and out of the sanctuary bearing messages from the irregulars, who had insisted in joining battle despite their relative inexperience and disorganization. Machine-gun emplacements were dug facing the ruined manor. Barbed wire was rolled out. The drum of marching feet, the dull thump of spade against earth, and the insidious clatter of rifles being checked and loaded--it all warded off the flat nothingness of dead silence.

The cats had gone, departed for the forest to prepare their own.

A voice spoke up behind him. "The odds are one in a million that you'll survive this, Scrapped Baron."

Gerald didn't bother to turn. He knew what he'd see, but it still raised all his hairs on end. A little boy, less than half his height, with skin blacker than night, hair whiter than snow, and eyes of a piercing amber more frightening than the ancient forest's green. He could feel them boring into his back.

Once, when he still had his office, he'd gone to the annual summer ball his Majesty held for his Queen. A colonial bunch of officers had attended, and the stories they told of exotic lands he could only envision had entertained an audience throughout the night. But among them he'd heard of beasts and fierce cats, and how the creatures couldn't keep eye contact. They concluded this confirmed man's superiority over animals.

He'd wondered what the beasts felt, when they stared into man's curious eyes, and looked away.

"And where have you been all this time?" Gerald asked. A patrol had just entered, and they bore a wounded man on a stretcher. "I could have used your presence when my niece--but it was you and not one of my old friends who helped her escape, correct?"

"Tracking my prey. And yes, I did help her." The voice held a calm yet fatal quality to it. "I found my enemy, and I'm sorry to say it has taken complete control of your sister-in-law."

Gerald squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes. The man's leg was dark with blood despite the tight bandages. "I take it Rachel can't be saved."

"No. I'm sorry, Baron."

That confused him. The sorrow this boy felt towards another who was his inferior.

"I am my Father's son. It is who I am, just as my enemy is what it is by nature. I'm not one of the gods, to feel nothing towards others."

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Smoke rose from the south, and Gerald gritted his teeth. "Have you found your sister yet?"

"She is not here. But I cannot go, not yet. The gods have meddled too often. They make mortals--what's the expression, ah--cannon fodder for their games. I will not leave this place without an Arbiter to guard the Bridge of Heaven."

This time, Gerald did turn.

"And I can guess who's up for the candidacy," he growled.

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. The white robes he wore hadn't even a smudge of grease. "She's the closest. She is effectively immune to other abilities, and that will be very useful in catching my prey. I will speak with her."

Gerald's fists clenched. "Murder Rachel, you mean. Murder her own mother."

"Rachel is already dead. The monster ate her soul and controls her body. That's why it's called a doppelganger."



-----
Any questions? Comments? Lol. If you wonder where this boy sprang out of the blue, I've added a small prologue in the first page as a hint.

Speak up, you lot. We're nearing the turning point of the story.

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mashowasho

Erm, who is Rachel and... what, she's been eaten by monsters and something is impersonating her?

And no, I still don't know who the boy is or where he randomly appeared from.


Other than that, I heartily commend your writing. The description/dialogue balance is just right, and it flows beautifully. Stempunk isn't naturally my thing, but this is so well written that I let it slide. Heh.

And who is Little Willie? Am I being really unobservant here?
masho

__________________

We can only learn so much and live.

c21lostboy

Man, you're packing it in! That would be my only big nit at this point. I know you're writing this for the forum, which is great as I'm enjoying it. However, there's a hell of a lot of characters to follow and remember who's doing what, when and where!

I am tracking with it, but that side of it is tough. If you're going to do something similar in the future (which I hope you do) then maybe consider introducing characters and plot elements at a slightly slower pace so that we (probably just me, actually!) can keep up!

Caught a couple of nits for you - the b******s get everywhere! You've got 3 major posts in a row, so I'll take them one at a time:1, 2 and 3.

Post 1.

Took me several reads to get this sentence. What last time? Did you mean 'cats' or 'cats were' or 'cat had'? Still a bit confused here!

That 'and' after the first comma really throws the sentence out. I read it and at the end I said, "and what?"

Stupid one this. Guess you meant 'down' and not 'own'.

Post 2.

Think it should be 'on' not 'in'.

I'd replace the full stop after 'handmaid' with a comma. It flows better that way.

We've already got that she thinks he's a man of integrity so having her state it is overkill. This'd be better if it was more antagonistic, along the lines of:

"Who are you calling handmaid, wench?"

followed by a slapping mud fight... sorry, lost it there for a second.

Post 3.

You can omit the 'of'.

You keep 'em coming and I'll keep knocking 'em down. lol. Oh, how easy it is to critique!

Thanks for the crit (and defence) on my piece, by the way.

slayerofangels

Wow, this really does warrant a full read...

Looks good so far, but I'll have to come back to it later for a proper critique.

__________________

For Sale: One soul. Mint condition, never been used.

Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster. And if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Sparx

Just finished chapter 1 and i'll be reading chapter 2 as soon as i have time. But this is really good. I wonder how Hans knew this Gerald Melbourne and why did he call him:"milord." Hopefully my questions are answered in chapter 2.

__________________

"KNIVES AND RHYMES"

slayerofangels

Ok, aside from some spelling and a little confusion here and there, it's all good. Love the description, tone, and pace, though some of the language seems a bit rushed.

Kudos
Slayer

__________________

For Sale: One soul. Mint condition, never been used.

Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster. And if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

MiloDaePesdan

Mashowasho: more about Rachel when Pris & co. head into the city. And yes, she's dead, metaphysically speaking.

Lostboy: thanks for catching those nits. Lol.

Sparx: it can only get better. I hope.

Slayerofangels: can you point out one spot where it seems rushed?

----

Okay, you lot, consider this as a filler or worldbuilding. I'm sort of in the middle of something else at the moment, but I will get back to it. And I promise the next post after this will answer most of the unspoken questions/puzzles--in fact, it will restate the answers for those who didn't guess them already. This is to make way for the white-haired boy question: who in hellfire is he, and where did he pop up?

And Mashowasho? The answer to who--or what--Little Willie is inside this post. And if you really want to know...go google it.

Now I'm gonna run before y'all lynch me. Lol.

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They picked their way past the long shadows thrown by row upon row of war machines. Delaminated steel hides and rusted cannon bores loomed above them beside towers of massive field artillery pieces. Hans could only imagine the ear-shattering explosions of the heavy shells, or the ominous clanking of the tanks' treads. A cold chill shivered down his spine. He could almost hear it, almost taste the dirty mud they threw up in their passage. But the forlorn machinery stood quiet, and slumbered in a blanket of golden grass.

Nile stopped, a dry smile tugging on the edge of her lips. "There's Little Willie."

A squat machine sat on its tracks and denied entry inside an arrangement of other tanks, in a formation Hans recognized as circling the wagons. It sprawled at a width of four meters and at least double that for the length, a rusticated boxy mass of boilerplate, gears, and twin gun ports like the hollowed eyes of the dead. A moveable dummy turret rested at one end on rails, while the tail wheel jutted out the rear, limping like half a tractor. Hans squinted. Stenciled on the side in fading letters was the name: Little Willie.

Hans blanched at hearing the low rumble of an active engine. The machine still functioned? "Not so little after all."

His ears picked up a hullabaloo inside the ring, a steady metallic din with an undercurrent of curses and shouted orders. What were they doing in there?

BOOM!

The sudden mushroom of black smoke told all he needed to know. Hans did not want to know.

A man in the same scraggly brown uniform they'd seen before popped the hatch and put on a professional glare. "Halt! State yer name and business!"

"Canaille and company," Nile answered in a haphazard manner. "We're here to kick the bollocks out of them bluebloods. Where's the colonel?"

Veronica coughed into a delicate fist. "Ahem."

"Offended, handmaid? Well, you should be. You're blue all over--it's a wonder you haven't frozen the ground you walk on."

"Wench. Better the ground frozen than the filth you drop in your wake."

Another man popped up with a heliograph mirror, and nodded. "You're cleared. Hold on a second."

Little Willie turned slowly. If the tail wheels weren't there to assist, the driver would rear-end another tank. The treads lacked the ability to 'spin on a shilling' without making a wide circle, as Hans had seen the newer models the army employed do without breaking a tread.

Hans dug into his pockets. "Here, Priscilla. Earplugs."

The girl smiled and nodded her thanks. But she tucked them in Skinner's flattened ears, who didn't like the noise one bit.

They squeezed through the narrow opening. The mechanical heartbeat of the petrol engine thudded in Han's ears. He put down the slight feeling of claustrophobia as a wish not to get flattened by the tank's all-too capable treads. The sentry on duty gave Nile a careless salute with two fingers.

"The colonel's holed up in the Flying Elephant!" he yelled. "We're kinda busy at the moment, marm!"



The hullabaloo bordered on pandemonium. Soldiers, engineers, and soot-blackened mechanics milled about five metal behemoths. Smoke belched out the side of one tank. Steam escaped in a deafening hiss from a ruptured boiler. The combination of noise and fumes balked Veronica, who looked down at the steadily frayed state of her dress. Oil, dust, and grime had taken their toll.

"Worried?" Hans asked, and swallowed to clear the dry taste of ash in his mouth. Apart from regular name-calling and arguments with the rogue woman, Veronica had held up well so far.

"Yes, but perhaps not in the way you're thinking." Veronica gestured at the machines. "Look at that."

Unlike the Little Willie, the treads flanked the tanks' main compartment instead of lying to the side and underneath it. At ten meters long and four meters wide, they almost topped the front cabin where a short-nosed nozzle poked out. Sponsons, small cube-like cabins on the side of the tank, sheltered a pair of guns each. Metal spikes protruded beside the treads like the great claws of a bear.

Hans caught its name before thick smoke veiled it from view: America.

Nile led them behind the tanks and the work-crews.

"Good Lord!" Hans exclaimed. "That is a tank!?"



-----
Oh dear. What got Hans' britches in stitches?

__________________

c21lostboy

A needle and thread?

*sits drumming his fingers impatiently on table for next installment!*