Thanks to Gower's incredible 16 word story, creatively titled
"Sixteen Words," I've decided to work on creating an entire storygame based on writing the last page for Contemplation. Now that I'm over 10k words in without contest SHAME as a motivator, I figure now is as good a time as any to pop my WIP thread cherry.
This world is not for me. The older I get, the more I understand that truth. In my former life, I desired accolades. I wanted the entire world to know my name and my worth. I wanted them to see that I’m better than the common man. I wanted to etch my name into the history books for all humanity to read. I have accomplished much more than most. What did I receive in return?
As a young man, I poured the entirety of my energy into training. When you’re young, your life seems endless as if each decision would take you down a separate path of adventure. Sometimes that’s the case. Most of the time, it’s not. Each day I’d rise before the sun. The practice room became my home. I devoted myself to master the body. No impurity was allowed in my system. Anything that did not contribute to the cause was forsaken.
Unsurprisingly, I separated myself from my peers. They did not have the same discipline. Their lives were led by cheap thrills and even cheaper wine. A few times they invited me to partake with them. I have to admit, I was tempted. My life was one training after the other. Why not have a night of fun? Eventually they stopped asking, and I was glad because my will had begun to waiver. Over the years, I had seen many men waylaid by drink and celebration. Their base desire and animalistic tendencies is the very thing wrong with humanity. If we are led by simple sensual pleasure, we are no different than the dog seeking scraps under the table.
I became the Emperor’s preferred instrument of destruction. His divine will was made manifest by my blade. He but had to point in the direction of his enemies, and I would wipe them from existence. It didn’t matter whether man, woman, or child, the enemy of my Emperor was the embodiment of evil. The world was better off without their survival. Nothing stood in the way of my holy scourge.
The entire world eventually learned my name. My name brought fear upon the battlefield. It was whispered by mothers to their children at night as a warning. My name became synonymous with death. A lifetime of training and self-denial had brought me to the thing I had desired most: a lasting impression on the world; the irony does not escape me.
The Emperor threw a feast, a celebration in honor of my conquest. That night should have been the pinnacle of my life’s work. I witnessed my fellow soldiers, men who performed battle formations flawlessly, lose themselves to base desire. They laughed and danced like fools. They treated the very women we fought to protect as their playthings, and simply tossed them aside after. The men of discipline, the men I had fought and bled with, were no better than the foreigners we slaughtered.
And so the mountains became my home. I found I preferred the animals in nature opposed to the animals in civilization. Out here at least they’re honest about who they are. Still I devote myself to my training. The empty feeling I have inside is no excuse not to remain disciplined. Every few years adventurers seek me out in hope I will teach them blade mastery. Their youthful energy and strength of body is no match for my skill. I cut them down to save them from the meaningless of life.
I sit here cross-legged at the mouth of the cave I call home. Light snowflakes sting my face as I breathe in the dew-filled air. In a few moments, the yellow hue of the rising sun will peer through the twin peaks facing the cave. Its golden rays will fire on the evergreens scattered down the mountains illuminating their eastern side with an angelic glow. The shadow is what catches my attention most. A sinister dark copy of the tree remains beneath the heavenly light; it’s the symbol of our nature’s duality. Despite the feeling of meaningless, I’ll begin this day with training. Each form takes me further from my shadow self. Each denial of my base tendencies draws me closer to the angelic light. Another day has come. I devote myself to training.
I'll be referencing "Contemplation" to keep the theme consistant and main character in line with his "unfun dick" personality (Mizal's words, not mine). Of course this is interactive fiction, so the last page written for
Sixteen Words will not be the only ending. As the last page is reflective and very introspective, the storygame will follow the main character from childhood to old age. I'm well aware of some similarities between the WIP and Eternal, and the goal is to keep the reader from relating the two besides the fact there's an Emperor and the story covers the MC's entire lifetime. I like the journal entry I included in
Twin Arrows, and each different point in the main character's life will begin with a contemplative entry. There will also be scenes not written from the main character's POV to make a more cinematic feel.
The title will change once the story develops more, but for now the project is simply called "Contemplation." (There's that creativity again, eh?) I hope to publish it by the end of the year. The image below will not be used in the story itself, but was a result of hitting writer's block. Usually when I write, I put a static image on my second monitor (most of the time it's my avatar), and I'm interested to see the result of using one related to the story I'm writing. Any thoughts or opinions on the overall project would be great. It's still in draft phase, so grammar comments besides tense shifting would be less great (but not unappreciated!). Comments regarding the lack of gender choice will be met with quick, John Wick justice.
Prologue
When I reflect upon my childhood, mixed emotions rise. On one hand, I appreciate the strict devotion of the monks. They knew who they were, which is more than could be said for the average person. On the other hand, a sinister, underlying ideology tainted their religion; the monks would only accept infants without any worldly or familial experience. I imagined my arrival to the monastery to be a result of loving parents wanting a better life for me. It was a good lie to believe at a young age. The monks accepted me, even though I was much older than an infant. That fact alone made me different from my peers, and hurled me straight to the bottom of the hierarchy. The lie I told myself about my parents was one of the things that kept me going.
Brother Samuel mulls over the scattered parchments on his desk. The lone candle in the center offers little light, but Samuel is used to reading in such circumstances. The mug of mead helps with eye-strain, at least that’s what he told himself. Earlier in life Samuel might have complained at the project in front of him, but with age comes a sense of responsibility, along with a greater appreciation for tasks that didn’t stress his aching joints.
Brother Samuel lifts the mug to his mouth only to discover the contents empty.
“Bah. One of these days I’m going to get a bigger cup,” he mutters to himself and rises from his seat.
As he moves, his plain robe sways in the air as if drapes hung over an open window. With one hand around the mug, and the other grasping his walking cane, he exits the monestary’s library. The simple gray stones lining the hallway appear black, except for the small area around the wall-fastened torches, not that Brother Samuel required sight to navigate his way around. The silence of the night is disturbed by the steady
tap, tap, tap of his wooden cane on the stone floor.
Samuel enters the kitchen to discover it’s not empty. A young girl with bright blonde hair is on the floor with a bucket and rag. She scrubs at the floor, purposefully, ensuring every inch of the floor is spotless.
“Child, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night,” Samuel asks.
“Brother Trevor said I need to scrub every inch of the kitchen to atone,” she answers.
“Brother Trevor can lick a slug. Children need their sleep,” Samuel replies.
She girl laughs. “Ew!”
“What are you atoning for?”
“Complaining.”
Brother Samuel begins to answer when he hears a noise from outside. Was it from within the monastery walls? No, the sudden crash wasn’t muffled or distorted at all. It originated in the open air. The girl hasn’t returned to scrubbing, which means she heard it too; it wasn’t just the mead.
“Go back to bed, girl. I’ll handle Brother Trevor in the morning,” Samuel quietly speaks.
She nods and leaves the kitchen. Brother Samuel places his empty mug on the counter and heads to the outside door. This time, he walks upright without the use of the cane. The open night air stings Brother Samuel’s wrinkled skin. The full moon illuminates the surrounding grassy hilltops. Trees sprinkled on the slopes cast dark shadows, creating pockets of darkness. No bandit had come close to the monastery in years. Even criminals were smart enough to keep their distance. If they weren’t, they learned quickly. Subtle movement on the hill catches his eye. The night air suddenly felt much colder.
Drawing on a lifetime of training as well as several cups of mead, Brother Samuel calmly walks towards the movement. Nearing the origin of the movement, Samuel suddenly feels the presence of someone, or something. Then he sees it. A boy lies collapsed in the grass. His clothes are tattered and several deep scratches line his arms and legs. His skin appears dark, although closer observation reveals it to be dirt.
Brother Samuel approaches the boy to check for a pulse. It’s there, but barely. As Samuel leans to pick the boy up, a chill runs down his spine. He feels another’s presence. Samuel slowly brings his gaze up in front of him. A figure, masked in shadowy wisps, stands unmoving before him. Two crimson eyes peer through the darkness directly on Samuel.
“You’ll not harm the boy, shade,” Brother Samuel speaks. He activates the divine magic seals on his cane for emphasis. The wood begins to emit holy light infusing its strength through Brother Samuel’s body.
The shade doesn’t react. Then Samuel begins to hear a slow, resonating laugh. The laughter isn’t audible, it feels as if it originates and echoes within Samuel’s head. In a swirl of black mist, the shade vanishes into the night. The mocking laugh begins to slowly subside within Samuel’s head. Samuel scoops his arms under the unconscious boy and lifts him from the ground.
“You’re safe now, child,” he whispers to you.
