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Motivation threads are stupid but I guess they're all the rage these days so here we go.

The story is going to be my entry for the romance contest and most likely I'll forget all about this thread and just update it again once I'm actually finished.

Today's progress so far: deleted old story and first half of the outline once I realized gypsies are annoying and stupid and don't deserve to be protagonists.

I'm still keeping the title because I like it, and most of the second half of the plot is still workable. I have plans to work in a second love interest option if the player wants to bail out of the main plot early, but we'll see. Still not able to take too much more time with this because I have other projects I need to switch focus too, and soon. It's already February, yikes.

I knew you'd eventually come around.

What's wrong with a witch protagonist?

Sorry, that should have been, what's wrong with a gypsy protagonist?

'Tis a silly culture and I'm tired of doing research.

Horrible, horrible people.

Progress so far:

Words: 2986
Pages: 4

(shit)

I don't know what a Dullahan is, but my story also has something along the lines of a witch and a whore. What's yours roughly about?

A Dullahan is a headless horseman type character. So I imagine her story will be about a headless witch carrying her head around and allowing degenerates to use it for, uh, less than wholesome deeds.

Thus, the witch, the whore, and the dullahan are actually the same person. @mizal how far off was I?

Weird, your notification didn't work. Did you edit it in?

Anyway, I won't be discussing the plot, especially not with the likes of that dumb bitch vain who decided to edit lock my word count to ramble about writing her autobiography or whatever.

Fuck, Mizal, who pissed in the wrong side of your bed this morning?

Idk but it smells like a kangaroo in here.

Dullahan is an Irish mythical figure similar to the popular conception of a headless horseman. However, there are several relevant distinctions. Chiefly, the Dullahan has a distinct appearance and powers beyond your generic ghost horseman.

The Dullahan rides a black horse while carrying his head under his arm. His eyes constantly move, and he can see across the countryside in even the darkest nights. He has a perpetual face splitting grin. His head has the consistency of moldy cheese. He wields a whip fashioned from a human spine. And when the Dullahan stops riding, and calls out a name, that person dies.

Gates and locks open at the Dullahan's whim. He does not like to be watched, and will lash out observers' eyes or douse them in a basin of blood, possibly marking their death in the process. The Dullahan can be repelled by gold, even something as small as a locket, ring, or coin.

However, the Dullahan has been represented as a woman in some counts.

Sometimes he has a wagon of funeral objects.

From the title of the thread it sounded like a mashup of my story and IAP's grom the last contest. ;)

Ugh, this story.

I'll be home by 1:30 and then I guess I'll neglect all other aspects of my life to try and finish it this weekend. Previous weekends' progress do not fill me with confidence atm however.

Well it's been awhile, I guess I should bump this. Really glad we had the deadline extension after all. I've been making better progress the last couple days than I have the last couple weeks, but still a ways to go so it would have been too little too late.



Random sample page:

At some point you drift back to sleep, only to be awakened suddenly by a commotion outside. A man is yelling something you can’t make out, and the hooves of a galloping horse echo through the streets.

Untangling yourself from the sheets, you roll out of bed and make for a window. Below, you see others drawn by the cries starting to come out of their homes and gather together. All is hubbub and confusion.

“Is it a fire?” Ian asks, pulling on his pants and scrubbing the sleep from his eyes.

You grab for your own clothes. “I don’t know. I can’t see anything from here.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.” Ian tugs his shoes on as he speaks and then disappears out the door and down the stairs while you finish dressing.

Once outside, you find him engrossed in conversation with a couple of neighbors across the street. After a few moments he rejoins you. “No fire, no emergency.” He shrugs. “Seems the driver of the mail coach went off his head. Came riding back into town hollering about seeing the Devil, or some such nonsense. They’ve taken him to the pub around the corner to try and settle him down.”

Indeed you can see several people headed in that direction now. Lanscot only rarely gets anything as interesting as a raving madman and folks seem to feel it their right to gawk after being so abruptly pulled out of bed.

“Wanna join them?”

“Ooh, can we?” You don’t need further encouragement, and the two of you make your way hurriedly toward the pub to try and get a peek at the show while it lasts.

The little neighborhood pub is already filled to capacity, with a crowd at the door. After trying unsuccessfully to squeeze past them it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to get inside, until Ian takes you around to the back and slips a coin to one of the cooks to let you in that way. You hover in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the postman have his glass refilled and then down it with shaking hands. You recognize him as a short, somewhat stocky fellow by the name of Schutzman.

“Truly, I saw him,” the man is insisting, with a shuddering breath that’s almost a sob. “A black rider crossing the Brackens...with no head upon his shoulders!”

This draws a gasp from the onlookers. “The Headless Horseman!”

“The Dullahan!”

“He went a ways past me and disappeared over a ridge. I heard him on the road then...this was no phantom!” He stabs the air violently with his finger to make his point, then holds out his glass for another refill. “I heard the beats of the horse’s hooves. I perceived he was coming back towards me then, and so I unhitched one of the horses and rode as fast as I could for the town.”

“Yet there were no late night riders about but you. And you woke up half the town, someone would have spoken up if they’d seen another.”

“Shouldn’t someone go and ride a ways down the road to see if anything’s there? Where is the watchman?”

“Hell, where is the priest?”

“Bah! This man is just drunk. Mark my words, he fell asleep at the reins and invented the whole thing.”

“I am not drunk!” Eyes blazing, the postman surges to his feet, stumbles, and has to be steadied by those around him to keep from falling. “Well...I wasn’t when I left! Damn it all, I know what I saw! I have driven the mail coach on that road every night for thirty years!”

“What’s this, what’s this? Everyone, step aside!” Lockholm’s voice rings out imperiously as he shoves his way through the crowd. “What’s going on in here?”

The story is repeated to the watchman from multiple directions, until he has to flail his hands for silence, refocusing on Schutzman. “And so you’re willing to swear to an officer of the law that you weren’t drinking before you left?”

“Yes, I am! I mean...three pints of ale, two shots of bourbon...no more than I usually have with my dinner!”

Lockholm extracts the name of the pub he’d taken his meal at at writes it down. “I’ll be sure to follow up on this. In the meantime...” He peers out over the crowd. “Now where is the doctor?”

“Out here!” calls a timid voice from within the crowd, which you recognize instantly from last night. Perry Winston sounds apologetic. “I was having a bit of trouble getting through the door.”

“Bah!” Lockholm shakes his nightstick at the gathered gawkers. “Make way for the doctor! And all of you go home! Although...wait, not all of you. That mail coach is city property, someone needs to go and fetch it, and the other horse, before those bloody gypsies pick it clean. I need two...” He stops himself, stroking his chin. “No, six men to go after it. You’ll be well rewarded for your effort.”

“That many?” someone asks.

“Has it occurred to no one he might have seen a real rider? This could have been a trick by cutthroats to rob the coach. I want no less than six strong men to go after it.”

“And what about you?” asks another voice.

The watchman holds up the paper he’d written the name of the other pub on. “I’m in the middle of an investigation!” He sounds indignant. “I need to determine how many drinks were had and test the stocks myself to ensure a bad batch isn’t being sold to the good and respectable people of this town. I will be quite thorough in this, trust me. Now...Dr. Winston?”

The unassuming man has finally managed to push his way into the dining area. “Right here.”

“Good! I leave this man in your care. Do take him to your office and determine if he’s cracked.”

“I know what I saw...” Schutzman complains as he’s led away.

Beside you, Ian stirs and whispers in your ear. “Reckon I may go after the coach if there’s pay to be had. Won’t be getting anymore sleep tonight anyhow.”

“Be careful,” you say, Lockholm’s talk of highwaymen having made you nervous enough even without all the firelight tales of witches and the fey and what they get up to out in the Brackens suddenly crowding your mind. Resolutely, you mutter your charm to banish unwelcome things from your thoughts. You’ve been out there alone often enough; last night’s late night summons to the camp was hardly the first. Malicious spirits do exist, but why show themselves in this way, and so openly to a mere postman?

The rest of the onlookers are already dispersing, only Ian and a handful of other young men remaining to talk to the watchman. You make your way back to your flat, briefly relating what you’d heard to the eager ears of Jenny and a few others who were still awake and gathered in the lobby. Then, suddenly exhausted, you make your way upstairs and fall into a deep sleep.

Well I managed to read this in between bouts of fevered writing and... let’s just say that I think Mizal is my main competition. 

As for the story. The writing is good, as always, and the dialogue is especially good. Nothing too major happened in this sample, but enough happened to give us an overall taste of what’s to come. 

The story starts off kind of slowly with the first few pages just establishing characters and setting, but what I posted here was the point where things started ramping up.

I mean it's got the obligatory nods to murder and incest, but it's still not going to be quite as 'out there' as some of the others so what I'm seeing as the main weakness is that it might not be able to hold Endmaster's attention.

The real challenge about this contest then. Finding a perfect balance between what End wants and what you’re capable of writing for the story. 

Either way, I’ll likely enjoy it quite a bit when it’s published. So there’s that.

I have more faith in End than that.

But, I must admit, the whole scenario with the guy coming in claiming to see the Dullahan makes me think of the scene in Pete's Dragon where Lampy sings a whole song about seeing a dragon, even though no one believes him.  But darker.

They're called Gypsies because during the Middle Ages they came into Europe out of Egypt. They're actually of Indian descent. They prefer to go by the name of "Roma". Fairuza Balk (Nancy from "The Craft" and Dorothy from "Return to Oz") has Roma ancestry. 

 

Fuckin' Pikies.

Here's all you need to know, in a nutshell:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Fat_Gypsy_Weddings

Looks fun. I'll add it to The List although unfortunately the backlog of movies and shows I intend to watch...someday...is managing to be even more hopeless and unwieldy than my untouched Steam library these days.