28 January 2023

So, I actually went back to Godhunter for a bit. I had some ideas on how the Seeress questline might progress, and wanted to get a feel for the place, if I ever do get around to writing that one. There’s a lot of options.

I think the funnest part about these, even when I first started, was seeing how “impossible” I could make it feel - take the ordinary weaknesses of a power, such as “checkmating” someone with foresight, and block those one way or another - and then figuring out how the Reaper would defeat them anyway. So, yeah. There are plans in the works. It’s just a question of if I’m in the write frame of mind to tackle it, and no other, more pressing bits I want to write.

I’m also quite fond of this format of “discovery”. Put myself there, and see what happens. This trick obviously won’t work for everyone; some people prefer to put a bit more distance, and take a much broader look at everything and how the pieces fit together, and there are a lot of advantages to that approach. But this, it just feels fun, and still helps me practice my narrative writing skills, as well.

The first thing that strikes me as I arrive in the main thoroughfare of the Seeress’ city is how bright it is. Not at all what I might initially expect of an exploitive, tyrannical god-queen. The street is wide, probably the equivalent of six lanes of traffic, complete with a median in the middle featuring trees planted at regular intervals.

On either side, the buildings are tall, probably six to seven stories, and every other building is draped with a long, teal banner depicting a single, open eye.

The road leads to a large pyramid, the top third made of glass, overlooking the city. Rather than head there, though, I turn off onto one of the side streets. I’m guessing the underbelly of the city could tell me a lot… if I can even understand enough of how that works to envision something semi-plausible.

A few random twists and turns later, and I find myself in a cramped alley, with pipes holding who knows what running into the buildings on either side. I find an old blind beggar huddled away in one of the corners.

In a soft and soothing tone, I say “Hey, there, old-timer.”

His head snaps my direction. When he opens his mouth to speak, I notice he is missing many of his teeth. “H-have you come to take me away?”

“No. I’m new around here, actually.” I pull out a loaf of bread from the ether and hand it to him. “Here.”

It takes him a moment for him to realize what it is, but when he dows, tears start streaming down his face, and he digs in.

I wait for him to finish eating. “What can you tell me about this city? What should I watch out for?”

The beggar hesitates for a bit, then points a trembling finger. “Don’t go that way; Her Ladyship has it blocked off. I don’t know what it is but they’re not very nice with anyone as gets too close.” He turns and points another way. “Madame Gaskal lives that way. She’s kind. Her words are gruff, but if you ever need help, she’s the one.”

He pauses, and in a whisper he adds, “And never go out on the main road on a Tuesday. That’s when Her Ladyship goes on her grand procession.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Grand procession?”

He nods, and opens his mouth to explain, when we hear a fanfare of trumpets. “There it is!” he exclaims. “Quick, hide!” He squeezes himself as tightly into the corner as he can.

Curious. For me, it’s a Saturday. The benefits of mental travel, I suppose. I thank the man, and with a snap of my fingers I reappear on the roof of a building overlooking the main thoroughfare.

The Seeress sits on a palanquin carried by eight tall, bronze-skinned men. Her skin is like copper, with wavy, raven-black hair falling about her shoulders. Her clothes are white, as is the veil used to cover her face.

I notice that the palanquin is decorated with numerous eye motifs. I wonder if that plays into the Reaper’s hunt at all? Rather than killing herself, or yielding to the Reaper directly, does she put out her own eyes to keep from seeing anything? …Somehow, that idea makes the whole thing even more macabre, and not an avenue I necessarily want to pursue.

Behind her comes a procession of priests and priestesses, all wearing blindfolds. Each blindfold has a single red eye painted on it. Kind of like the Sheikah or Yiga clan symbols, only without the teardrop. It does make me wonder; are each of these priests and priestesses blind? If they are, did that happen naturally, or did the Seeress blind them herself?

As the procession makes its way down the street, I have an epiphany. One of the things she’s doing here is to collect more servants to replace any she’s lost. What happened to those, then? How harsh is she with the servants’ failings? I already noticed on the main street that everything is very orderly; every tree, building banner, etc. all must go in its exact place. What if she gets harsh when one of the servants disturbs that? She wouldn’t even need to kill them every time; she might be satisfied blinding them. Then she could reassign them somewhere else, or just cast them out of her palace/temple/pyramid. I wonder what that old beggar did to earn her wrath?

21 September 2022

As I mentioned in the previous post, thinking about what made the god-kings tyrants messed with my headspace. The Phoenix, which this short was about, was one of the most fascinating and sympathetic to me, but still very twisted in her own way.

I think one of the problems I had was I was both unwilling to let her and the others be anything other than tyrants, but I wasn’t fully willing to commit to how terrible they could be, either. And a lot of that was I didn’t want to have to imagine what they might do and the reasons behind it. There are certain lines I won’t cross because of my personal beliefs; however, there’s still plenty I could do within those limits.

I do plan on coming back to this story; I want find something to help balance the scales in my head, though, so I don’t get so focused on the negative I lose the point of the story or have it start impacting the rest of my life. I think it’s important to acknowledge evil exists, bad things happen, and even good people do things they regret, but it’s also important not to dwell so much on those things we can’t see the beauty in life.

Also, random fun fact for the day, in the “language of flowers”, dahlias represent commitment. Or so the Internet says.

This was part of my series inspired by a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here). It’s also on Spotify.

Finally, WARNING! As you may have gathered from context, this post has scenes with implications of torture and abuse. Please DO NOT CONTINUE if you cannot, or do not want to, read such things. Thank you.

They were lovers, once, the Phoenix and the Conqueror, back when they were still human. Mortal. Back before everything around her burned, back when he was still capable of feeling. When they’d dared to dream of robbing death.

And then they did it. And everything went wrong.

No one, perhaps not even the man himself, know whether the Conqueror’s feelings for her were ever sincere, or if he’d just been playing her from the beginning for her skills. Whichever the case, only a few scant years passed after their transformation, he rejected her and ordered her to leave.

At first, she couldn’t believe it. She plead. She begged. She wheedled, and wailed, and bargained, until in rage he cut off her head and shoved her body into the moat before it could smoke up his castle when it burned.

Once she revived and crawled out, wet and pathetic, the Phoenix finally believed him, and she wept. Her tears turned to steam trailing from the corners of her eyes. Then, her sorrow turned to fury, and hell rained down on the lands. And thus the first of the God Wars began.

By the time the wars had ended, the Phoenix had claimed a kingdom of her own. Hers was a court of decadence; exotic foods, fine wines, and anything else one could desire. Every so often, some young man would catch her eye, and she would have him brought to her chambers. She couldn’t touch him, but she would order him to entertain her, leaving the question of what would happen if he couldn’t unanswered.

Some of her “partners” resented their forced servitude, and several managed to kill her once. One even made it outside the city before she revived and turned him to ash. Still, she tried to be kind to them, when she wasn’t in one of her fits; these men offered the closest thing to companionship she could get.

The women of her city were less lucky, however. And the more beautiful, the greater the danger. While most times the Phoenix maintained enough rationality to avoid harming her subjects, sometimes she would fly into a rage and attack. “Is it you?” she would scream, “Are the one who seduced him from me!?”

At other times, instead of rage, panic would cause the Phoenix to shake. She would slowly walk up to the woman while muttering, over and over, “No… no, can’t let him see you. You’ll take him away, like all the others. Mustn’t let him see you…”

Either way, she would grab the girl’s face, ignore her screams, and hold it long enough to leave a scar.

One day, however, a young man bowed before her and actually asked to be her servant. Shocked, she asked why. He said, “Because I want to see for myself who you truly are.”

The Phoenix eyed him appraisingly. “And what is your name?”

“Terrence, your Majesty.”

Despite feeling unsettled by the request, the Phoenix gave her permission.

And so he served her. He quickly learned her likes and dislikes, and when to prod for more information about a request or to leave her alone for a while. He painted her pictures and wove her stories, all while trying to glean what lay behind her mask of flames. In time, he came to see the hurt, lonely girl she’d hidden away.

“Who was he?” he asked one day.

The Phoenix froze. “Who?”

“The one the rest of us are meant to replace.”

For a long moment the Phoenix offered no reply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t push the issue, but he didn’t fail to notice the glass in her hand begin to melt and mold to her fingers.

Several days passed, and again he asked, “Who was he?”

This time, she didn’t bother to lie. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Still, he noticed the steam streaming from the corners of her eyes, and for the first time, he recognized them as tears.

Two weeks passed before he was willing to try again. This time, they were strolling through a garden, the Phoenix carefully avoiding everything, but admiring its beauty all the same.

“Who was he?” he dared to ask.

For almost a minute, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. “He was a man, once. We decided to challenge fate itself together, along with our friends.” She scoffed, then let her finger rest on a dahlia. The flower immediately burned to ash. “Unfortunately, we succeeded. And I… I guess I didn’t matter anymore.”

Once more, whisps of steam rose from her face up towards the sky.

20 September 2022

The next two entries are based on a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here. It’s also on Spotify.). Something about the song always fascinated me and sparked my creative juices ever since I’ve heard it.

So, I started writing it. I’ve got a whole collection of potential god-kings for this Godhunter to slay, and all the ways it’s ridiculously hard. It was actually a lot of fun to plan out; the problem is, as part of designing the god-kings, I also needed to envision what made them worthy of being called “tyrant”. There are a couple exceptions, but they’re not good people, at least in the version I would write. And living in the same headspace as that messed with my head. So, for now, until I can find some thread of hope to make that world a place worth being/saving, I’m taking a break. I’ve had a few thoughts, but nothing definitive enough to come back to it yet.

Still, I did have fun writing and planning it, especially the entry below, which serves as a “begin at the end” kind of prologue.

She looked up at the black fortress before her, scythe resting on her shoulders. It had been grand, once; a symbol of strength, or fear, depending on who you were. She’d been, once, exactly a century ago. Banners had fluttered in the breeze, and people had bustled about. Merchants, peasants, but mostly soldiers, doomed to die in a pointless war.

Now, though, it was empty. No more banners. No more crowds. No more soldiers. Just black walls, wreathed in shadows and silence.

Unperturbed by the gloom, she pushed through the front gate, each footstep echoing into the night. She could have softened the, moved silently, but for this target, there was no need. He already knew she was coming. He was the last, and he knew it. Let her footsteps announce her arrival; his fear would serve her better than any advantage surprise could offer.

She paused in the courtyard, trying to guess where her prey might be lurking, before she focused on the central tower. Nodding to herself, she strode inside and marched up the stairs.

At the top, she found a sad excuse for a throne room. Faded drapery hung limp along the walls and ceiling, thread-bare and moth-eaten. Half-rusted suits of armor paraded down the walls on either side, most of them missing at least one piece or another. And in the center, a man with greasy black hair and sunken eyes sat on a tarnished throne. A sad excuse for a beard marred his face.

He met her eyes and croaked, “Have you come to kill me?”

“Yes.” She made a show of looking around the room again and added, “Although, it looks like you’re already halfway there.”

He coughed out a laugh, a raspy, painful sound like the screech of unoiled metal. “Go on, then. Finish it.”

She flipped the scythe off her shoulder, and slowly brought the blade behind his neck. There she paused and stared at him. “So was it worth it?”

He sneered and spat, “Go to hell.”

She shrugged, and pulled her scythe forward. And the last of the god-kings fell.

How does one kill a god? Some will see the future and avoid it; others won’t die no matter how severe their wounds; and others will simply turn to ash, only to reborn moments later, unharmed.

She began by watching. Watching daily hunts of men and women for a war god’s amusement. Watching the jilted goddess fawn over her latest object of affection. Watching the god-priest compel his followers into a mad frenzy of unholy wrath.

It was fortunate, then, that she called the reaper herself mother; for as death always lurks just out of sight, unnoticed by all but the most wary, so too could she lurk unseen. And it was for her mother she would kill them; for how else would they have gained immortality had they not ripped it from her mother’s corpse?

The seeress would be hardest. Unfortunately, that meant she also had to be first; if she targeted one of the others, the seeress would foresee it and warn them. The question was, how could she prevent the seeress from foretelling her own doom?