The World of Quartorlen

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you....

Quartorlen

To the northwest is Thunderfell of the chalk cliffs and blue downs while to the northeast liesWhitefall, with its soaring white peaks and icy seas. To the east the Sinkfells, that misty land where the very ground has sunk into itself, divides Whitefall from Deepdale, whose green forests and grassy plains stand tall against the turquoise of Jadewater Sound. In the southeast, Flamehope's volcanos spew lava even during the snows of winter, and the land grows ever more rocky until it reaches Taeltongue peninsula. And in the center of this colorful lands lies what was once Brightdown. But now it has been renamed Darkdell and is enclosed with a stone wall known as the Stonesunder. Here the shieldsfell reign paramount, centered around the Arcpeak and the tyrant who rules from within. 

But no mortal, even a tyrant such as the Titan-mage, has an arm long enough or eyes quick enough to scour the land of all his enemies. For deep in the Tanglethorn lies a small glade covered with small white flowers. Paelglade is its name, and the name of the freeborn who dwells there is Farjag, Tiger-claw. Soon the time will come when he is forced from his hiding to do what must be done. For not until the Titan-mage is slain will he stop his forward-marching tide of conquest, and soon not only Quartorlen, but the entirety of Primorlen and even worlds beyond may fall beneath his vengeful iron fist. 

Since you insist...

Well, since everyone seems to be demanding more excerpts from Feather and Fang, and since I have forgotten the deep and mind-stimulating post I was going to write (I really should write these ideas down when I get them), and nothing new has come to me during the last ten minutes of staring at my blog header... I guess I'll post an excerpt!

But, there is reasoning involved here. Seeing as I have given you the set-up for Freeborn and Freegiven, it stands to reason that I should do the same for Feather and Fang. However, doing so in the straightforward, no-secrets-kept sort of way I did before would spoil a good deal of the last part of Freeborn. But to understand Feather, you need a least a little bit of backstory. So what I'm going to do is inform you in the same way any other reader would be informed: straight from the book. So you'll know exactly what you need to know, and not a cent more. *evil chuckle*

Anyways... the excerpt


The Blue Beard had the best ale for miles, or so it many patrons swore. Be that as it may, its warmly-lit windows and spacious common room looked especially inviting on a night such as this. The stranger strode up the wooden steps that led to the abandoned porch, knocking his boots against the railing to rid them of most of their mud. Then, pulling his wide-brimmed hat down closer over his eyes, he entered the building.
It was fairly quiet at the moment, only a few folk were out of their homes on a night like this. The stranger looked around carefully, taking stock of the room and its occupants before choosing a table in a corner next to the stone fireplace and sitting down with his back to the wall.
On the far side of the large room sat a low bar, with a portly man sitting behind it polishing spoons while four elderly men sat at table telling tales. Two young boys sat at a second table, playing a game of fourlens, and a third held two middle-aged men talking politics over their ales.
“They say the Featherwen faction’s planning to assassinate Flamehope’s Fanglen leader.”
“Scaeldren, Lynx-lord?”
“Aye, the very one.”
“Bah, you listen to every rumor you hear, Scratch. There isn’t an assassin good enough to even get close to the Lynx-lord! Why, he’s won the Fistfire matches every year for nigh on four years now!”
“Aye, but that’s why they’ve got the best assassin since before the Blood-Invasion.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Tell me, did ye ever hear of Crestlen, Hawk-assassin?” 

(More after the break!)

A Dusty Chest

Sometimes a writer's work is a like a dusty chest hidden away in an attic. You come back to it again and again, filling it with things that are important, but you never sift back through what's there already.
As I've been working on Feather and Fang, I've been rereading what I've already written, checking for consistency, making sure my character's arcs are doing what they are supposed to, and fixing any small problems I find. And problems I found, trust me. If the story is a chest, then there cobwebs in certain corners that need cleaning out; nasty pieces of prose and dialogue that need reworking. But what I didn't expect to find were the gems hidden under the cobwebs.
When you've been working on a book for as long as I have (since early 2010), you tend to forget a good deal of what you've put in there. Today, as I was lengthening my timing from two days to a week (Another problem of being sporadic in writing; you forget you're still in the same day as the one you started in), I reached the fight with the bladesfell.
These bird-like creatures are feathered with metal instead of, well, feathers, and their scream carries terror with it. They hunt by freezing their prey with fear, and then swooping down to finish the job with razor beaks and talons. But when Redpaw and Crestlen become the prey, they keep enough presence of mind to run like scared rabbits for shelter. Maybe 'presence of mind' is the wrong way to say it. 'Self-preservation'? Anyways, they flee. But when the bladesfell come again, there is a very different outcome.

Then together the two monsters opened their fierce maws and roared, a roar filled with terrifying thoughts, fear and coming death. The night air whipped into a frenzy, driving towards Redpaw and Crestlen. All around them rotten roots snapped and exploded, leaves tore themselves from their branches, and the forest floor shot up in a torrent of dead leaves and branches as the twin roars blasted into the surrounding jungle.

But in the center of the whirlwind Redpaw stood slowly, the wind of the roars whipping past him like a wave receding from a rock. The fear that he had felt before was suddenly gone as a sense of peace broke through the noise and chaos. A quiet voice within was telling him to be strong, to face the evil that now crouched in the clearing. No more would he cower in the dark. No more would he let fear rule his actions. Before he had fled, but no more. Now was the time to fight, to stand strong. The terror of before reached out for him again, but the freezing claws skittered away on the iron armor of determination and will Redpaw had been given.

Words came unbidden to his lips, tumbling forth like rain. First a mutter, then a battle cry; a song of defiance and courage in the darkest of hours.

Chaos all around,

But a Voice breaks through

Death will surround,

But these words are true

Let the evil flee!

Though terrors do roar,

We will have the victory!

Dark will come no more!

When life and it's chaos surrounds you, may the Voice of the great Peacemaker come whispering in your ear, telling you to be strong, to face the danger, to run with endurance the race set before us.

Sincerely,
Farjag

How Primorlen Began: Pt. 3

The one freegiven. Who is he? Well... let's just say his name is Rogchaen. That should give a clue as to his heritage. And the fact that he is their guide should let you know a little more about his character. But to fully develop who he is, we have to go back one hundred and three years to the Blood-Invasion.

One summer day in the year 1342, red-sailed ships crossed the horizon at a dozen points around the Quartorlen coast. And when they landed, they spat an army of massive, armored invaders onto the beaches and shores of the four provinces. These were the shieldsfell, a trained army thousands strong.
Reptillian in nature, their creature forms were hulking beasts with armored backs and clubbed tails. Their leader's name was soon whispered in fear across the length and breadth of the island; the Titan-mage. No one who ever saw him lived to tell the tale, but everywhere once could hear his name cursed and vows of retaliation for his deeds.
Resistance did not stand for long, however. Within days the ordered ranks of the shieldsfell army had swept fire through the four outer provinces, and were marching on the Lightpeak; the natural and political center of Quartorlen. Here, in the Hope-Chamber set in the peak of the dormant volcano, the Conclave met daily. Delegates were sent from each of the provinces, and together they formed the government of Quartorlen.
But the shieldsfell invader has different ideas, and the Hope-Chamber was stormed. That day the blood-red of the invader's cloaks matched the blood of Quartorlen's people as it was spilled in her defense. But all was in vain, and Quartorlen fell.
The Lightpeak was renamed Arcpeak, and the surrounding town leveled to make way for a permanent settlement built in the shieldsfell fashion. The lands that had once been Brightdown became Darkdell, a walled plain encircling the Arcpeak.
As soon as the shieldsfell had cemented their hold on the capital, they turned their attention back to the other lands, and the Containment began. The folk of Quartorlen would no longer be able to alter between forms. They were given a choice, live as a slave, or live as a beast. Many chose to live the free but dangerous life of a beast, but most kept their humanity and were forced to serve the invaders. Still others fled to the hills, forests and swamps, out of reach of the shieldsfell armies. However, this number slowly dwindled as the shieldsfell Containment patrols continued to sweep the land for years after the invasion, still searching for those who had managed to hide their ability.

One hundred years pass. The lands beyond Darkdell have fallen into decay and waste. A few slave-born still live in tiny hamlets and villages along the main roadways, peddling their wares to the patrols as they march through. Blackforge, the city that had wrapped itself around the Arcpeak, and a few port cities have become thriving metropolises sustained by trade with Theorlen. The slave trade, in particular has become profitable.
The shieldsfell have grown in number as more have crossed over from the crowded Dyrmlen. They live longer than the folk of Quartorlen, and so while the most of the slave-born are the third generation of those who were alive at the time of the Blood-Invasion, many of the older shieldsfell still remember those days. And some have begun to question the reasons of their leader. Conquering new lands for an expanding nation, and subsequent subjugation of a rebellious people made sense to their war-like minds, but a continual grinding underfoot of a folk long since defeated... that was going beyond war.

But no dissenters against a strong leader live long, and the Titan-mage quickly stomped out any mutterings against him. The rebels were sent on suicide missions, tried for crimes they did not commit, executed after mock trials. It was a doomed attempt from the start. But some escaped into the wilds. One such outlaw was a Macelen who abandoned his military title in favor of the Quartorlen naming system. Rumor spread among the villages of Deepdale of a vengeful shieldsfell ghost who wreaked havoc on patrols and had been known to snatch prisoners from under their noses.

And thus we meet Rogchaen, shieldsfell-outlaw, the one freegiven for the four freeborn. And thus we come to the beginning of the story. How all five are pulled together by unlikely means and set on their quest of finding their way into the heart of Arcpeak and slaying the Titan-mage.
If they fail, the shieldsfell armies will continue on, seeking out new countries to conquer, and beyond that, new worlds.

"This tyranny is only the beginning. There is a much more at stake here than your own petty pride! In the end, not only Quartorlen will be enslaved, but all the world!   ...and not only this world." 

Thoer, Otter-elder

How Primorlen Began: Pt. 2

So, where did I leave off? Ah, yes. Freeborn and Freegiven.

On November 1st, 2010, I began digging into Quartorlen and the characters who lived there. It was the first time I had written more than a few chapters since Grey Warrior. And the effect was undeniable. By the third week, I had grown more in my writing skills than I had in all the years before. It's the coolest thing to look back a your own work and see a progression in skill from the beginning to the end (though it makes for a lot of editing :P).

Perhaps the thing that I fell in love with about NaNoWriMo was the fact that I got to live thirty consecutive days with my story. There was none of the sporadicalness or choppiness in writing time that I had experienced in previous stories, and so there was a much more natural progression of character development and growth. When you meet your characters every night, you can track their progress far easier than when you only meet once a week. And the depth of character I achieved astounded me. Here were real people! Growing up on Henty and Tolkien (not a bad thing, by the way), my first characters tended to be models of perfection, ready for anything far younger than was realistic, and always distinctly good or evil. No one changed, there was no fall or redemption, no chance for the hero to grow.

When I first met the four freeborn, I knew immediately they had problems. Why else were the last of the freeborn hiding out in the woods and mountains? Shouldn't they be working to free their country? Or at least bringing some small measure of hope to their Contained brethren? And thus were my first character arcs created. Farjag was self-doubting. Nitiren was proud and bitter. Flashel was fearful. Ogel was dejected. Each blamed themselves or others for events in their past, and had retreated to the wilds to stay away from everyone and everything. Now, they were being called to a mission that was likely to end in their deaths. They would be risking everything for a country they had given up on. Needless to say, no one wanted to go.

And that was what I latched on to. In many of the stories one reads, the hero quite often wishes for adventure or excitement, and only when actually get what they want do they realize what such things really are. They come back wiser. Or perhaps they reluctantly take up the calling given them. But here were four folk who did not want anything to do with saving the world. Perhaps the premise is original, perhaps not. But the fact remains that each character had an important arc in front of them, and that they would end up much changed.

Form follows function, as a certain famous architect once said, and so the form of the story fell in place around the function. To change these characters, they would have to go through a series of trials that would test each as it tested them all, burning away the selfishness and fear they had been living under. There would be no wizard to help them, or give them cryptic answers to questions, or provide a convenient road map. Only a frail old otter-elder who somehow seemed to know each one well enough to know how to chafe each one into going. Once they started, it would be just them. Except for one small addition to their party. If there are four freeborn, then there must be one freegiven.

But that's going to have to wait till next time.

Until then,
Farjag

How Primorlen Began Pt. 1

I was thinking the other day (read: a few moments ago) about how I began writing the tales which take place in Primorlen, my brain child world.

It began some years ago (computer and formatting switches have rendered the "Created Date" useless), probably sometime in 2009, when I and a good writer friend tried to write a story together. Temporarily called According to Power, it consisted of little more than an outline and two prologue-ish snippets. The one that I liked the most, however, was this one:

The north wind blew cold over a brush-covered knoll overlooking the Aquer Sea. A young girl and her little brother were playing on the wind-swept rocks, gathering ferns and moss from among the crevices. Their clothes were not new and showed much wear, but the children did not seem cold. Their hair was shaggy and unkempt and the children looked almost like animals, scampering on the rocks and sniffing the moss before placing it the sacks they carried.
Suddenly the little boy cried out in excitement, “Sister, look! What are those?” he asked pointing far out to sea. His sister followed his finger, shading her eyes with her hand. Several white marks dotted the horizon. Her eyes narrowed as she sniffed the air, then widened. “Ships, little brother, ships!” “Shall we go tell mother?” the little boy asked. “Yes, lets. Come on, I’ll race you!” answered his sister. The siblings began to howl as the raced down the slope, their bare feet slapping over the rough stone.

Time, however decreed that our cooperative work was not to be, and the document fell into the dusty confines of my "Old Stories" folder. A couple months later, me and my brother had a wonderful game of imagination in the backyard, where I borrowed names and occurrences from the unused plot. What came out fit so well into the old story that I updated the plot to match. Now I had a usable story, but nothing happened... yet.

Some time later I began to play with the idea of 'alterers,' a race of beings neither human nor animal, but both. Their birth had been in that snippet above. So I began writing what would become Feather and Fang, a story built entirely on this idea, with these words:

The rain fell in torrents as thick as canvas curtains as lightning flashed and cracked in the clouds above...

As detailed elsewhere, when I was introduced to NaNoWriMo, I began pulling the various threads together. There was the general plotline from According to Power, the "alterers" and alliteration of the title from Feather and Fang. My last world had been an entire planet, which I thought was fairly original, but gave me the distinct problem of large distances and nowhere to grow. So I created the island of Quartorlen, with distinct boundaries, avoiding the "Mountains of Mysteriousness" so many fantasy writers use to create edges to their world.

For names, I fashioned all place names out of two words, usually descriptive, but also having a sense of place, as opposed to "Dark Forest." Thus were born Flamehope and Thunderfell and the other three provinces in Quartorlen. Character names were simple, easy to say, and different without being exotic. Farjag had been with me since According to Power, but Flashel, Ogel, Nitiren and Thoer were new. I set up several underlying structural rules I would follow in creating and plotting: namely a significance on certain numbers. Quartorlen was built on four and five. Five heroes. Four freeborn. Four main provinces, with a fifth in the center. I'm not sure if it's the best way of going about something like this, but it gives a certain foundation that lends to the credibility of a world. Everything connects to something else, much like on earth. Everything is named in our world for a reason, and has a meaning. Nothing is named because it sounds cool. So that's where that's kind of going.

Names are given as such: A first name, your 'animal' form, and a title you earn when you come of age. Thus "Farjag, Tiger-claw," is my namesake's proper name. A title can be an occupation, a character-trait, or a weapon if you are a warrior. Thus you can find "Thoer, Otter-scribe" and "Eppel, Eagle-cry" in the pages of my tales.

But our world is influenced by different countries and traditions. Different people groups view the world differently. So when I created the shieldsfell invaders and their fellow countryfolk, I sought to make them different then the folk of Quartorlen, but still have similarities. Germany and France are quite distinct, but there are parallels. So I gave the people of Dyrmlen a different naming system. Many of their titles and names  end with 'fell' or 'len', and their 'animal' half is reptilian, as opposed to the mammal and avian forms of Quartorlen. Their language is rougher and more brusque than the Anglic of Quartorlen, and the names reflect that. Names in Dyrmlen might be thus: "Rhalax, Commanderlen." "Drobax, Patrollen" "Rogchaen, Macelen"

It was with this structure that I dove into Freeborn and Freegiven, but more on that next post!