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ahavaCall me Ahava ~~She/Her~~Move to New ZealandRegistered Userregular
This year I'll be exploring the world/region/religion of Hogar, through the eyes of one of the Engineers. He is also one of the Chosen.
Hogar is the name of the God, one of the Six that look after the land of Ahlterra. He is the God of innovation, invention, and order. He is a jealous God with many bad personality traits and other things. His people are the Hogarim and through the history of Ahlterra they have been the ones to take inspiration from their God and turn it into reality. Whether it be machines of war or machines that help the greater good, if something needs a mechanical solution, you turn to the Hogarim.
Life in Hogard (their nation/area) is very male-dominated, with the belief that Order and Strength come from Men and the base support of life from Women. The division of their society and their workforce reflects this in that there are differing levels, with the top level always being held by the male. There is more backstory here as to why life on the Ground turns out this way for the Hogarim, but it's big backstory.
Enter Doran. Doran is a young Engineer, but he has talent for his work and is moving himself up in the ranks. He's been apprenticed on the same cross-continent iron horse (i really need a better name for these things) for about two years and he's learned everything that he needs to learn in order to get his own route and his own crew. Through the following years Doran meets up with many people, all of the different religions and cultures and regions that make up Ahlterra. He learns more from them by being out on the rails than he has ever picked up within the Academies back in Hogard.
Eventually, Doran is forced to leave his Iron Horse thingymabob and join in a journey through the continent with six others, all representatives of their own God or Goddess of the Six. They come to the Center, a barren spot in the, oddly enough, center of the continent where there is no life, no sound, nothing but the invisible axis on which their world turns. Here the seven Dedicated are given a collective vision by the Six and are tasked with becoming their Chosen, to fend off the attack that is racing towards Ahlterra from the desolate lands to the South, and the long forgotten errors of the Past.
I signed up for this two years ago and managed to write around 100 words (I think I signed up a day or two before it was over). I ignored it last year other than to be irritated by all the email spam (I should look to see if I can disable that). I may or may not decide to participate this year but I've never had an interest in writing and I'm not the creative type so I don't know if I can be bothered to muster the energy to make an effort.
And even if I did, I would never, ever, ever, ever show anyone anything I'd written. Ever.
0
Quoththe RavenMiami, FL FOR REALRegistered Userregular
Oh, and I told my mom about this. She's been interested in writing for a few years and even managed to get a book published by Amazon and I hope she'll enter!
0
Raijin QuickfootI'm your Huckleberry YOU'RE NO DAISYRegistered User, ClubPAregular
so I'm also tossing around the idea of writing something about a boy who reads the Bible then believes that he is the second coming of Christ because of a handful of parallels between his life and Christ's at that point.
The he is ridiculed and persecuted for this belief.
That's a bit too serious for this project though. Think I'll stick with dinosaur presidents.
0
Quoththe RavenMiami, FL FOR REALRegistered Userregular
Raijin QuickfootI'm your Huckleberry YOU'RE NO DAISYRegistered User, ClubPAregular
Usually when I'm planning I go with velociraptors though I'm thinking of mixing in several from various periods and just ignoring actual historic fact for the sake of humor.
Usually when I'm planning I go with velociraptors though I'm thinking of mixing in several from various periods and just ignoring actual historic fact for the sake of humor.
What humor? Dinosaurs are serious business.
0
Raijin QuickfootI'm your Huckleberry YOU'RE NO DAISYRegistered User, ClubPAregular
Well, the novel will be written very seriously. As if I am writing something that is 100% plausible.
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ahavaCall me Ahava ~~She/Her~~Move to New ZealandRegistered Userregular
I was being dumb, I get the humor. I actually like that sort of thing, where the writing is serious but what's going on is funny.
I kinda figured you did. It was a serious response written to be humorous.
DO YOU SEE HOW GOOD I AM AT THIS?
0
ahavaCall me Ahava ~~She/Her~~Move to New ZealandRegistered Userregular
nope!
There are 2 separated lands. There are Six Gods and Goddesses!
Hogard and Shenobia are 2 separate 'countries' so to speak within Ahlterra. Based purely on the fact that they used to be at War (the Two Gods Hogar and Sheno had a love/hate/kill thing going on that spilled down into the Below) and then finally the other Gods/Nations/Peoples got involved and basically sent the Hogarim and the Shenobians to their own little corners.
All the others live scattered throughout the Plains and even through Hogard and Shenobia.
There are Six different religions. One big happy continent! With two counties!
also it's like 3 years old that map! It needs updating!
Oof, this is going to be rough. I don't expect any of you to read the first 1,300 words or so, but here it is regardless. Leading up to a heist, of sorts
1
The sun had just fallen below the tree line that flanked my modest hovel. Although I could continue working amidst the hazy twilight for a short while, I had, at most, another half hour of workable light. Though a small, weathered lamp sat along the edge of my heavily scarred workbench, it had been days since I could get my hands on a suitable amount of oil to warrant lighting the damn thing. Tonight, it served as nothing more than a reminder of troubled times. Given the prices local vendors had been asking of late, such a luxury was out of the question for a man of my worth, and what little money I had was reserved for far more critical items required for my craft.
To invent a thing requires materials. Copper, string, wire, parchment and canvas, to name a few. Items which, on their own do not amount to much, and the sum of which can amount to a hefty toll on a man’s purse. These items are easily acquired, but until they are put to clever use, they sit without worth. They empty my pocketbook and offer no guarantees of replenishing it. At their worst, they are burdens, yet this is the unfortunate risk all inventors take. On this particular evening, with precious light departing and not a candle to my name, I wished I had not been so risky.
Though tonight, I am not tinkering. No, I am preparing. I have much work to do, and time is running short.
Darkness continued to fill the room as I hurried about my task, scribbling a few additional notes on my hastily-drawn map. Although it felt as though only a few minutes had passed since the sun had fallen out of sight, I soon found myself squinting down, brow furrowed, at the pieces of parchment that lay before me. A dull ache crept around my temples, and I caught myself peering thoughtfully at the crumbling forge that slumped against the far corner of the room. Its hearty stones were jagged and uneven, nearly loose through years of heavy use, and faint ribbons of smoke drifted lazily upward from its deep charcoal pit.
I had hoped to spare what little charcoal remained for another time, but without a spare candle or drop of oil to call my own, it looked to be my only light source as twilight quickly gave way to a blackened sky. With a defeated sigh, I stood up from my stool and shuffled toward the bellows sitting idle on the crooked flagstone floor nearby. Peering inside the pit, my suspicions were confirmed.
“Martyn, you beautiful bastard,” I murmured.
My assistant had been using the forge earlier that afternoon, and for that I was thankful. Although the outer charcoal had long gone faint and ashen, a few of the inner lumps were still glowing with a mild heat. The warmth they held was not enough to offer a useful amount of light, but a few pumps of the bellows might rekindle the darkened mass, and I would soon be able to resume my work.
With each pump, the mass began to grow brighter, the temperature at the heart of the charcoal pit rising dramatically. After a minute or two, I was satisfied with the result. It was a rare thing to see my hovel lit from the forge alone, and I paused a moment to turn around and admire the hazy red glow that washed over the room. It was eerie, in a way, but far from unwelcome.
After a final pump, I gently placed the bellows back onto the dusty flagstone and set about sliding my workbench across the room to rest alongside my newly-created lightsource. The base of the bench thudded and rattled across the rough stone floor,. catching once or twice, splitting one of the planks along an already-weakened wood screw. I scolded myself for the damage my carelessness and haste had caused, though the crack was little more than superficial.
“This had better be worth the wasted charcoal,” I thought, though I was already beginning to appreciate the warmth the glowing forge offered, let alone the much-needed light. The nights of late had been colder than usual, and I suspected the season’s first frost to be no more than a few weeks away.
Sitting once more at my stool. I reached for my wooden quill and continued about my work, scratching at a fresh piece of parchment with slow and deliberate strokes. I had but a few hours to finish my work before setting off, for tonight would be a very important night if all went according to plan.
I continued to pour over the details of tonight’s plan for another hour before noticing that my precious light had once again begun to fade. Leaning over to pick up my bellows once more, I began to hear what sounded like the crackling of dry leaves. I froze, quirking my head upward to listen more intently. The crackling grew louder, and it soon became apparent that someone was approaching my hovel from the western treeline. Whoever my visitor might be, he or she took little care to mask the sauntering footsteps. This comforted me, but only slightly.
I shifted once again, crawled off the stool, and began to creep quietly toward the window. I was halfway across the room when the footsteps stopped abruptly. From the sound of it, they ceased no more than twenty feet away. Pausing, I bent even lower to the floor, unsure of whether to continue my approach or wait for another audible clue as to who or where my visitor might be. The silence remained unbroken but for a gust of wind that briefly whistled by. I closed my eyes and listened more intently, my heart pounding.
“Fedir?”a voice call out. “Have you hurt yourself?”
I looked up, surprised to see my assistant Martyn standing just outside the window, his toothy grin showing bright in the darkness.
“A little young for back trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, gesturing toward my crooked form. “It looks as though you’ve done some rearranging in there. I like the setup.”
“Martyn, get your ass in here,” I said sharply, though I too was smiling.
Standing upright, I stepped toward the heavy oak door and began unfastening the three pin-tumbler locks Martyn and I had installed last Spring, a symptom of desperate times prompting even more desperate thieves. With a final click, I swung the door open, and Martyn quickly shuffled inside. A chill draft followed him in, and I quickly slammed the door shut before setting to the locks once more.
“Took you long enough,” he said, rubbing one arm with the other. “It’s freezing out there.”
“You’re an hour early,” I said, though I was happy to see him. “Scared me half to death sneaking up like that.”
With a chuckle, Martyn reached out and shook my hand warmly, though his was as cold as ice.
“Grab the bellows over there,” I said. “I’ve got the forge going for lack of lamp oil. Why don’t you give it a few pumps and warm yourself? I need you focused on the task at hand tonight.”
Martyn took to the forge without comment as I glanced down at my notes, wondering if we were being fools in our endeavor.
“It’s awfully dark in here,” Martyn said, cupping his brow with the side of his hand. “If I’d have known you’d skimp on candles again, I would have brought some of my own. You have a talent for working in the dark that I’ve yet to master”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied,” I said, gesturing toward the workbench. “If we’re going to do this, we need to do it sharp. We need to be neat. We need to at least act like we know what the hell we’re doing.”
Martyn gave the bellows a few more hearty pumps before turning to face me, his face solemn.
“We do know what we’re doing, right?” He asked.
“I think we have a pretty good idea,” I said. “Lord knows we’ve spent enough time and resources preparing for tonight.
“I’m afraid a more complicated plan does not necessarily beget success,” he said, turning to hold his hands above the glowing charcoal.
“Can you think of a more simple one?” I asked.
“No,” He said, shrugging. “Not that we have time to consider other alternatives at this point.”
“It’s a good plan,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. Martyn was only a few years younger than me, barely out of the academy, yet I felt a certain sense of responsibility for him. He is my assistant, after all. His success is intertwined with my own, and should I fail, he’ll suffer as well.
Posts
Too bad I will never be a writer. :?
Hogar is the name of the God, one of the Six that look after the land of Ahlterra. He is the God of innovation, invention, and order. He is a jealous God with many bad personality traits and other things. His people are the Hogarim and through the history of Ahlterra they have been the ones to take inspiration from their God and turn it into reality. Whether it be machines of war or machines that help the greater good, if something needs a mechanical solution, you turn to the Hogarim.
Life in Hogard (their nation/area) is very male-dominated, with the belief that Order and Strength come from Men and the base support of life from Women. The division of their society and their workforce reflects this in that there are differing levels, with the top level always being held by the male. There is more backstory here as to why life on the Ground turns out this way for the Hogarim, but it's big backstory.
Enter Doran. Doran is a young Engineer, but he has talent for his work and is moving himself up in the ranks. He's been apprenticed on the same cross-continent iron horse (i really need a better name for these things) for about two years and he's learned everything that he needs to learn in order to get his own route and his own crew. Through the following years Doran meets up with many people, all of the different religions and cultures and regions that make up Ahlterra. He learns more from them by being out on the rails than he has ever picked up within the Academies back in Hogard.
Eventually, Doran is forced to leave his Iron Horse thingymabob and join in a journey through the continent with six others, all representatives of their own God or Goddess of the Six. They come to the Center, a barren spot in the, oddly enough, center of the continent where there is no life, no sound, nothing but the invisible axis on which their world turns. Here the seven Dedicated are given a collective vision by the Six and are tasked with becoming their Chosen, to fend off the attack that is racing towards Ahlterra from the desolate lands to the South, and the long forgotten errors of the Past.
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
I signed up for this two years ago and managed to write around 100 words (I think I signed up a day or two before it was over). I ignored it last year other than to be irritated by all the email spam (I should look to see if I can disable that). I may or may not decide to participate this year but I've never had an interest in writing and I'm not the creative type so I don't know if I can be bothered to muster the energy to make an effort.
And even if I did, I would never, ever, ever, ever show anyone anything I'd written. Ever.
Where is your map
The he is ridiculed and persecuted for this belief.
That's a bit too serious for this project though. Think I'll stick with dinosaur presidents.
The only limit... Is yourself
Which dinosaurs are you thinking actually
Ben Franklin should be a stegosaurus. it seems to fit.
What humor? Dinosaurs are serious business.
@Quoth
was this for me? cause I totally have a map.
It needs to be changed and updated to include new places/ideas/realities. not to mention scale.
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
I kinda figured you did. It was a serious response written to be humorous.
DO YOU SEE HOW GOOD I AM AT THIS?
There are 2 separated lands. There are Six Gods and Goddesses!
Hogard and Shenobia are 2 separate 'countries' so to speak within Ahlterra. Based purely on the fact that they used to be at War (the Two Gods Hogar and Sheno had a love/hate/kill thing going on that spilled down into the Below) and then finally the other Gods/Nations/Peoples got involved and basically sent the Hogarim and the Shenobians to their own little corners.
All the others live scattered throughout the Plains and even through Hogard and Shenobia.
There are Six different religions. One big happy continent! With two counties!
also it's like 3 years old that map! It needs updating!
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
World Mountain appears to be representing a hermaphrodite of some sort.
Some outlines for a sort of sci fi themed thing.
I always start something like this and end up throwing it out later.
Well not totally like this, this has a narrower focus than what I usually get in a file.
So maybe that'll work better?
some kind of intersexed condition, maybe
yes, yes, i know what it looks like. but it looks less like something in that drawing than my original attempt did. :P
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
Wanna look at some of this for me?
There is definite razor burn present.
Sure!
I'm to embarrassed to post them outright.
if i can post my map of my world that looks like well whatever that is, nothing is too embarrassing.
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
so
:rotate:
yes.
i also have an english degree.
not that it's helping me in the way of anything.
besides, sharing with multiple people gives multiple outlooks!
(you don't have to. I'm just avoiding packing the rest of the books up today. or trying to)
Democrats Abroad! || Vote From Abroad
The sun had just fallen below the tree line that flanked my modest hovel. Although I could continue working amidst the hazy twilight for a short while, I had, at most, another half hour of workable light. Though a small, weathered lamp sat along the edge of my heavily scarred workbench, it had been days since I could get my hands on a suitable amount of oil to warrant lighting the damn thing. Tonight, it served as nothing more than a reminder of troubled times. Given the prices local vendors had been asking of late, such a luxury was out of the question for a man of my worth, and what little money I had was reserved for far more critical items required for my craft.
To invent a thing requires materials. Copper, string, wire, parchment and canvas, to name a few. Items which, on their own do not amount to much, and the sum of which can amount to a hefty toll on a man’s purse. These items are easily acquired, but until they are put to clever use, they sit without worth. They empty my pocketbook and offer no guarantees of replenishing it. At their worst, they are burdens, yet this is the unfortunate risk all inventors take. On this particular evening, with precious light departing and not a candle to my name, I wished I had not been so risky.
Though tonight, I am not tinkering. No, I am preparing. I have much work to do, and time is running short.
Darkness continued to fill the room as I hurried about my task, scribbling a few additional notes on my hastily-drawn map. Although it felt as though only a few minutes had passed since the sun had fallen out of sight, I soon found myself squinting down, brow furrowed, at the pieces of parchment that lay before me. A dull ache crept around my temples, and I caught myself peering thoughtfully at the crumbling forge that slumped against the far corner of the room. Its hearty stones were jagged and uneven, nearly loose through years of heavy use, and faint ribbons of smoke drifted lazily upward from its deep charcoal pit.
I had hoped to spare what little charcoal remained for another time, but without a spare candle or drop of oil to call my own, it looked to be my only light source as twilight quickly gave way to a blackened sky. With a defeated sigh, I stood up from my stool and shuffled toward the bellows sitting idle on the crooked flagstone floor nearby. Peering inside the pit, my suspicions were confirmed.
“Martyn, you beautiful bastard,” I murmured.
My assistant had been using the forge earlier that afternoon, and for that I was thankful. Although the outer charcoal had long gone faint and ashen, a few of the inner lumps were still glowing with a mild heat. The warmth they held was not enough to offer a useful amount of light, but a few pumps of the bellows might rekindle the darkened mass, and I would soon be able to resume my work.
With each pump, the mass began to grow brighter, the temperature at the heart of the charcoal pit rising dramatically. After a minute or two, I was satisfied with the result. It was a rare thing to see my hovel lit from the forge alone, and I paused a moment to turn around and admire the hazy red glow that washed over the room. It was eerie, in a way, but far from unwelcome.
After a final pump, I gently placed the bellows back onto the dusty flagstone and set about sliding my workbench across the room to rest alongside my newly-created lightsource. The base of the bench thudded and rattled across the rough stone floor,. catching once or twice, splitting one of the planks along an already-weakened wood screw. I scolded myself for the damage my carelessness and haste had caused, though the crack was little more than superficial.
“This had better be worth the wasted charcoal,” I thought, though I was already beginning to appreciate the warmth the glowing forge offered, let alone the much-needed light. The nights of late had been colder than usual, and I suspected the season’s first frost to be no more than a few weeks away.
Sitting once more at my stool. I reached for my wooden quill and continued about my work, scratching at a fresh piece of parchment with slow and deliberate strokes. I had but a few hours to finish my work before setting off, for tonight would be a very important night if all went according to plan.
I continued to pour over the details of tonight’s plan for another hour before noticing that my precious light had once again begun to fade. Leaning over to pick up my bellows once more, I began to hear what sounded like the crackling of dry leaves. I froze, quirking my head upward to listen more intently. The crackling grew louder, and it soon became apparent that someone was approaching my hovel from the western treeline. Whoever my visitor might be, he or she took little care to mask the sauntering footsteps. This comforted me, but only slightly.
I shifted once again, crawled off the stool, and began to creep quietly toward the window. I was halfway across the room when the footsteps stopped abruptly. From the sound of it, they ceased no more than twenty feet away. Pausing, I bent even lower to the floor, unsure of whether to continue my approach or wait for another audible clue as to who or where my visitor might be. The silence remained unbroken but for a gust of wind that briefly whistled by. I closed my eyes and listened more intently, my heart pounding.
“Fedir?”a voice call out. “Have you hurt yourself?”
I looked up, surprised to see my assistant Martyn standing just outside the window, his toothy grin showing bright in the darkness.
“A little young for back trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, gesturing toward my crooked form. “It looks as though you’ve done some rearranging in there. I like the setup.”
“Martyn, get your ass in here,” I said sharply, though I too was smiling.
Standing upright, I stepped toward the heavy oak door and began unfastening the three pin-tumbler locks Martyn and I had installed last Spring, a symptom of desperate times prompting even more desperate thieves. With a final click, I swung the door open, and Martyn quickly shuffled inside. A chill draft followed him in, and I quickly slammed the door shut before setting to the locks once more.
“Took you long enough,” he said, rubbing one arm with the other. “It’s freezing out there.”
“You’re an hour early,” I said, though I was happy to see him. “Scared me half to death sneaking up like that.”
With a chuckle, Martyn reached out and shook my hand warmly, though his was as cold as ice.
“Grab the bellows over there,” I said. “I’ve got the forge going for lack of lamp oil. Why don’t you give it a few pumps and warm yourself? I need you focused on the task at hand tonight.”
Martyn took to the forge without comment as I glanced down at my notes, wondering if we were being fools in our endeavor.
“It’s awfully dark in here,” Martyn said, cupping his brow with the side of his hand. “If I’d have known you’d skimp on candles again, I would have brought some of my own. You have a talent for working in the dark that I’ve yet to master”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied,” I said, gesturing toward the workbench. “If we’re going to do this, we need to do it sharp. We need to be neat. We need to at least act like we know what the hell we’re doing.”
Martyn gave the bellows a few more hearty pumps before turning to face me, his face solemn.
“We do know what we’re doing, right?” He asked.
“I think we have a pretty good idea,” I said. “Lord knows we’ve spent enough time and resources preparing for tonight.
“I’m afraid a more complicated plan does not necessarily beget success,” he said, turning to hold his hands above the glowing charcoal.
“Can you think of a more simple one?” I asked.
“No,” He said, shrugging. “Not that we have time to consider other alternatives at this point.”
“It’s a good plan,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. Martyn was only a few years younger than me, barely out of the academy, yet I felt a certain sense of responsibility for him. He is my assistant, after all. His success is intertwined with my own, and should I fail, he’ll suffer as well.
Previous account
And can we make it a rule that we don't critique actual writing in this thread because that way lies madness and failure, for sure
http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/lastsyllable/novels/handyman
I still can't decide on the fantasy conman thing or the deep see zombie thing.
God damn it, Quoth.
There we go. That's a working title that might get changed later on.
I regret nothing