[Pokémon] Nightblown (PG13)

AmusedRaccoon · Dec 31, 2008

Edit - 7.10.10:
Starting now, taking the place of the original content is the first of hopefully many minor revisions. This is your new intro. I've stuffed the old one into a spoiler.

Nightblown is, in summary, a story about a psychic girl who leaves home to train and learn witchcraft. It's an offshoot of a fangame imagined by myself and user MrMelee -- it's set in the same region(s), features many of the same characters, and takes place at almost the same time, but focuses on different aspects of the universe. The wording is hopelessly convoluted despite my best efforts at revision, and at some point in the future it may or may not be suitable for children.

A note on the intro: this is supposed to be the place where I hint at the story's major themes. Don't take the "almost and in-between" thing too seriously -- it's my stock theme; I use it as a fallback. (It's sort of a fetish.) This section will most likely change again once the story figures out where it's going.

Spoiler:

. : Nightblown : .

It's a peculiar thing, to be in two places at once.

I can see Arbutus, the dream-city, glimmering between the waves. I can see the sloped sides of the Black Mirror Pool arcing up and away towards dusky Sapote Village when the light bends correctly, and the spirits of others locked in this trance below the glassy surface, as distant and ghostly as I must appear to them. But here I sit – no (although, in another place, this is true); here I stand – no. Here I lie, vertically, suspended, floating; dead to the world all in motion around me.

This place, it heightens perception such as I've never felt before. I can feel the planes, all of them, arching and shimmering below and above me – the others are little more than veils, but the physical world, is a map spread all round and below me, a moving living map in which rivers flow and skies lighten, darken; people retreat into and emerge from their homes as airships pass overhead, casting shadows on desert and plain—

Regardless, here I exist, somewhere between; both normal and ethereal. My story, too, is one of the almost and the in-between, when reality brushes up against legend and memory and dream. Only fitting, then, that this meditation is the final challenge; the sum and the climax of all I've sought and learned. It is a rite of forced recall, of remembrance – I can see my experiences thus far laid out in a shining chain, each moment a vital link – I can see myself diving into this chain, entering it, allowing it to consume me.

Only through this will it all fall into place. Only after this will I be ready.

Thus it begins: my name is Holly.

1.

Whitebirch, village of snow, nestled at the summit of the largest mountain in Augen: my birthplace, my home. It had its own sort of mysticism about it—the story was that its first inhabitants, my grandparents among them, migrated there through a cave after a schism occurred in their former town: a place, it was said, of magic and dark forces. There was a little graveyard at the peak of the mountain, which the residents of Whitebirch perceived as a special place.

My upbringing was merry and unremarkable until, sometime during the spring of my third year of life, my mother fell ill – it was a violent, ruthless illness, confining her, all wrapped up in blankets and with beads of sweat glistening on her pale skin, to my parents' bed or to the chair by the fireplace for most of summer and fall. It was no virus, however, unless such a thing could be said of the parasitic seed of life – it burgeoned within her, sapping her strength, while she seemed to be battling it for her own body. Winter came and her belly looked ready to burst, and then my mother and father were holed up in their bedroom with the midwife, and I (how could I have forgotten?) stood white and wide-eyed in the hall, hearing the screams through the closed door and knowing with the prescient certainty of a freshly four-year-old that something was going wrong.

A tense silence and then a crying followed the climax of the battle; but it was a guttural, stricken-sounding moan of a cry rather than an infant's wail. My mother had survived the ordeal in spite of herself – I glimpsed, for an instant, the child that would surely have taken her life cradled motionless in my father's arms, framed in the now-open doorway.

She was to be called Amaryllis, so my father carved it into her tombstone, painstakingly and precisely as a bride embroidering her wedding veil – and they buried Amaryllis in the cold earth of the mountaintop with all the town present save the very old or – like me – the very young. I went because she was my sister (I can't say for sure, but I believe that, in a way, even then I understood), and stood between my parents at the head of the gathering.

To this day I don't know whether the drifloon was there to guide my dead sister away or whether it was her, formed from the substace of her soul, as ghost pokemon are said to be. It meandered about some distance down the mountain, weaving through the snowy pines while we all stood there shivering, and no one seemed to notice it but me. Some time after the funeral ended and night fell, I, restless with thoughts of the balloon pokemon, climbed out of bed and wandered back to the summit of the mountain, wearing only my nightdress despite the cold. It was still there when I approached the graveyard, bobbing about the small, somber stones, and it began drifting toward me as soon as it noticed my presence.

We met in the center of that little cemetery and it latched onto my outstretched hand with its own heart-shaped one and pulled, undoubtedly trying to steal me away to who-knows-where – the spirit world, perhaps – but in blissful naivete I giggled and pulled back, and soon I was dragging the protesting balloon back home, smiling a small childish smile. That morning my mother and father found me happily asleep in my bed, still clutching the drifloon tightly by its paw. They did not question or protest: I think they hoped that it would help me get over my sister's death, or at least avoid any scarring. When I awoke they had already obtained an age-bleached apricorn from somewhere and encased the drifloon within it: together they presented me, round-faced, groggily disheveled, and ecstatic, with the makeshift pokeball.

In time, the drifloon would become my companion. In those early years, though, it was my plaything, a cherished object that held infinite amusement. I dragged it around everywhere, and if my grip ever slackened and it attempted to float away (which happened often – I was a clumsy child, and my pokemon did not enjoy its captivity) I would recall it with the apricorn that rested always in the pocket of my dress. I called it Woony, then, and my parents followed suit in the way adults speak gibberish to babies.

Another year passed before my parents attempted to conceive again: my father became visibly nervous, then, while my mother fell into a sort of cautious stoicism, but this time the pregnancy passed painlessly and my brother was born without incident late in the summer, a few months before my own birthday. Suddenly I was six years old and left mostly to myself, as my parents cared (unscrupulously, and with a sort of triumphant joy – but who could blame them?) for the new baby. I was maturing quickly for a small child, and I had already begun to perceive Woony as female, although it would be some time still before I'd consider her a playmate rather than a toy. The drifloon, for her part, had warmed to me as well in the two years since I'd captured her so unwittingly – in my mind's eye I watch myself falling over, tripped perhaps by a rock or a root hidden beneath the snow, and Woony hovering close, bobbing with apparent concern. We still had not communicated beyond the instinctual childish level of gestures and touches and occasional sounds, but that was soon to change.

I know what it's like to feel supernatural. I've done my share of witchcraft over the years, and there's always a sense of power beyond one's own being invoked in the truest spells, those least diluted by superstition and word-of-mouth. The others work too, of course, on the basis of common belief (usually, at least, if you know what you're doing), and can still be quite potent depending on how culturally ingrained they've become...

Regardless, though, this felt as natural as it's possible for anything to feel; as natural as seeing or smelling or hearing. I don't know when it started, because it was so gradual – I could perceive vague moods from Woony, no different than the sort one can easily infer of humans from their body language alone, and then I could perceive emotions from her, specific and fickle and linked – almost – with colors in my mind, and then I could almost, almost detect her thoughts sliding over and around each other like quicksilver gusts of wind if I payed close attention to her beady black eyes. These were tinted with colors, usually, or they formed vague distorted picture-shapes, and I found them pretty, like dresses or flowers. And then I found myself noticing whether she was cheerful or melancholy or lonely or annoyed even when she wasn't present or within sight (at this point, of course, constant surveillance of my pocket monster was far from necessary, although I was no less enthralled with her than I had been that night in the graveyard), and I spoke to her in human-speech when she was near and knew her responses, even if I couldn't have relayed them in words.

I think one of my maternal aunts had this talent, too, or perhaps my grandmother, and I know it was present in a handful of other villagers of both sexes, albeit to various lesser degrees. The reason for this involves Whitebirch's origins, surely (it's never been tested, of course, but it's a commonsense affair), and I've no reason not to disclose it – but it's all connected, you see, to where I am, and what I've done, and why I left – and this fickle trance, likely for the better, locks everything in sequence: before all that can be explained, I must tell you of Persimmon.

MrMelee · Dec 31, 2008

You know how I feel about this piece. I'm sure you do by now. It's actually quite hard to offer critique, seeing as I'm dating you (yes, sorry all you budding suitors, but this raccoon does happen to be a female and quite taken, by none other than me. god am I beaming.) Just as I'm sure you know, it is substantially challenging to scrutinize your own work. I feel next to nothing when I read my own writing.. perhaps a hint of acknowledgement, knowing whether or not it leans toward "good" or "bad", or "bland" and "interesting". Those things are easy to see. The very grey areas are the easiest.

But as I said, it is hard for me to read this and basically pick it apart, to disembowel it and hang it in the sun, as it were. I can't, really, suffice to say I -like- it, and you have some sort of talent in you, whether or not it's yet realized..

My more meaningful words, you've heard come from my mouth. I'm essentially letting you know I have read it from its earliest stages, to completion.. and it's become something entirely more than what it started as; something entirely different. It's become, I think, what you wanted it to be.

And Arceus knows (lols) you've worked too ****ing hard on this, so take a break, and relax knowing you produced a -quality- piece of work. You all here can say what you will of it, and find your typical literary qualms with it, but I don't have the mind and eyes for those things most of the time. I purely enjoyed reading it. It is good storytelling. What more must I say?

The last few paragraphs were new to me. I especially enjoyed the second to last; it is definitely the glowing portion of the piece. The references to colors.. all very synesthesia-esque. Reeks of it. And hence I like that.

Oh, you. You want some scathing criticism, right?

Hm. One thing that stood out: The birth of a second child seems rather meaningful, wouldn't you say? Quite, seeing as the true second child died after birth and rather a large ordeal was made of it. That shaped the course of Holly's future. That one death; it plagued her mother, her father, and put them through what most families would never fathom. And finally! Conception! Absolutely a miracle, really. The boy is born, she has a sibling at last, what a joyous occasion -- this might have needed to be emphasized a bit more than it was. Perhaps expounded upon, Holly's emotions further explored, seeing as this boy is probably of some importance. *wink* It must have entirely confused and perplexed her and her family, sent them into an almost magical state. And certainly, he played a role in Holly's maturing.

However, the point here is the relation between Woony and Holly and just how she became so mystic -- so, cover the bases as you see fit.

I find their relationship to be perfect, really - how it started, how it continued - and how the Drifloon seems to remain estranged and aloof to some extent, though expressing concern and marginal understanding. It's mystic, in a way. Woony could float off at any time, just on a wisp of wind, never to return, but she wouldn't fight Holly's tug, upon realizing the wind was there.. It's dreamy, something you might only discover in a shrouded dream. There is something entirely unique to that, expressive of both of their natures, a sort of loose co-dependence.

I think of the two of them and I hear a song.. one I want to share with you, actually. It's serene. I think it expresses the feeling better than I can. Listen to this song, when I show you, and think of the two of them -- I feel it may shed some light on the true nature of what Woony and Holly feel.

And so it's done.. but.

I .. want more. Who is this Persimmon, anyway? Don't leave us waiting, raccoon!

AmusedRaccoon · Jul 6, 2010

Spoiler:

2.

A sort of tension in the air, like the residue of a lightning strike; a heavy, warm fur coat that made a muffled sound as it swept along; torch-thrown shadows all over the snow and the shoveled road – and those smoldering eyes, glowing and flickering firelike, orange or perhaps yellow or perhaps red. I huddled at my window in the dark, certain that the shrouded figure could not see me, and equally certain that she could sense me, if so inclined. There was a murkrow, too, talons entwined in coarse fur, and it stared in my direction until its master passed out of sight.

These were my first impressions of her: Persimmon the night-traveler, the psychic, the witch. I felt her still as she moved up the only street in Whitebirch, even after I could no longer see the glimmer of firelight. I felt it when she stopped at Elder Rocha's house; I felt her thinking, and I felt the little currents of power in the air eddy and swirl around her thoughts. She was a beacon. She was potential energy realized, made carnate: she could have twisted the stinging night air into a vortex that would have swallowed up the elder's cottage right then, forever – it seemed as though she needed simply to have allowed it to happen.

I opened my window when she had passed out of sight in time to hear the rapping on the elder's door, conveyed by the thin, frigid air: five times quick and hard, and then impatient silence.

Every proper village needs a village elder, the old-timers believed, and so old Rocha's house was the largest in the village, and also nearest the mountaintop. His official leadership was unnecessary for the most part, since our nearest neighbors were each a mountainside away, but he was a wise old man and people respected him. He arbitrated occasional disputes, conducted weddings and funerals, and – far most importantly, in the eyes of those whose respect for mystic places had been derived firsthand – he tended to our little graveyard.

The door opened (again, I could hear it – such an eerie stillness to that night!) and Persimmon emitted a wave of shock that made me shiver even bundled in my thick nightclothes and sheltered in my warm room. Whispers were exchanged, quick and sharp – I could not decipher them – and she entered out of the cold night.

I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours that night, ill with anticipation and psychic pressure, before the realm of dreams took hold.

- –∙ –∙ ∙–∙ ∙∙–∙∙ ∙∙—∙∙ ∙∙–∙∙ ∙–∙ ∙– ∙– -

It was the night after my thirteenth birthday – significant, it might seem, by that fact alone. The truth was, though, that such a date was utterly eclipsed in importance by my brother's seventh birthday only days ago.

In Whitebirch, it is customary to celebrate young boys when they reach the age of seven – an ancient tradition, older by far than the village itself, and perhaps older still than that place which birthed it. Seven was the age at which boys were recognized, really, as boys. Possibly it was then that they were expected to begin working for the family farm in days long ago – but whatever the case, when Aramil celebrated his seventh birthday, all of Whitebirch celebrated it with him. The circumstances of his birth in respect to of our family history came to light once again: there was talk of gods and miracles and (albeit rarely) even prophecy in hushed tones, and people flocked to our home in ones and twos to pay earnest congratulations to my parents.

I burned to understand such murmurings, and when my questions yielded no answers I took to wandering, with Woony, far into the steep-sloped forests down the mountainside, joining my tracks with those of anonymous pokemon in the virgin snow. I was still round-faced, still small, but I had reached the age where children begin the slow and painful metamorphosis into adults, and my mind and body were quickly becoming frighteningly unfamiliar. I looked to the world around me for guidance, and was comforted by the notion that adults no longer grew.

That morning I rose with the sun, vested myself in layers of warmth, and summoned Woony with a glance and a thought before tiptoeing down the familiar wooden stairs and out into the white morning.

I settled myself in the fresh snow outside Rocha's dining room window and listened, straining my ears and mind. Mid-conversation – they had risen before dawn, then, or perhaps conversed all night. This close to Persimmon, I had no need to see her: I could sense her movements, the way her body turned the air.

"—felt it also," Rocha was saying. "It is... unnerving... but it does not affect us here. The air is too thin for evil – let it fester in the murky swamps, as it wishes."

Then, Persimmon, the stranger, spoke – I hadn't yet seen her face or heard her voice, and it startled me. It was unmistakably female, yet low; far from seductive (in the conventional sense, at least), but spellbinding nonetheless – and to this day it remains the most self-assured voice I have ever heard.

"You once considered me evil, old man," she said. "you and your ilk – the lot of you – do you not still?"

A weary sigh. "Perhaps there are different types of evil." There was a long, pregnant pause, and both the elder and the stranger seemed to be pondering, or perhaps remembering. It was laden with feeling – a quiet sort of pity from Rocha, while Persimmon emitted a haughty disdain that seemed directed at all of Whitebirch, especially the elder.

He was the one who broke it. "Oh, child—"

Almost instantly, a soft but piercing clatter cut him off: Persimmon had risen. She fumed, and it was as though only the cold edge of her passion kept it from literally heating the air. "You had best not dare to take that tone with me again," she snarled. "You know me, Rocha, and you know what I can do! And do not think to deny your elders the proper respect – child. I will outlive your children's children—"

Abruptly, she broke off. She tossed her head, magenta curls bobbing, as if bothered by some insect. "Arceus – look at you, old man! – Look at how the flesh hangs limp and ragged from your bones! Is this truly what you wanted?"

I was becoming uncomfortable, I realized: I had neglected to breathe. Hastily, I inhaled.

"We are happy here," he said. "All of us."

She nodded. She seemed almost frail in that instant, vulnerable... almost. When she spoke it was halting, quiet.

"I never understood... I still don't. We are... different, Rocha."

"It is light," he said. "Those who remember you will not be pleased to find you here."

"I know." She was still standing. The murkrow alighted on her shoulder, and she left the room without another word.

I tensed. I hadn't moved from my spot by the window, and Persimmon was back at Rocha's door – she was opening it, audibly. I seized Woony's paw and darted halfway into the woods behind the dwelling as quietly as I could, which was not near as quietly as I would have liked. Certainly one of them would notice...

But I could detect nothing from either of them. Maybe Rocha couldn't hear it; perhaps Persimmon was lost too deeply in thought. I squatted there until I was sure the elder wouldn't emerge to deliver a proper farewell, then crept back out to the side of the building to peer at her receding silhouette. Maybe.

Maybe...

I sprang out, dashing to reach her before she turned a corner, vanished. "Wait!" I cried, and it broke the crisp morning into shards, and she turned and I was right there in front of her, doubled over, panting more out of the suddenness of it than from having run at all far. Maybe she knew. She had to know.

"Is... is my brother... a miracle?"

It came out in such a small voice. I was mortified – what a stupid, simple question! Even before the words reached my own ears, I was certain of the answer: little one, go back to bed.

No words came. I opened my eyes, lifted my gaze from the snow on her boots. She was looking down at me, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile kiss her lips: whether it was out of love for her craft or simply because I amused her – or, perhaps, something else entirely – I could never tell. I would have died for her in that moment.

"What your people think of as miracles is just magic," she said, kindly. "And every act of creation has magic in it."

Persimmon smiled again; bigger, this time, more tangible, yet pensively distant – and she bent to ruffle my hair. Then she straightened abruptly and strode off without another word, and left me standing stricken on the cobbled path, staring off after her until she disappeared around a pine.

- - -

Spoiler:

Luphinid Silnaek · Jul 6, 2010

This interested me back when it wasn't so far back that it hadn't died long ago. Will I have to get at your fangame to see any of your creations? Really.

This is good, yeah. I'm slightly relieved to find there are other people besides me in the world who bother with big words and complex sentences; I was starting to wonder whether that isn't just uncool for some reason. One thing that hugs the border between actual intent and possible shortcoming of the writing style is how meandering it is: even when your sentences have direction they go off on tangents, they barely deliver one meaning before they're jumping to another. Then your paragraphs could be utterly disconnected sentences all of them, and it wouldn't make much of a difference. 'Twas particularly noticeable in the introduction sequence. I won't question its effectiveness there because the strange sentence structure looks like it has to be deliberate, and perhaps consciousness in that state is just that disjoint. Outside it, though:

My upbringing was merry and unremarkable until, sometime during the spring of my third year of life, my mother fell ill – it was a violent, ruthless illness, confining her, all wrapped up in blankets and with beads of sweat glistening on her pale skin, to my parents' bed or to the chair by the fireplace for most of summer and fall. It was no true virus, however, unless such a thing could be said of the parasitic seed of life – it burgeoned within her, sapping her strength, while she seemed to be battling it for her own body. Winter came and her belly looked ready to burst, and then my mother and father were holed up in their bedroom with the midwife, and I (how could I have forgotten?) stood white and wide-eyed in the hall, hearing the screams through the closed door and knowing with the prescient certainty of a freshly four-year-old (for my birthday had been in the autumn, the harvesting-time, as was proper) that something was going wrong.

See, borderlines. I can't judge your writing style clearly for all the borderlines. The meandering is idosyncratic, sure, and in a lot of places it serves the basic purpose of writing -- conveying information by some kind of rhyme or order -- in its own way. From one angle it's natural for the mind to see a glimpse of sickness first, then a denial of its existence of a virus, then a better definition, then a full and true description, as in the first two sentences. You don't state this in ways we're used to. That is perfectly serviceable. But from another angle, the long tangents break momentum in very violent ways. I'm not so sure they can all be interpreted as complementing the mood, and they certainly overload your sentence structure, from a technical viewpoint. Does the writing style help or harm the story? I can't decide, but I do know your sentences aren't as smooth and fluent as they could be.

A possible solution might be more deliberate purpose in your sentences: give them each a single point to drive forward, and do it as cleanly and directly as you can. If your thoughts branch off to other tangents, set them aside for more relevant passages or scenes.

Mm, that's about as harsh as I'm likely to get. On the other hand, I like your style at certain places so much I don't even know why I'm saying this. Sorry. I'll continue with less coherent thoughts (if I have more coherence to lose).

Is it more or less appropriate that the Discworld witch books make me very happy to read about Persimmon? Screw that, it is appropriate. Both your depiction and Pratchett's depiction are excellent, because this rural conception of witches is just generally more sophisticated than supernatural tends to be. Letme see: if Granny Weatherwax is Persimmon, would Holly be Tiffany Aching? You hint she gets involved in magic eventually, but Persimmon hasn't yet showed interest in her. I assume your systems are different from the ones I know.

Would it be unfair to go out and say I wouldn't like you to abandon this again? You have a reader hanging on your update, that's responsibilities. It's not so much I'd be crushed if it never updated again than that I really do like it, and I think this could go somewhere -- it's already achieved something by existing. Honestly, I would kill to know that the beginning to one of my fics achieved something by existing -- and here you are, ridiculing the thing. Feel ashamed.

AmusedRaccoon · Jul 6, 2010

Luphinid Silnaek said:
Honestly, I would kill to know that the beginning to one of my fics achieved something by existing -- and here you are, ridiculing the thing. Feel ashamed.

No. No, don't you even--!
Would it surprise you that Aftershock is half the reason I started this in the first place? "Man, it must be cool to have a story," sez year-and-a-half-ago me, and so I strung some words together. I know words and how they work but I sure don't know writing, and that's why it smells okay but tastes awful (or, I guess, vice versa).

Anyway, I might as well address this in reverse order. I never read Discworld. From Wikipedia's synopsis I can tell you with some certainty that this is supposed to be an inversion of that sort of thing, sort of. See, my original plan (and it's becoming increasingly less likely that things will unfold this way, based on how the game's plot has been developing, so it's not as much of a spoiler as it seems) was that Holly would go off to train and learn witchcraft and then seek out Persimmon and apply to be her student. Unfortunately for her, children are one of Persimmon's few weaknesses, so when she returns as an adult she's rejected on the spot and defeated badly in every applicable way, and generally takes a fair deal of psychological damage. This does happen during the timeline of the game, and it was going to be the story's climactic ending.

And then we had this idea: "We want this game to be original, right? How about a party system!"

So suddenly it's Pokemon meets Baten Kaitos and when our silent protagonist leaves town to meet up with his sister about nine years after the current point in the story, they stick together. As a consequence, Holly gets to see far more of the main storyline than she was originally going to, so I might just gloss over the whole training-in-the-swamps phase that was going to be the bulk of this and more or less parallel the game's story. Basically, it's up in the air.

Luphinid Silnaek said:
A possible solution might be more deliberate purpose in your sentences: give them each a single point to drive forward, and do it as cleanly and directly as you can. If your thoughts branch off to other tangents, set them aside for more relevant passages or scenes.

See, I really thought I was already doing that. I admit that the language is far more obfuscated than it needs to be (I was definitely trying too hard, especially in the first chapter, but I like to think that I managed to fix chapter 2 a bit before posting it. I took out some "for"s and replaced some semicolons with commas, anyway) -- but to me, the structure behind it is still fairly straightforward. Maybe that's because I wrote it and even a year later I still can't disentangle meaning from words -- I've got three more versions of the intro and two of the first chapter saved, but for every knot of words I smooth the story itself feels subtly different, and I don't particularly like the change. That's bad writing, I know, but I have no idea what to do about it.

This is a response to a review after all, but I have to mention: I never even thought to check Serebii for the end of Aftershock. And I was waiting diligently for it, too (more or less)! Judging by the comparative attention it got over there, I may have to check that place out.

But I'm honored, really and truly. It was totally unexpected and absolutely fantastic for you to come here and say things, let alone that they were good things besides. I don't know what I could say to do that justice, honestly, because it's not like "thank you" cuts it. Feel lauded!

Luphinid Silnaek · Jul 9, 2010

There probably isn't enough relevant matter in this reply to justify it, but whoo whatever:

No. No, don't you even--!
Would it surprise you that Aftershock is half the reason I started this in the first place? "Man, it must be cool to have a story," sez year-and-a-half-ago me, and so I strung some words together. I know words and how they work but I sure don't know writing, and that's why it smells okay but tastes awful (or, I guess, vice versa).

Do you think I know writing? Knowing this stuff is for much more talented people. It seems conceivable to me that as long as we're writing fanfiction outside an actual profession, vaguely winging things will just about slide.

Anyway, I might as well address this in reverse order. I never read Discworld. From Wikipedia's synopsis I can tell you with some certainty that this is supposed to be an inversion of that sort of thing, sort of. [...]Basically, it's up in the air.

Well, plots are generally very smart creatures; they have a way of bridging their own gaps by themselves if you give them a little information to work on. You have a story; you must have seen this. There's a little timeline of plot between this very early chapter and the events you wastebasketed, isn't there? Let your story go on, give it this little thread to hang by. I can almost guarantee you it'll do something interesting.

See, I really thought I was already doing that. I admit that the language is far more obfuscated than it needs to be (I was definitely trying too hard, especially in the first chapter, but I like to think that I managed to fix chapter 2 a bit before posting it. I took out some "for"s and replaced some semicolons with commas, anyway) -- but to me, the structure behind it is still fairly straightforward. Maybe that's because I wrote it and even a year later I still can't disentangle meaning from words -- I've got three more versions of the intro and two of the first chapter saved, but for every knot of words I smooth the story itself feels subtly different, and I don't particularly like the change. That's bad writing, I know, but I have no idea what to do about it.

Two things I was stupid enough not to say: it does get smoother in the second chapter. It's in the same style but this time it works, often grammatically as well as stylistically.

And in a universe we deserve, that sense of what feels right should have a say in how we write. I'm not saying everything should be permitted: I think the writer's feel of their story should come to an agreement with the basic rules of writing. To an extent it does, because the mechanics of language allow a good range of style, but they should give a little.

This is a response to a review after all, but I have to mention: I never even thought to check Serebii for the end of Aftershock. And I was waiting diligently for it, too (more or less)! Judging by the comparative attention it got over there, I may have to check that place out.

But I'm honored, really and truly. It was totally unexpected and absolutely fantastic for you to come here and say things, let alone that they were good things besides. I don't know what I could say to do that justice, honestly, because it's not like "thank you" cuts it. Feel lauded!

I can't decently apologize for giving you such hiatuses just because I forgot Aftershock. All things told I think SPPF is about as active right now as PC is, but this is after I returned there; before my disappearance even the fanfic forums used to be packed. I have no idea how my writing could justify how fantastic you found a simple review of mine, but yay? Okay, I have to be a little more gracious. The review was my pleasure, and that's a truth not a placation.

AmusedRaccoon · Jul 9, 2010

Luphinid Silnaek said:
I have no idea how my writing could justify how fantastic you found a simple review of mine, but yay? Okay, I have to be a little more gracious. The review was my pleasure, and that's a truth not a placation.

Short reply -- not that I spend much time here or reading fanfiction in general, but yours is by far the best I've seen as a matter of taste. On top of that you log in less often even than I do, which elevates it and you to something aloof and a little untouchable, at least to me. On top of that, (to all appearances!) you appeared again just to comment on my puny story.

I was incredulous, basically, in a good way. (You could say I got a little fangirly.) But it isn't the review itself that was so amazing so much as that you came and reviewed it out of nowhere.

An independent note: I have been busying myself with backstory that's minor in the context of the game but will probably turn out to be necessary for this story. At the very least I need a foundational engine solid enough to kill inconsistencies in plot before they crop up, and also to provide an index of what sort of themes I can realistically inject this with. These things are unimportant to everyone except me, really, but I figured I'd mention that I'm working on them, as it seems to indicate this will be continued. It makes for good practice, at least.

AmusedRaccoon · Jul 12, 2010

Spoiler:

3.

"Aramil, stop it right now."

He started, put down his book, sat up. He turned to look at me. "What? What am I doing?" His face was carefully blank, his tone neutral – it was admirable, really, for a seven-year-old.

"Moping," I said, "and you've been at it for the past week. Do you think I don't notice? It's so blindingly obvious that – why on earth wouldn't you talk to me about it, or Mom or Dad?" I was in his doorway, frowning, tapping my foot. I'd been on the other side of the house, but his depression hung over the whole place like a psychic miasma and made it impossible to concentrate on anything.

"It's... stupid." He scowled.

That wasn't worth a reply. I found my scorn, sent it washing over him. He gave an involuntary shiver and looked up at me reproachfully.

"Go on."

"I actually don't know if I can. Can't I, um..." the speech flowed into a deliberate mental gesture. I nodded, went over and sat down on the bed next to him. In retrospect, taking his hand wouldn't have helped, but it felt like the proper thing to do. I can hear you; go ahead.

He opened his mind: a tumult of faces, smiling expectantly; the buzz of a background conversation, its words unintelligible but its meaning too clear; the tactile feeling of heavy wrapping-paper. (Window) The exhilaration of presents! rapidly (falling snow) evaporating, its residue congealing into a sense of burden (have to? back downstairs again) that weighed like a stone in his gut. Not me. (down again) Not me. (so many people) N(W)o(h)t me?

Embrace. Soft, warm; comfort.

"Aramil," I said. "Aramil, listen."

While I paused to deliberate, the moment chose to impress its significance upon me. This was my little brother – he needed me. Was I not his role model? He needed me. I reeled a little, but I gathered my thoughts. His thought-gesture was expectant, his chin on my shoulder.

"Everyone says you're special because you are: because you mean the whole world to Mom and Dad, and to me, and that's all you need to worry about. Nobody expects you to be a hero and – I don't know, and catch a palkia or something. You're alive, and you're here, and you're capable of loving us and we are of loving you, and these people, they're happy for Mom and Dad because you're here even though nobody thought it could happen, and they're happy for you. You don't have to do anything; everyone is already proud.

And you're my little brother. So stop crying on me or I'll make you think I'm a mightyena."

- –∙ –∙ ∙–∙ ∙∙–∙∙ ∙∙—∙∙ ∙∙–∙∙ ∙–∙ ∙– ∙– -

Education in Whitebirch was a community effort. The village was still too small to have a schoolhouse, but by a sort of unspoken agreement family and neighbors alike would lecture and quiz us and give us books to read whenever the timing was apt. Also by unspoken agreement, it seemed, was the abrupt shift in the nature and volume of my schooling soon after Persimmon's visit. Suddenly I was learning geography, politics, on top of my mathematics and training studies – the Rambutan-Pulasan conflict, the Sapote War, the biomes of the Saat region, the economy of Lamutte. That this coincided with my growing restlessness I made no note. Time passed quickly; my fourteenth birthday approached.

It was as though it had been unconsciously decided all along. In the months before my birthday I resumed my walks down the mountainside, advancing ever lower, discovering new paths. Sometimes I brought Aramil along and showed him the tracks of hoothoot and stantler imprinted in the white; occasionally we found geodude disguised as stones. The wild pokémon were intelligent, they had thought – it was nothing articulate, nothing concrete as such, but their sapience thrummed along the very intertwined roots of those venerable trees. The snow never melted, never muddied. It was as pure a place as can exist in this world.

I was soon to descend from it, and perhaps not ever return.

The day I turned fourteen, not quite a year after Persimmon came and left, was marked with an understated celebration and a handful of gifts: a rough, warm cloak, slightly oversized so that I wouldn't grow out of it too quickly; a waistbag, modern and ergonomic; a collapsible cooking set; pokéballs. Most surprising, though, was the primitive, rudimentary pokédex; little more than a half-blank book. It contained names for all the pokémon I knew and many that I didn't, as well as illustrations for some and descriptions for most, with ample space for additions and a box for prints on each page. The inside-front of the book contained a reference on estimating a monster's height and weight, while the back sported several totally blank pages, presumably for creatures yet to be discovered. Old Rocha himself visited that day, wishing the five of us, including one of Aramil's friends, well, and requesting an audience with me in private. My parents exchanged incomprehensible looks, then acquiesced; everyone but us two emptied into the kitchen, while I looked on in puzzlement.

The elder let out a knowing chuckle, which crescendoed to a belly laugh at the sight of my confusion. "You youngsters! Ah hah, heh... why is it that – horf! – you never give your elders any credit, hmm?"

"Sir, I.. don't follow." I was raised to be deferential, of course, but this old man made it difficult. He radiated a sort of easy familiarity; even closing my mind so as not to accidentally snoop, his presence registered on my senses as a bloom of warm color.

Snippets of thought (What is this? Am I not trying hard enough?) filtered through: that morning almost a year ago. Rocha's pleasant dining room. A rustle; the snap of a twig. The snap...

Ohmyarceus no wonder—

The laugh his mind made was exactly like the one his throat did, but sharper. {You're a talented one, you know.}

I-I stammer this yes I'm sorry

{You know our history, correct? We are here because we forsook sorcery; I am here because these people needed a leader to guide them through the caves, to pick a location, to coordinate the build.

This is not the place for you; you would grow unfulfilled, restless.}

I nodded, keeping the forefront of my mind precariously still. Of course I could not silence the buzzing of background thought, but at least without explicit speech there was less opportunity for embarrassment. The next thoughts he spoke were crisply illustrated: a sweeping bird's-eye view of the Augen region far more vivid than the maps I'd learned from, resolving into the damp, vaguely rancorous gloom of vast Valonia as it appeared in Rocha's imagination.

{It is probably best to avoid Sapote for now. Go south, through the midland and dense forest, until you reach the jungles and swamps – there you will find what remain of the others who inherited Senovere's legacy. Stay with them! Stay alert. The power of observation is as strong in you as I have ever seen it; I trust you will learn more from watching and listening than from the tutelage of even they.}

The elder sighed heavily, but his eyes betrayed... what? Nostalgia, certainly, but it was blended with amusement, or pride, or joy, or something else indescribable. "I've never shared this with anyone, girl, but sometimes I regret not doing the same. Tell that to Persimmon, when you meet her."

Luphinid Silnaek · Jul 12, 2010

Changes in my outlook and revisions in your text together make your style agreeable to me. Now that it turns out the only 'overview' chapter was the very first, the direct, action/thought-based sentences of the recent chapters flow well. Typos, first of all:

It was as though it had been unconsciously decided all along. In the months before my birthday I resumes my walks down the mountainside, advancing ever lower, discovering new paths.

Old Rocha himself visited that day, wishing the five of us, including one of Aramil's friends, well, and requesting an audience with me in private. My parents exchanged incomprehensible looks, then acquiesced; everyone but us two emptied into the kitched, while I looked on in puzzlement.

He startled, put down his book, turned to look at me. "What? What am I doing?" His face was carefully blank, his tone neutral – it was admirable, really, for a seven-year-old.

Started, I think you meant; you'd have to put 'was' before it if you kept 'startled'.

Short but ornate, as far as its scope goes. Others might not approve of the subconscious impulse parentheses but how could I not? It's certainly the most appropriate way to represent psychic ability: everyone else uses telepathy exactly like normal conversation except you don't move your mouth, which slides I guess. When you develop the idea, though, I like that our models of instinctive, advanced mind-reading agree on major points.

Of the opening-his-mind paragraph, you're basically writing a new mode of sentence structure, so it's difficult to say if any part of it breaks conventions or doesn't work. Where are the laws? On a whim, I have a few suggestions that might help it flow better:

He opened his mind: a tumult of faces, smiling expectantly; the buzz of a background conversation, its words unintelligible but its meaning too clear; the tactile feeling of heavy wrapping-paper. (Window.) The exhilaration of presents! rapidly (Snow, falling) evaporating, its residue congealing into a sense of burden (will have to go back down again) that weighed like a stone in his gut. Not me. (down again) Not me. (so many people) N(W)o(h)t me?

You start the parentheses-impressions with capitalised first words, and then omit the caps to make it more fragmented; but the caps in this underlined one appear to pile up the sentence beginnings. The sentence appears to stop once at 'presents!' is kickstarted by uncapitalised 'rapidly', and then the capitalised 'Snow' gives a third jerk. Since the impressions of falling snow and dropping exhilaration are supposed to be unified, wouldn't it be better served by making the sentence flow better, uncapitalising "Snow", and perhaps removing the comma after it? I kind of like the way "The exhilaration of presents! rapidly (falling snow) evaporating" folds the sentence structures into each other. Do you?

I apologize if this is incoherent. Are there even precedents to this kind of structure?

I'm partial to sibling interaction. (I do have a sister.) This one gave me a smile.

AmusedRaccoon · Jul 12, 2010

Luphinid Silnaek said:
I'm partial to sibling interaction. (I do have a sister.) This one gave me a smile.

Man, that's a relief. I was completely out of my depth. D:

Also no idea how I missed those typos, or how the second one happened in the first place. I'm glad you caught them.

Started, I think you meant; you'd have to put 'was' before it if you kept 'startled'.

I thought about that, but for some reason "start" didn't seem colloquial enough, and besides I'd used it at the beginning of the dialogue scene immediately before this one, so I was afraid it'd get redundant. I thought of "he jumped" or somesuch, but he was supposed to be laying down (which I never accurately described, besides implying he was already on the bed). I didn't think to check at the time whether that's a valid meaning of startle, but it seems to be.

Others might not approve of the subconscious impulse parentheses but how could I not? It's certainly the most appropriate way to represent psychic ability: everyone else uses telepathy exactly like normal conversation except you don't move your mouth, which slides I guess. When you develop the idea, though, I like that our models of instinctive, advanced mind-reading agree on major points.

I'm going to try (and did try) to differentiate between different types of thought as best I can -- the logic goes that Aramil's paragraph isn't voiced communication but a series of images with words interspersed; even the "not me" part at the end is closer to impression than speech. I added punctuation to Rocha's speech (and presumably the speech of other human psychics) in case I wanted to spread it over multiple paragraphs, and later unitalicized it as an experiment. Holly's thought-speech is italicized to differentiate from her narration, but lacks punctuation to emphasize that the entire story is coming from her mind anyway.

I don't know how well it's all going to work; it took a while to settle on the curly brackets, and I'd like to have something different for pokemon like Woony whose thought patterns are sub-human. At least I have a veteran of this stuff to give me advice. :3

(Edit: new idea -- italics represents directed speech, regardless of punctuation, while sans-italics connotes fully-formed but internalized thought. In due time Holly will be more than capable of picking up on the latter if she chooses, at which point the distinction may become necessary. These rules would be broken in the case of visions like Aramil's, where it's implied that most of what occurs is not true thought-speech at all. I think I'll be trying this out for a while.)

You start the parentheses-impressions with capitalised first words, and then omit the caps to make it more fragmented; but the caps in this underlined one appear to pile up the sentence beginnings. The sentence appears to stop once at 'presents!' is kickstarted by uncapitalised 'rapidly', and then the capitalised 'Snow' gives a third jerk.

The impression was supposed to be two simultaneous but separate paths of thought that become largely intertwined by the end of the paragraph. The capitalized "snow" follows grammatically (heh) from the period after "window". I never even thought to write it a different way.

But you're right. The reader can't be expected to process both at once, anyway, so some obscure grammatical concepts must be sacrificed for flow. Your solution is, I think, is as eloquent as one could get.

I'm pleasantly surprised that you didn't mention anything about the end -- it felt rushed to me when I reread it an hour after posting, but maybe that's because my original conception of the scene preceding Holly's departure was a bit longer and involved a lot more of her parents. I sacrificed it for the chance to give her some supplies she wouldn't have gotten if the village hadn't been in on it beforehand and to inject that description of her schooling.

[Pokémon] Nightblown (PG13)

More options

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante

MrMelee

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante

Luphinid Silnaek

MAGNEMITE.

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante

Luphinid Silnaek

MAGNEMITE.

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante

Luphinid Silnaek

MAGNEMITE.

AmusedRaccoon

Dilettante