literature

The Fable of the Steam Knight and the War Maiden

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Literature Text

In the early morning, when the sky was that pale shade of grey, and a faint coolness still clung to the umber-stoned buildings and dusty, bent trees, life was starting.
In the very heart of the city, a steam-filled heart pumped and pushed, its noise filling the otherwise silent streets with a constant, chugging rush-and-fall, like the steady beating of a metal heart; smaller organs around the buildings spewed their steam into the air in wide, pale clouds, barely visible against the grey of the morning’s sky. Rows upon rows of houses, factories, shops and temples soared up into the sky, building to the great, grand domes of Acre in the very heart, below which that living, stable organism pulsed and beat in time to the order of life; they stretched into the sky, a smattering of factory towers, tall glass windows, pipes and walls and metal doors, and hidden in the dark shelter of their roofs the children of the night wove and ducked and sped on their ways. Even further out from this centre, in the very extremities of the sprawling town, where the buildings were dirty and the streets made of no more than dust and mud, it was there, in the alleys, the buildings, the windows and doors and sky: steam.
All at once the steam cleared in one of these thin, winding alleyways, suddenly, without ceremony, and a figure standing there was revealed. A city like this never slept, but even so there were always times when one could move, unseen, through the half-darkness – that time when the torches which illuminated the night had been extinguished, but the sun had not yet risen. That time when night workers have left for their beds, yet those of the day have not yet risen from them.
One had to know the city in order to know this time – had to know all cities, for all cities are very much the same in this, yet unique nonetheless – but, perhaps, if one did, then one might be able to capture this moment. To capture it, and to use it.
They are coming. This was the immediate thought. She could sense it in her bones, in her pounding heart, in her twitching fingers and quick, racing eyes. In the semi-darkness it was impossible to make out any details of the figure, who stood at the end of the side-street with her head cocked slightly to one side and her hands clenched into fists at her side, but even the silhouette seemed somehow… Off. It was wrong in the way it held itself – shoulders back, chin raised, as if daring the shadows to contradict its presence; wrong in the iron cross, tucked away hidden under layers of cloth, fur and feather yet still glinting faintly in the dim, flickering light; and wrong in the shape of the face. When she turned her head, glancing back over her shoulder the way she had come, a sudden light which burst into life from above cast illumination on her: the ugly, heavy brow; the stubborn, protruding chin; and in between the two, nothing. Nothing but, perhaps just caught by the eye as she turned her head forwards once more to face the mouth of the alley, a deep, cavernous hole in the face, running in a horrific scar from under one eye, across to where the nose should have been, and then down, to disfigure the lips into a permanent grimace. If one could tear oneself away from this glaring fact, one might notice, then, that the dim light caught each of these eyes in a different way – one a dark, hazel green, flickering and deep; the other a pale, reflective yellow, like the eye of a cat. And these eyes were thoughtful – thoughtful, and quick, and aware.
They are coming. She knew it – they were coming to Acre, this holy city of the Jews, and when they did she would be ready. Not to fight – oh no, never to fight them – but ready nevertheless.
One fist slowly unclenched, and went to the short, stout broadsword at her belt. She would be ready when they came. No-one would be ready to stop her.
First part of a new collaborative project between myself and ~LittkeTM :la:
This is something that I've never tried before, and I've never seen anyone who has, so it should be interesting - it's essentially a cross between traditional story-writing and roleplay, with alternate chapters from the two characters. Might get a little difficult when they actually meet, but we'll kill that bird when we come to it |D

The story is still vaguely forming - it's set in an alternate, steampunk-medieval universe, around the time of the crusades, with input from both Teutonic and Templar knights. This character is mine, Rattalya - I wanted her to be somewhat of the classic, war-maiden, fighting young woman character, but also to avoid the obvious stereotypes in this genre. Hence I have made her extremely ugly, cut off her nose, given her eyes two different colours, and a wicked short-sword. I swear, avoiding stereotypes is the hardest fricking art of writing you will ever encounter. I just go out of my way to replace Mary-sue with Rattalya... .___.

Title was Tristan's idea - I said "Very nice... Catchy. Very short, and doesn't give away anything about the story" and then we had a very short discussion and now it has this title. Whoot! :w00t:

Chapter Two.

The Fable of the Steam Knight and the War Maiden (c) ~LittkeTM & ~Raowolf-bushtail;
This chapter (c) ~Raowolf-bushtail;
Rattalya character (c) ~Raowolf-bushtail.

Just because I can't afford a Premium Membership, doesn't mean I can't request a critique! :heart:
© 2013 - 2024 Just-Raowolf
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MaiaCarlson's avatar
Awesome! I used to tell stories like this with a friend - we each made up characters, sat out on the back porch, and switched on and off in the story, each speaking their character's part. I've never heard of anyone else doing it either! Can't with to read more!