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"Or we both see a plant that talks and it is very bad," Ylva whispers when it mentions the toll of blood. She steps forward and rolls up her sleeve. "There are many tales of those taking blood or using it for fell deeds and none at all of those that take it to help those in need. I pray you prove me wrong in that. If blood is the toll then I shall pay for both of us," she says, gesturing to herself and J. "How often is it that you have the fey-blooded come calling on you?"
So, I've been working on a short story and I was wondering if I could get some help on the tone of it. I'm shooting for more of a wry, slightly sarcastic sense of humor, but I think I missed rather badly. Anyone wanting to give it a read and let me know what you thought can see the text in the spoiler below. Bit of story:
"Bravo Charlie Zero-Seven-Niner, This is Tartle One. We have contacts from the alpha screen. Over." Space is mind boggling huge. "Tartle One, Bee-See-Oh-Seventy-niner. Roger. Any details yet? Over." So huge that it takes light from the primary of any system hours to reach the jump limit. "That's a negative. We'll keep you informed. Tartle Two is pulling in the Echo and Foxtrot screens just in case." So huge that even that volume of space is miniscule when compared against the distances between stars. Even so, it's an enormous volume of space when compared to ships that are best measured in units that light takes very tiny fractions of a second to traverse. Though, with radiator arrays for fusion power plants, torch drives, and communications lasers that can be picked up loud and clear from the other side of the jump limit, modern spacecraft are beacons of energy, interceptions require lots of thrust and delta-vee, a ludicrous amount of luck, or a willing target. "Tartle One, Tartle Two. Sir, we're picking u-- Status change! We just lost the Alpha through Delta screens." This should make things like minefields, pirates, or ambushes practically impossible given the odds of someone stumbling into your basket versus them just sailing away. "Tartle Two! Fireplan Echo three! We've got inbound. Zero-Seven-Niner, go evasive and random walk on vector one-six-five by three-three-five relative. Do you copy?" Of course, this flies into the cold, hard brickwall of reality where ships take courses that cost them the least amount of money and avoids the more inconvenient customs patrols. That makes the impossible only difficult. "We copy Tartle One. Be advised our max acceleration is only two gravities on the mains." If the baddies obtained the schedule for their target, difficult becomes easy. "Okay, wobble on vector one-si-" If the target is a great lumbering liner full of sophonts that would not like to learn what the inside of a maraca is like, easy turns into milk run. "Welp, our escorts just turned into vapor." At this point, having idiots flying escort is just gravy for the pirates. "Attention CPV Wattatwist, You are hereby commanded to cease your futile attempts at fleeing this space. You will shut down all of your systems except those needed for life support and prepare to be boarded." Of course, there are plenty of ways for a milk run to turn into something much worse. "Civilian Passen- Hey! This is our prize you sniveling, tailless worms! We were tracking the too-tall fools first!" Such as having your most hated enemies show up to collect the same prize. "Is it too late to just suicide?" The engineer already scrammed the powerplant. The airlocks are still fully functional if you rather die by explosive decompression than face two different races of cute, furry, xenocidal maniacs. I'm sure that the readers would love some descriptions about now.
I know I'm going to need to rewrite it a good bit, but any feedback would be appreciated.
"Peace Grishan, Gozreh's seas are a bane to iron. It would not surprise me to learn that the lock was quite good before the Wind and Waves got her hands on it," Ylva says. Then a moment later begins to spin a yarn about a proud smith who claimed his wares couled weather any storm that Gozreh could send at them for the young, ghostly lad.
Ylva does as J asks, but she'd never liked silence. To her, silence was death and defeat. To be alive was to sing, to laugh, to cry, and to shout. Even if you said nothing, there was always the beating of your heart. Only the dead were truly silent. After a few dozen heartbeats, Ylva begins to sing an old song of lament for the fallen.
Same here, and Zith's rebuke of Ylva is going to have her questioning some things. As far as her reasons, she grew up among family and clansmen that have stories of witches and their sordid practices that ensnare the spirits of the dead and tales of the fey that live in Grungir, which was practically her back yard. As for why she blew her top after dealing with the Qadarians, well, you'll find that out the next time we rest up.
Ylva's fuming last all the way to the bluff, but between J and Grishan's explanations, she calms down considerably. She's about to apologize for her behavior and tell them that it's alright and she understands when Zithembe's remark causes her to flinch as if she'd been slapped. Ylva's cheeks redden as she looks away. I deserved that, didn't I? After a moment, she turns back to the others, her face still darkened by shame and embarrassment. "I will be right beside you, Tyri, and you Grishan. It's the least I can do after..." her voice trails off into an uncomfortable silence as she looks away again.
"I say we leave him to the pits," Ylva says, raw fury seething in her tone as Zithembe rouses him with magic, "a few scars on his back may teach him not to be so quick to call those who stand up for the weak cowards!" Seeing that he's already brought the man back, she turns and storms off. Her cursing carries for several moments before fading into the background to city. "Dumme, selvretfærdige hores søn af en sår! Jeg skulle tage hans 'Åh så guddommelige' visdom og skubbe den op i røvet. Han burde være endnu mindre sympatisk over for denne tralltagende, gutterfødte, lille bladede tandsøn, hærge end jeg er..." Skald: "Stupid, self-righteous whore's son of a sow! I should take his 'Oh so divine' wisdom and shove it up his ass. He should be even less sympathetic to this thrall-taking, gutter-born, small bladed, son of a b@%@! cur in heat than I am!" And quickly goes unprintable from there.
Ylva fixes Hepsubia with a glare that's only a little flawed by the twinkling in her eyes. "Ware your words, elf," she growls, but can't quiet keep the hint fo smile from her face as she snatches the vial. She then turns her attention to J and Grishan. "I am sorry for worrying you," she apologies, seeming to be more of her normal self, "I was shocked to see one such as Grishan and fear that I succumbed to the battering. It is hard for me to trust spirits. The history of my clan is not overflowing with pleasant and friendly encounters with those from the beyond and the realms of ice." "As for this one," she says in a much lighter tone, "perhaps he will think twice before insulting the Eagle Knights. That or learn to accept defrockings more graciously. I had heard the men of the golden sands of the east were more clever with tongues. Pity to see it is not so with them. More so that their other blades are so small." With that, she gives J a grin and resumes their trek towards the sunken districts of Absolom.
Ylva, slightly dazed from the beating she took only stares at Grishan for a moment, then faints dead away. Kiango brings her back to the realm of the waking with a couple of jabs with his wand. Realizing what had happened she looks away from J with a blush. "Sorry, Tyri, I just... I..." Her voice trials off as she looks off to the side with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and something like doubt in her expression. She takes in a deep breath and stands before facing the ghostly apparition. "W-well met," she says haltingly, still trying to work through her rather complex feelings on this revelation. "I guess you know who we all are. Thank you for your help in dealing with those curs," she adds stiffly.
Even as she's battered nearly senseless, Ylva delivers a potentially brutal left to the leader of this pack of curs. "Mongrel? Do you not know a wolf when you see one," she asks, sneering even as the world spins. She steps up and throws a right cross as a feint before trying to slug the leader she'd tried to pants in the belly.
On the Road:
"No, it is not," Ylva answers with a smile, "I was my parents only child, yet I have cousins in abundance. We are a small clan, but a large family. If you ever need help, find a Whitescale and show them this." Ylva hands Tyri a silver brooch made to resemble a shield with a dragon coiling around it. "And it is just as well she will not know the meaning of your name. She might realize she'd let a wolf into her home then," she replies in a much more cheerful vouce.before giving a short, not-too-loud howl and laughing as she and Tyri continue on their way to the lodge. "The clothes you wear, do you wish to be an Eagle Knight," Ylva asks after they finish laughing.
"Well met strange travelers! Are you seeking pleasure or treasure," she asks, something mischievous gleaming in her eyes.
"Cowards, eh? Bold words for a man without his pants," Ylva sneers before moving like a striking snake to relieve the man of his dignity, via said pants.
I meant friction. And I hadn't thought of it from a player's perspective. I've mainly been focusing on things as a writer would. But now that I know it's frustrating to you as a player, would it be possible for Zithembe to talk with Ylva? I think if he explained it to her and showed her that he wasn't doing what she thought he was, then she'd be more willing to take part in it.
On the Road (GM & Sylvak): Ylva meets J's eyes and for a moment wonders if what she sees in the other young woman is what Tupp sees in her. Fear and courage mingling with fierce determination. Except, Sylvak was also right. Fear is controlling her when she should be controlling it. As she admits that to herself, she also realizes that J is also right. She would never be at peace if she didn't face her fears, if she didn't go with her to the Drownyard. The uncertainty fades from her as she comes to realize another thing. She and J are sisters, not of blood, but spirit. She doesn't know when she'd wrapped her arms around J in a hug, but it hardly mattered. "Then we banish these nightmares to the realms they belong," she replies softly, "we will find our peace, sister." She steps back, her hands on J's shoulders as she grins for the first time in weeks. "Junia and J are not fitting names for you, I fear. Tyri I would name you, a beautiful thunder that drives away the shadows," she says in a much more cheerful voice.
just realized that I never did roll for Ylva's day job.
Edit: Well I just found something else that's far more embarrassing. I apparently never added in that free +2 to one ability that humans get. As tempting as it was to just put it in CON, I added it to STR. She should be able to hit stuff a little harder now. Stats have been updated and purchases have been noted.
On the road: Ylva looks up at Sylvak and opens her mouth to reply, but then she hears J trying to catch up to them. She stops and turns to see the young woman hustling to catch up. As J asks her what happened, her right hand grips tight her left shoulder and her teeth clench in remembered pain. "Something did happen to me," Ylva admits in a slow, careful voice. "I would feel the same about the spirits even if nothing had happened. There are things better left alone, and I fear that Zithembe, for all his wisdom, dabbles in dangerous things he does not understand nor control. I spent the first nine years of my life hearing tales about fools who meddled with spirits and were consumed by their folly. Those tales are hard to ignore." The young ulfen looks even younger as she turns back towards the lodge and moves along at a slower pace. "During my Confirmation, Death nearly claimed me thrice," Ylva begins, "once by dry bone's claw and twice by axe of minotaur. In the two true fights our band faced, I was of no help. I was laid low and bleeding, and had not the others aided me, I would have died thrice over." She shivered and lowered her hand to pull her cloak tighter about herself. "I am afraid now. I am afraid that I will not be of any use, and I am afraid of dying. I do not know if I saw beyond the veil, for I cannot remember. I fear it, though. I see it in my nightmares as the minotaur's axe tears me in twain."
Ylva manages a weak smile for Tupp before she leaves with Sylvak in tow. Outside, heading towards the Lodge: "Thank you for coming with me," Ylva tells Sylvak as they walk towards the lodge. "I have not liked being alone since we returned from the shrine of the dead god." "The minotaur died, but I still feel its stinging blade sometimes. I hear him in my nightmares."
"I... I do not know," Ylva admits. "Rarely does good come from trifling with the dead." "Would you mind coming with me, J," she asks before she can stop herself. Great, now I sound like a scared little girl, a part of her thinks. But you are, are you not? Scared little Ylva, terrified of her own shadow. The thought courses her mind and she turns away as her cheeks burn in humiliation as she remembers the night Tupp had invited her to stay with him. "Glem hvad denne fjols spørger..." she mutters half under her breath as she walks for the door and pulls her cloak tight around herself.
Kiango's elbow doesn't take much of the mirth from Ylva's smile, though it does turn apologetic when he chastens her. It does nothing to lessen the twinkle in her eyes, but she at least has the decency to blush in embarrassment for causing the Society potential problems. What Kiango doesn't manage, Zithembe does. The offer of a seance, of messing with the spirits of the dead, wipes the smile from Ylva's face as she goes pale. "I...I should, ah? I should get Tupp's and I, no, mine! I should get Tupp's and mine things from the Lodge," she stammers as she stands and begins shuffling towards the door. "Yes! Go get things now and be back after seance!" DC 0 Sense Motive: Ylva doesn't feel easy about the seance, or the idea of them. At all.
Lady Dacilane's outburst at Junia's dress proves to be too much for Ylva. She throws her head back to let out a howl of laughter as her arms clutch her sides. "F-f-forgive me," she begs as she reigns herself in, "b-b-but I haven't seen..." She lets out a snort of laughter, but finally manages to recompose herself with a deep breath. "Ylva Whitescale," she introduces herself with a warrior's clasp on the forearm, too happy now to let her worries control her, "would that we had mugs filled with brewer's honey so that I may praise your actions as they deserve, Jay." She let's go and, still smiling with a beaming grin, returns to her seat with a chuckle. "Stjerner over! Jeg troede, at hendes hoved ville briste fra vrede!" Her tone is light and amused, this being the happiest any of the others has seen her all day. Skald: "Stars above! I thought her head would burst from anger!"
Tupp:
Ylva sniffles as she gives a broken, little laugh. "Maybe," she says before wrapping an arm around Tupp's shoulders and giving him a hug. "Maybe," she repeats in a quieter voice as she fights the pull of sleep. She drains her mug, enjoying the warmth as it flows down to her belly. "Thank you," she mutters before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Ylva tries not to snicker at Lady Dacilane's expression when she questions Sylvak on why he's fiddling with stuff, but can't quite manage it. Her shoulders start bobbing at the elf's absentminded answer and the bad memories this meeting awoke are banished for the moment as Ylva does her best to not make a scene. Her shoulders hunch and her entire body shakes as her hands cover her face and the grin her silent fit of laughter had brought on.
Once out of the rain, Ylva throws the cloak back to reveal gown done in blue, white, and silver. The peculiar thing is that it is cut more like a Tien gown than an Ulfen one, yet the patterns in the silk are obviously of Ulfen origin. The silver jewelry is of fine, if simple, make with small, well-cut sapphires hanging from her headband and her necklace. She looks at the others with a small, embarrassed smile when they notice the finery. "I did not know what raiment to choose, so I asked for aid. This was what they choose for me," she explains quietly while they wait. === The dark tones wear on Ylva's nerves, but not enough to cause her any worry. No, that was left to Lady Dacilane. Old scars ache as her eyes fall on the pentagram and the sharp, chelish features of her face. It was only for a moment, but she'd remembered the beatings for less she'd received in those miserable months she'd spent in Chelish hands. Her heart thudded in her chest as she averted her gaze and tried not to rub her arms where the tails of the cat had wrapped around them. She gives a nod at her introduction, but otherwise stays still and silent. Until now, she'd forgotten how terrified of the Chelish she'd been when she was a young girl. She almost wished she was back with the minotaur.
Tupp:
Ylva looks up as Tupp begins to speak, her sobs, at least, quiet as she listens. "Why do I feel broken," she asks after he finishes. "I feel like an untempered blade that has shattered. I fear for my life. I fear that I will only serve to weigh down the others. What good is getting up if all you do is get beaten back down?" She curls up and slides down until her head is even with Tupp's. Her mug rests just under her nose, and the steam rises to warm the tip of it. "I do not see what you see in me, Tupp. I do not feel brave or tough," she says after a moment. She looks out at nothing, seemingly no better for the encouragement. The tears had stopped, but that was likely more because of exhaustion. The moments stretch long as she sips the cocoa and melting marshmallows. "You are kind," she tells him suddenly, her quiet voice sounding loud, "you are courageous, and you are strong, Tupp. I am blessed to have a friend like you."
Though still somber, she can't help but chuckle at Tupp's awkward explanation. "The time of the entombing was and is not yet. She lives, ten years of her life made naught by the magics that sustained her through the time of her interment. What chance had sought to steal, fate gave her freely. Is that what you meant, Tupp?"
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