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.gitignore
vendored
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# Manuskript files.
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#*.msk
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# Compiled Outputs
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*.docx
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*.epub
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# Standard archive formats
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*.7z
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*.jar
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*.rar
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*.zip
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*.gz
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*.gzip
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||||
*.tgz
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*.bzip
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*.bzip2
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*.bz2
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*.xz
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*.lzma
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*.cab
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*.xar
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# Specific files and folders
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/.Books/manuskript/
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/.Books/pandoc-templates/
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/.Books/initted
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/.Books/local.d/*.sh
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/backgrounds
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||||
/manuskript
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nohup.out
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1
Articles and Essays.msk
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Articles and Essays.msk
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1
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||||
1
Articles and Essays/MANUSKRIPT
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Articles and Essays/MANUSKRIPT
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||||
1
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||||
1
Articles and Essays/infos.txt
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Articles and Essays/infos.txt
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Title: Essays and Articles
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Articles and Essays/labels.txt
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Articles and Essays/labels.txt
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Idea: #ffff00
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Note: #00ff00
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Chapter: #0000ff
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Scene: #ff0000
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Research: #00ffff
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title: Text
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ID: 1
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type: md
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compile: 2
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charCount: 761
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||||
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## Three functions:
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- Deterrence
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- Diffusion
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- 'Dentification
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## Deterrence
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The primary aim of a terrorist is right there in the name: to sow terror. They see themselves
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## Diffusion
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## Identification
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If anyone does know the real names of the offenders, and insists on using them online, they flag themselves either as a potential collaborator (in the event that the real names are not yet widely known) or a sympathiser. We all know that GCHQ *totally* doesn't snoop on our internet activities, but even simple searches for their real names on social media sites by law enforcement ought to uncover a few extremist fan clubs.
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In other words, just by using shamenames, you can make it much, much easier to keep an eye on potential troublemakers without spending a penny.
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title: Names
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ID: 3
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type: md
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compile: 2
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charCount: 162
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- Cornelius Bogtrumpet
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- Horatio Dingleflap
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- Scudmarf Leakensphinkle
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- Bongnut Flobsquandle
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- Goofus and Boofus Grumblesnout
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- Billius Parpenfooze
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- Timmy Tiddlytinkle
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title: Fighting Terror with Laughter
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ID: 5
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type: folder
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summarySentence:A simple, elegant and hopefully effective way to counter extremism. Also, it's free.
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compile: 2
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charCount: 923
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title: Text
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ID: 7
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type: md
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compile: 2
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charCount: 237
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It's the year 2200, and you've been in heaven for over a century, because you were faithful. You go up to God and say "Oh Lord, it's been over a century and none of my children or grandchildren are here. Are they all still alive somehow?
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@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
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title: The Moral Crucible
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||||
ID: 6
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||||
type: folder
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compile: 2
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charCount: 237
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||||
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||||
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
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title: Articles and Essays
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||||
ID: 2
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||||
type: folder
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compile: 2
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charCount: 1160
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|
||||
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2
Articles and Essays/plots.xml
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Articles and Essays/plots.xml
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<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
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<root/>
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105
Articles and Essays/settings.txt
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105
Articles and Essays/settings.txt
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"corkStyle": "new",
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4
Articles and Essays/status.txt
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4
Articles and Essays/status.txt
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TODO
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||||
First draft
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||||
Second draft
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||||
Final
|
||||
0
Articles and Essays/summary.txt
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0
Articles and Essays/summary.txt
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4
Articles and Essays/world.opml
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Articles and Essays/world.opml
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||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
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||||
<opml version="1.0">
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||||
<body/>
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||||
</opml>
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||||
1
Book of Souls.msk
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1
Book of Souls.msk
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1
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||||
1
Book of Souls/MANUSKRIPT
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1
Book of Souls/MANUSKRIPT
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||||
1
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||||
2
Book of Souls/infos.txt
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2
Book of Souls/infos.txt
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Title: Book of Souls
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Author: Gordon Grant-Stuart
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Book of Souls/labels.txt
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5
Book of Souls/labels.txt
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||||
Idea: #ffff00
|
||||
Note: #00ff00
|
||||
Chapter: #0000ff
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||||
Scene: #ff0000
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||||
Research: #00ffff
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||||
33
Book of Souls/outline/00-Scene_1.md
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33
Book of Souls/outline/00-Scene_1.md
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||||
title: Scene 1
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||||
ID: 1
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||||
type: md
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||||
label: 4
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||||
compile: 2
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||||
setGoal: 1000
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||||
charCount: 3398
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||||
|
||||
|
||||
My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head.
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"_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_"
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||||
The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds.
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||||
"_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_"
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||||
|
||||
I had received the text from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home Eric. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis, not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to my parents' home in Reading that evening, and they had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale.
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"It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Tomesford alone."
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"Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Tomesford's just a village."
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"I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he was staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things.
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She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully.
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||||
"What happened to her, Mum?" I asked. "Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there was one in Tomesford."
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||||
"There isn't. Well, there is. It must've always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I'd never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyway. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the proper willies it did."
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||||
"Did someone hurt her, Mum?" I pressed.
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"No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom.
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||||
"Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time.
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"A book?" I queried.
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||||
"The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken.
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||||
"She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? How could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?"
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||||
"Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped.
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I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?"
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"She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing."
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"I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?"
|
||||
They shared a frightened look and shook their heads.
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||||
Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned than ever for my sister, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs.
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||||
36
Book of Souls/outline/01-Scene_2.md
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Book of Souls/outline/01-Scene_2.md
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||||
title: Scene 2
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||||
ID: 2
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||||
type: md
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label: 4
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compile: 2
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setGoal: 1000
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||||
"_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_"
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||||
The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied.
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||||
"Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips.
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||||
"Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?"
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||||
"What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed.
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||||
"What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?"
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||||
"Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head."
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||||
"Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop."
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||||
"Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? "
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||||
"Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book."
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||||
"Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child."
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||||
"Did you buy it then?"
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||||
"No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about."
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||||
"So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?"
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||||
She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply.
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||||
With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance.
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||||
"What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?"
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||||
"Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs."
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||||
Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock."
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||||
"Don't speak to your mother like that..." Dad began automatically, but Mum interrupted him.
|
||||
"Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?"
|
||||
"Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed.
|
||||
"The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie."
|
||||
"Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird."
|
||||
"Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together.
|
||||
"Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..."
|
||||
"Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by the loud music. She locked the door, and refused to speak to anyone for the remainder of the evening. I did not uncover any further fragments of the mystery until the following day.
|
||||
12
Book of Souls/outline/02-Scene_3.md
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Book of Souls/outline/02-Scene_3.md
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|
||||
title: Scene 3
|
||||
ID: 3
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type: md
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label: 4
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compile: 2
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charCount: 1376
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|
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My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves.
|
||||
The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I have not the courage to allow myself to remember everything, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, but I shall recount as many details as I dare. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books.
|
||||
I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie.
|
||||
14
Book of Souls/outline/03-Scene_4.md
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14
Book of Souls/outline/03-Scene_4.md
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||||
title: Scene 4
|
||||
ID: 4
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||||
type: md
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
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charCount: 1788
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop early the next morning, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop.
|
||||
I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers and locals and all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention.
|
||||
The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Had Sophie made it all up? No, that was impossible. The evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real.
|
||||
As I came to a halt, I suddenly noticed my surroundings. I was not in the Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but the bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop - of that I had no doubt. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain.
|
||||
The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street like a marionette. I fought the urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister.
|
||||
21
Book of Souls/outline/04-Scene_5.md
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Book of Souls/outline/04-Scene_5.md
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||||
title: Scene 5
|
||||
ID: 5
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||||
type: md
|
||||
label: 4
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||||
compile: 2
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||||
setGoal: 1000
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charCount: 2992
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||||
|
||||
|
||||
The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling.
|
||||
"How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?"
|
||||
"How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the feeling of needles on the back of my neck.
|
||||
"Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?"
|
||||
I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape.
|
||||
"Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago."
|
||||
"Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the lightbulb flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It was the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair.
|
||||
"Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low stone doorway I had not yet noticed.
|
||||
Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, and stretched far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books upon them were ancient and sinister, each of a different size and thickness, but all were bound in dark leather embossed with that indescribable writing of which my father had spoken. I cannot recall that dark alphabet even now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien characters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from scrawling them upon this page.
|
||||
I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream rushed back to me - the cobbled street, the twisting bookshelves... I knew then that the shapeless shadow would appear and pursue me through this labyrinth.
|
||||
"Eric?" called a soft voice from within the shelves. My sister's voice.
|
||||
"Sophie!" I bellowed. "We have to get out of here! You shouldn't have followed me!"
|
||||
7
Book of Souls/outline/05-Scene_6.md
Normal file
7
Book of Souls/outline/05-Scene_6.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Scene 6
|
||||
ID: 6
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Book of Souls/outline/06-Scene_7.md
Normal file
7
Book of Souls/outline/06-Scene_7.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Scene 7
|
||||
ID: 7
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Book of Souls/outline/07-Scene_8.md
Normal file
7
Book of Souls/outline/07-Scene_8.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Scene 8
|
||||
ID: 8
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Book of Souls/outline/08-Scene_9.md
Normal file
7
Book of Souls/outline/08-Scene_9.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Scene 9
|
||||
ID: 9
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Book of Souls/outline/09-Scene_10.md
Normal file
7
Book of Souls/outline/09-Scene_10.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Scene 10
|
||||
ID: 10
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
2
Book of Souls/plots.xml
Normal file
2
Book of Souls/plots.xml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<root/>
|
||||
62
Book of Souls/revisions.xml
Normal file
62
Book of Souls/revisions.xml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,62 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Root" ID="0" type="folder" compile="2" lastPath="">
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Scene 1" ID="1" type="md" label="4" compile="2" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the text from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home Eric. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis, not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to my parents' home in Reading that evening, and they had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Tomesford alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Tomesford's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he was staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum?" I asked. "Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there was one in Tomesford." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must've always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I'd never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyway. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" I pressed. "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? How could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned than ever for my sister, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs." setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/00-Scene_1.md">
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541584928" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the email from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis and not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to Caversham that evening, and my parents had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Ballingbury alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Ballingbury's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he kept staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her Cockney accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum? Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there even was one in Ballingbury." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must have always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyways. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? Like I've said a thousand times, how could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language too. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned about my little sister than ever, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs.`"/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541766002" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the email from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis and not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to Reading that evening, and my parents had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Ballingbury alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Ballingbury's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he kept staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum? Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there even was one in Ballingbury." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must have always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyways. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? Like I've said a thousand times, how could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language too. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned about my little sister than ever, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs.`"/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542294240" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the email from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis and not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to Reading that evening, and my parents had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Ballingbury alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Ballingbury's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he was staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum? Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there even was one in Ballingbury." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must have always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyways. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? Like I've said, how could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned about my little sister than ever, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542979471" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the text from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home Eric. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis and not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to Reading that evening, and my parents had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Ballingbury alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Ballingbury's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he was staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum? Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there even was one in Ballingbury." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must have always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyways. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? Like I've said, how could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned about my little sister than ever, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1539783162" text="ssdfsdf"/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543507016" text="My sister's angelic face was pale and slack. Her head rotated toward me and her mouth opened. The words it framed were not the sounds I heard as the voice echoed in my head. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The alien phrase that broke through her throat was not English, yet I understood it way so deep that it soaked my bones in an ancient dread. In that moment I knew their meaning more surely than I know my name, and yet as I try to remember it even now, the knowledge eludes me as my mind shields me from the horrors the memory holds. "_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" I had received the text from my mother near the end of the summer. "Come home Eric. Something's wrong with Sophie," was all it had said. There had been no salutation, and none of my mother's customary emojis, not even a "luv u, xxx." I had taken a train back to my parents' home in Reading that evening, and they had been hovering at the front door when I'd arrived. Now that they'd sat me down with a mug of tea, my mum began the tale. "It started at that blasted bookshop. I shouldn't have let her wander around Tomesford alone." "Mum, she's fourteen," I countered. "And Tomesford's just a village." "I know that," she sighed, "but something were different that night. I dunno what, but it just were. Weren't it Henry?" she asked my father, but he was staring at his whisky. Not his first, by the look of things. She was dropping her T's and H's. I hadn't heard her accent this strongly before. Even at Grandad's funeral she'd hidden it more successfully. "What happened to her, Mum? Did someone hurt her? Which bookshop? I didn't know there even was one in Tomesford." "There isn't. Well, there is. It must have always been there, 'cause it certainly weren't new looking, but I never seen it before. Well, never noticed it anyway. Right creepy old shop. Gave me the proper willies it did." "Did someone hurt her, Mum?" I pressed. "No, nothing like that. Least, not that I can tell. She just... changed is all. It's like she walked out of the shop a different girl." She shivered, and her eyes flicked upwards, in the direction of Sophie's bedroom. "Tell him about the book," my father said, speaking for the first time. "A book?" I queried. "The one she stole," he answered, his gaze upon his glass still unbroken. "She didn't steal it, Henry" my mother interrupted. "How could she have? How could she fit that bloody great thing in that handbag of hers?" "Well where else could she have found it, Jenny?" he snapped. I felt I was still missing something. "Mum, Dad, what book? And what's wrong with my sister?" "She hasn't got it anymore," my father explained. "Or maybe she hid it somewhere. Evil looking book it was. Bound in filthy leather, and pages all yellow and ratty. And it's in some strange language. Not even English looking letters - like Arabic or Chinese. Or Norse runes or heiroglyphs even, but she just sat on her bed all day reading the damned thing." His forehead wrinkled. "Now that I think about it, I can't even remember what the writing looked like. I feel like I ought to, but when I try to picture it, there's nothing." "I'm going to see her," I decided, but my parents tensed with fear. "What?" I asked. "Is she asleep?" They shared a frightened look and shook their heads. Frustrated with the two of them, and more concerned than ever for my sister, I drew in a breath and headed for the stairs."/>
|
||||
</outlineItem>
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Scene 2" ID="2" type="md" label="4" compile="2" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?" "What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don't speak to your mother like that..." Dad began automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by the loud music. She locked the door, and refused to speak to anyone for the remainder of the evening. I did not uncover any further fragments of the mystery until the following day." setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/01-Scene_2.md">
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541585237" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Bumblebrain?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "Are you high, Tinklehead?" "What's up Bumbles?" she said, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. Bumblebrain and Tinklehead. Our childhood nicknames came back easily, although we hadn't used them in years. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! See? Catchy, right?" "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Tinkles? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Ballingbury. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from? The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muuuum! Daaaad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived at the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Gordon I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother almost whimpered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very obsevant, Sherlock." "Don' t speak to your mother like that..." Dad began, automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? You should bring your dishes downstairs, they must be stinking up your room. And you haven't showered. Can I get you some tea, sweetie? Or some icecream?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that damned book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Soph." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird for the last two days." "Are you trying to tell me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud indy rock. We wouldn't find out anything more tonight."/>
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<revision timestamp="1541766308" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Bumblebrain?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "Are you high, Tinklehead?" "What's up Bumbles?" she said, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. Bumblebrain and Tinklehead. Our childhood nicknames came back easily, although we hadn't used them in years. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! See? Catchy, right?" "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Soph? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Ballingbury. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from? The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muuuum! Daaaad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived at the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Gordon I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother almost whimpered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very obsevant, Sherlock." "Don' t speak to your mother like that..." Dad began, automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that damned book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird for the last two days." "Are you trying to tell me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud music. No more fragments of the mystery came to light that night."/>
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<revision timestamp="1542979846" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was... what?" "What was what?" she repeated, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! See? Catchy, right?" "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Ballingbury. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from? The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muuuum! Daaaad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived at the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very obsevant, Sherlock." "Don' t speak to your mother like that..." Dad began,automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that damned book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird for the last two days." "Are you trying to tell me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud music. No more fragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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<revision timestamp="1539892172" text=""/>
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<revision timestamp="1543507382" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was... what?" "What was what?" she repeated, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don' t speak to your mother like that..." Dad began,automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud music. No more fragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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<revision timestamp="1543507585" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?" "What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don' t speak to your mother like that..." Dad began,automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud music. No more fragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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<revision timestamp="1543507698" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?" "What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don't speak to your mother like that..." Dad began automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by loud music. No more fragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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<revision timestamp="1543507764" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?" "What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don't speak to your mother like that..." Dad began automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by the loud music. She locked the door, and refused to o more fragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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<revision timestamp="1543507830" text=""_GHAZGH THORESSHK ALLOSSA NUARANNAK!_" The words left my ears ringing and my vision shadowed. I choked back bile as my insides heaved, and grabbed Sophie's desk to steady my swirling head. I was still gasping with unknowable terror when her polite giggle brought me to the surface. Light returned to the room and the floor steadied. "Are you drunk, Eric?" she said, as if nothing had happened. As if no unholy, otherworldly thing had spoken from her lips. "Um, no..." I stammered. "What was...?" "What was what?" she asked, with a little bounce on the edge of her bed. "What _was_ that, Soph?" I asked. "What did you just say?" "Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak?" she laughed. There was no force or malevolence to the words this time. They were just words, spoken in her own voice. "Just a phrase I read somewhere. Ghazgh thoresshk allossa nuarannak! Catchy, right? It keeps popping into my head." "Where the hell did you read that? What happened to you, Sophie? Mum and Dad said something about a bookshop." "Oh, that? There's a bookshop in Tomesford. It's _sooo_ cool! You have to see it. I know you like old books too, and there's this funny old man who runs the place. At first I thought he was a weirdo, but he' s cool too. It's _totally_ retro! Like vintage retro, not ironic or hipstery." She frowned a little. "Anyway, what's so important about it? " "Mum said that's where this... this thing happened to you. And Dad said you stole a book." "Did not!" she exclaimed. "He _always_ does this. He thinks I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, and Mum thinks I'm a child." "Did you buy it then?" "No, I didn't buy anything. And I certainly didn't steal anything. I don't know what they're talking about." "So where did it come from?" I asked her. "The old book in the weird language?" She rolled her eyes. "There is no book. I just went in, looked around, and left. Muu-uum! Daa-aad!" she shouted at the stairs, adding an extra syllable to each word. There was no reply. With a growl of teenage indignation, she stalked downstairs, with me trailing her at a safe distance. "What have you been saying about me?" I heard her accusing them. As I arrived in the living room, I witnessed an almost comical scene. Sophie was glaring at our parents, who were staring back at her, both frozen on the sofa. "Why did you tell Eric I stole a book? What's wrong with you?" "Sweetie..." my mother whispered. "Sophie sweetie, you're downstairs." Again, Sophie's eyes rolled. "Duuh! Very observant, Sherlock." "Don't speak to your mother like that..." Dad began automatically, but Mum interrupted him. "Sweetie, we were so worried about you! You've been in your room for two days! Have you finished your dinner? I left it in your room. Are you okay? Can I get you some tea, sweetie?" "Stop calling me sweetie, Mum," she huffed. "The bookshop," my father interrogated. He had gathered himself, and was determined to have his say before my mother's babbling resumed. "What happened? Tell us why you've been behaving so strangely, and tell us why you had that blasted book." His face softened. "I'm glad to see you're acting like yourself again. Now please tell us what's been going on, Sophie." "Nothing!" she cried. "You're the ones who've been acting weird." "Are you telling me you don't remember reading that book?" our father said, his brows drawing together. "Ugh!" Sophie spat. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is just like last week when you grounded me, but you _knew_ it wasn't me who..." "Now just a minute, young lady... " my father cautioned, putting his glass down and leaning forward, but Sophie was already stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later the slam of her bedroom door sounded from above, followed shortly by the loud music. She locked the door, and refused to speak to anyone for the remainder of the evening. Ifragments of the mystery came to light that evening."/>
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</outlineItem>
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<outlineItem title="Scene 3" ID="3" type="md" label="4" compile="2" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I have not the courage to allow myself to remember everything, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, but I shall recount as many details as I dare. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie." setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/02-Scene_3.md">
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541585607" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to recall my dreams, for the fear and unease the memories bring. I was chasing Sophie throught rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that became forests that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out over and over, tripping over books and branches, dodging haycarts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her hair whipping between the shelves. Foremost in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candle and lantern in the rows of bookshelves. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided, and I recognised my parent's spare bedroom, I remembered my purpose. The bookshop. I needed to find it and discover the terrible mystery of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541768495" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to recall my dreams, for the fear and unease the memories bring. I was chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that became forests that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out over and over, tripping over books and branches, dodging haycarts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her hair whipping between the shelves. Foremost in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candle and lantern in the rows of bookshelves. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided, and I recognised my parent's spare bedroom, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I needed to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen my Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542980402" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to recall my dreams, for the fear and unease the memories bring. I was chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that became forests that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out over and over, tripping over books and branches, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. Strongest in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I needed to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen my Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1540056432" text=""/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543507890" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to recall my dreams, for the fear and unease the memories bring. I was chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that became stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out over and over, tripping over books and branches, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. Strongest in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508330" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. Strongest in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508392" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. Most in my memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508475" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying memory is the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the dream return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508542" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the nightmare return. However, I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508607" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, yet I can still recount a few details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508677" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I dare not allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, yet I shall recount as many details. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508741" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I have not the courage to allow myself to recall too much, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, yet I shall recount as many details as I dare. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508807" text="My sleep that night was dark and troubled. Even now, I struggle to remember my dreams, for the fear and unease the recollection brings. I do, however, remember chasing Sophie through rows of dusty bookshelves that became cobbled streets that changed into stone corridors that became bookshelves again. She fled, whimpering and trembling, in a torn and blackend dress. I called out again and again, tripping over fallen books, dodging lampposts and straining through the darkness for a glimpse of her skirts flashing around a corner or her golden hair whipping between the shelves. The most terrifying part of my dream, however, was the darkness that pursued her. I have not the courage to allow myself to remember everything, lest the full horror of the nightmare return, yet I shall recount as many details as I dare. It had eyes - greedy, unblinking eyes - and limbs... those terrible grasping appendages of shadow and smoke. As it gave chase it consumed all light and colour, snuffing out gaslights in the olden streets and sucking the flames away from candles and lanterns in the rows of books. I woke in damp and tangled sheets, with aching joints and a raw and swollen throat. When my panic subsided as I recognised my parent's spare room, I remembered my purpose here in Reading. The bookshop. I had to find it and uncover the terrible secret of what had befallen Sophie."/>
|
||||
</outlineItem>
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Scene 4" ID="4" type="md" label="4" compile="2" text="After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop early the next morning, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers and locals and all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Had Sophie made it all up? No, that was impossible. The evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I came to a halt, I suddenly noticed my surroundings. I was not in the Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but the bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop - of that I had no doubt. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street like a marionette. I fought the urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister." setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/03-Scene_4.md">
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543508909" text="After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers, locals and a postman all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie tomorrow, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Was Sophie lying? No, the evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I reached what I thought was my destination, I froze. I was not in Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made a sinister kind of sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I fought an urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543585913" text="After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop early the next morning, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers and locals and all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Had Sophie made it all up? No, that was impossible. The evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I came to a halt, I suddenly noticed my surroundings. I was not in Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I fought an urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543585989" text="After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop early the next morning, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers and locals and all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Had Sophie made it all up? No, that was impossible. The evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I came to a halt, I suddenly noticed my surroundings. I was not in the Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but the bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop - of that I had no doubt. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I fought an urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543584646" text="After alighting at Tomesford's only bus stop early the next morning, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I looked along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - but still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but received only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers and locals and all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Tomesford with Sophie, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the streets to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Had Sophie made it all up? No, that was impossible. The evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I came to a halt, I suddenly noticed my surroundings. I was not in Tomesford high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I fought an urge to bolt, to flee somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I needed answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1540211584" text=""/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541585809" text="After alighting at Ballingbury's only bus stop, I walked up and down the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a magazine stand. Next I decided to look along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub, opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - still no bookshop. M I tried the pub - the George and Lion - but the bartender gave me a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers, locals and a postman all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Ballingbury with Sophie tomorrow, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain had marked the stone slabs of the towpath when a faint numbing touch of fear swirled at the edges of my perception. I quested about for the cause of it, and spied an eery symbol chalked on the roof of a crusty-hulled boat. Somehow I understood it's terrible meaning, although like it's appearance and everything else about it, that knowledge is now gone. I took an involuntary step towards the boat, but was stunned by a searing flash of lightning and a "/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541681369" text="After alighting at Ballingbury's only bus stop, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a magazine stand. Next I decided to look along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but recieved only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers, locals and a postman all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Ballingbury with Sophie tomorrow, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the street to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Was Sophie lying? No, the cryptic evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably real. As I reached my destination I froze. This was not the Ballingbury high street, nor was the quaint cobbled road beneath my feet part of the village I had scouted moments ago. Before me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. A little, old, cozy and inviting bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inward, another subtle will had steered my feet, walking me into this unreal st"/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541768960" text="After alighting at Ballingbury's only bus stop, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I decided to look along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but recieved only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers, locals and a postman all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Ballingbury with Sophie tomorrow, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the street to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Was Sophie lying? No, the evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably real. As I reached what I thought would be my destination, I froze. I was not in Ballingbury's high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I felt an urge to bolt, to flee to somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I had to find answers. I had to know what that accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542980665" text="After alighting at Ballingbury's only bus stop, I searched the high street, but the closest thing to a bookshop was a newspaper stand. Next I decided to look along the old towpath. There was a row of houses and a pub - the George and Lion - , opposite several canal boats in various states of repair - still no bookshop. I asked the bartender, but recieved only a blank look and a shake of the head. Shopkeepers, locals and a postman all gave me no answers, and I considered returning to Ballingbury with Sophie tomorrow, although my instinct was to keep her away from this oddly quiet village. Something menacing was gnawing at the edges of my attention. The sky was darkening and a few heavy drops of rain marked the stone slabs of the towpath as I made made my way back to the bus stop. I stuck to the sides of the street to shelter under the eaves, wishing for an umbrella and pondering my next course of inquiry. Could my parents have been mistaken? Was Sophie lying? No, the evil that had taken hold of her was unquestionably, dreadfully real. As I reached what I thought was my destination, I froze. I was not in Ballingbury's high street. The quaint cobbled road beneath my feet had simply not been here when I had scouted the village. Ahead of me was not the bus stop, but a bookshop. Old, cozy, and inviting, this was _the_ bookshop. Beside me, a Victorian gaslamp hissed in the rain. The gnawing unease now made a sinister kind of sense - as soon as my attention had turned inwards, another will had subtly steered my feet, walking me into this cryptic street. I fought an urge to bolt, to flee to somewhere that didn't make me doubt my sanity, but I had to find answers. I had to know what this accursed shop had done to my sister."/>
|
||||
</outlineItem>
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Scene 5" ID="5" type="md" label="4" compile="2" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the feeling of needles on the back of my neck. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the lightbulb flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It was the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low stone doorway I had not yet noticed. Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, and stretched far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books upon them were ancient and sinister, each of a different size and thickness, but all were bound in dark leather embossed with that indescribable writing of which my father had spoken. I cannot recall that dark alphabet even now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien characters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from scrawling them upon this page. I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream rushed back to me - the cobbled street, the twisting bookshelves... I knew then that the shapeless shadow would appear and pursue me through this labyrinth. "Eric?" called a soft voice from within the shelves. My sister's voice. "Sophie!" I bellowed. "We have to get out of here! You shouldn't have followed me!"" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/04-Scene_5.md">
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543586055" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the feeling of needles on the back of my neck. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the lightbulb flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It was the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low stone doorway I had not yet noticed. Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, and stretched far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books upon them were ancient and sinister, each of a different size and thickness, but all were bound in dark leather embossed with that indescribable writing of which my father had spoken. I cannot recall that dark alphabet even now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien characters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from scrawling them upon this page. I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream rushed back to me: the cobbled street, the twisting bookshelves... I knew then that the shapeless shadow would appear and pursue me through this labyrinth. "Eric?" called a soft voice from within the shelves. "Sophie!" I cried. "We have to get out of here! You shouldn't have""/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543586115" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the feeling of needles on the back of my neck. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the lightbulb flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It was the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low stone doorway I had not yet noticed. Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, and stretched far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books upon them were ancient and sinister, each of a different size and thickness, but all were bound in dark leather embossed with that indescribable writing of which my father had spoken. I cannot recall that dark alphabet even now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien characters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from scrawling them upon this page. I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream rushed back to me - the cobbled street, the twisting bookshelves... I knew then that the shapeless shadow would appear and pursue me through this labyrinth. "Eric?" called a soft voice from within the shelves. My sister's voice. "Sophie!" I cried. "We have to get out of here! You shouldn't have""/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541682853" text=""/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1541770708" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push, and a quiet bell tinkled. Ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside, and the little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I jumped to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been nothing moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the prickles of fear. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending not to notice my fright. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I examined him, noting his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His "/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542288119" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push, and a quiet bell tinkled. Ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside, and the little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I jumped to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been nothing moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the prickles of fear. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending not to notice my fright. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I examined him, noting his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes were deep and yellowed. He looked too frail to walk, let alone sneak up on me, but something in his bearing put my instincts on alert. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the light flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It was just the English word 'old', but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now off limits to customers." His milky eyes turned towards a low doorway for a brief second. Before he could stop me, I was through the door and in an even dimmer room. There were no windows here, the "/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1542981010" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing back the needles of fright. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the light flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It had the sound of the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low doorway for a brief second. Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, stretching far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books themselves were indeed ancient and sinister. Although each was of a different sizes and thickness, all were bound in dark leather stamped with the indescribable writing my father had seen. I cannot recall the symbols now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien letters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from writing them upon this page. I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream"/>
|
||||
<revision timestamp="1543419697" text="The heavy door swung silently inwards at my push. A quiet bell tinkled, and ancient floorboards groaned faintly as I crept inside. The little daylight that shone through the lead-paned windows was aided by copper lanterns, and one dim, antiquated light bulb. The air smelled of dust, lamp oil and something slightly sour. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls from uneven floor to low, wood-beamed ceiling. "How do you do, sir," whispered a sudden voice. I sprang to face the speaker - an old man in a black coat and top hat. He stood silently where there had been no-one moments ago. "May I be of assistance?" "How... Where did you come from?" I choked, pushing down the feeling of needles from my fright. "Where I come from is a long story," he said, pretending to misunderstand me. "Do you have a particular book in mind?" I noted his unusual attire. Like my surroundings, he appeared to be of an earlier century. His frame was skeletal, his skin blotched and papery, and his eyes deep and yellowed. He should have been too frail to walk, let alone creep up on me, but something in his bearing kept me wary. His lips pulled open in a crooked smile and he raised his hat, letting a few wisps of bone-white hair escape. "Good afternoon," I greeted, matching his formality. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister two days ago." "Ah, the lovely young lady with the honeyed hair," he recalled. "Such an intelligent lass. She took a special interest in the _old_ books." As he spoke the word 'old' the lightbulb flickered and a cold wind whispered through the maze of shelves behind me. It had the sound of the English word, but in the strange man's voice it had another meaning behind simply the description of age. A deeper, fouler meaning that woke primeval memories of terror and despair. "Alas, the _old_ shelves are now barred to customers." His gaze flashed towards a low stone doorway I had not yet noticed. Before he could continue, I strode through, into an even dimmer chamber. The shelves here were carven from a dark and twisted wood, and stretched far into a shadowy, unsettling distance. The books themselves were indeed ancient and sinister. Although each was of a different size and thickness, all were bound in dark leather stamped with that indescribable writing of which my father had spoken. I cannot recall the symbols now - I dare not. When I remember the jagged alien letters, they crawl and pulse in my mind. My fingers twitch, and I must strain my will to prevent my hand from scrawling them upon this page. I stood dumb in the aisle, cursing my own courage and overcome by the hideous immensity of the evil into which I had foolishly charged. The night's dream"/>
|
||||
</outlineItem>
|
||||
<outlineItem title="Scene 6" ID="6" type="md" compile="2" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/05-Scene_6.md"/>
|
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<outlineItem title="Scene 7" ID="7" type="md" compile="2" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/06-Scene_7.md"/>
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<outlineItem title="Scene 8" ID="8" type="md" compile="2" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/07-Scene_8.md"/>
|
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<outlineItem title="Scene 9" ID="9" type="md" compile="2" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/08-Scene_9.md"/>
|
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<outlineItem title="Scene 10" ID="10" type="md" compile="2" setGoal="1000" lastPath="outline/09-Scene_10.md"/>
|
||||
</outlineItem>
|
||||
104
Book of Souls/settings.txt
Normal file
104
Book of Souls/settings.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,104 @@
|
||||
{
|
||||
"autoSave": false,
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"autoSaveDelay": 5,
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"autoSaveNoChanges": true,
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"autoSaveNoChangesDelay": 5,
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"corkBackground": {
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"color": "#926239",
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"image": ""
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},
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"corkSizeFactor": 100,
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"corkStyle": "new",
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"countSpaces": true,
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"defaultTextType": "md",
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"dict": "PyEnchant:en_GB",
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"dontShowDeleteWarning": false,
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"folderView": "cork",
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"frequencyAnalyzer": {
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"phraseMax": 5,
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"phraseMin": 2,
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"wordExclude": "a, and, or",
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"wordMin": 1
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},
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"fullScreenTheme": "newtheme",
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"fullscreenSettings": {
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"autohide-bottom": true,
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"autohide-left": true,
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"autohide-top": true
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},
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"lastTab": 6,
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"openIndexes": [
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0,
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[
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"5"
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],
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null
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"outlineViewColumns": [
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0,
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8,
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9,
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11,
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12,
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13,
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7
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],
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"progressChars": false,
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"revisions": {
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"keep": true,
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"rules": {
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"2592000": 86400,
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"3600": 600,
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"600": 60,
|
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"86400": 3600,
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"null": 604800
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},
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"smartremove": true
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},
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"saveOnQuit": true,
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"saveToZip": false,
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"spellcheck": true,
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"textEditor": {
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"alwaysCenter": false,
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"background": "#fff",
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"backgroundTransparent": false,
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"cursorNotBlinking": false,
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"cursorWidth": 1,
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"focusMode": false,
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"font": "MS Shell Dlg 2,8.25,-1,5,50,0,0,0,0,0",
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"fontColor": "#000",
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"indent": true,
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"lineSpacing": 100,
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"marginsLR": 0,
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"marginsTB": 20,
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"maxWidth": 600,
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"misspelled": "#F00",
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"spacingAbove": 5,
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"spacingBelow": 5,
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"tabWidth": 20,
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"textAlignment": 0
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},
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"viewMode": "fiction",
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"viewSettings": {
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"Cork": {
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"Background": "Nothing",
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"Border": "Nothing",
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"Corner": "Label",
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"Icon": "Nothing",
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"Text": "Nothing"
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},
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"Outline": {
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"Background": "Nothing",
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"Icon": "Nothing",
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"Text": "Compile"
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},
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"Tree": {
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"Background": "Nothing",
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"Icon": "Nothing",
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"InfoFolder": "Nothing",
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"InfoText": "Nothing",
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"Text": "Compile",
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}
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4
Book of Souls/status.txt
Normal file
4
Book of Souls/status.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
|
||||
TODO
|
||||
First draft
|
||||
Second draft
|
||||
Final
|
||||
0
Book of Souls/summary.txt
Normal file
0
Book of Souls/summary.txt
Normal file
4
Book of Souls/world.opml
Normal file
4
Book of Souls/world.opml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
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<opml version="1.0">
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<body/>
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</opml>
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1
Chronoshryther_first_5000.msk
Normal file
1
Chronoshryther_first_5000.msk
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
1
Chronoshryther_first_5000/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
1
Chronoshryther_first_5000/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/0-Cassie.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/0-Cassie.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Cassie
|
||||
ID: 0
|
||||
Importance: 2
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Cassie - Cassandra Caylitch
|
||||
Color: #e0fadd
|
||||
13
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/1-Jack.txt
Normal file
13
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/1-Jack.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
|
||||
Name: Jack
|
||||
ID: 1
|
||||
Importance: 2
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
I was a street urchin in London. I was worthless and invisible. When I picked the wrong pocket (it was Banks's pocket) I was shown mercy and given a chance. I'm afraid that I don't belong among the lawkeepers, and it's only a matter of time before my colleagues and superiors realise that I'll never be anything but street muck.
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
|
||||
If I'm the best at what I do, they'll see my value. I have to excel in order
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: I'm Jack. I
|
||||
Color: #b9f4fd
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
Name: Inspector Carruthers
|
||||
ID: 104
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: Investigate shrythers.
|
||||
Color: #b792d9
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/16-Mei_Hwen.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/16-Mei_Hwen.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Mei Hwen
|
||||
ID: 16
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Member of Jack's squad
|
||||
Color: #b3f6db
|
||||
8
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/2-Uncle_H.txt
Normal file
8
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/2-Uncle_H.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
|
||||
Name: Uncle H
|
||||
ID: 2
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Full Summary: Cassie's uncle.
|
||||
|
||||
A bit of a scoundrel who was almost a lawyer
|
||||
Color: #dcacc6
|
||||
12
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/24-Felicity.txt
Normal file
12
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/24-Felicity.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
|
||||
Name: Felicity
|
||||
ID: 24
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Cassie's chronotwin. Was jailed for murder at 16 when Cassie shrothe the corpses into her timeline.
|
||||
|
||||
When Cassie shoved the wounds onto her, she had just finished in the woods. The rush of guilt and rage gave (and physical injuries) permanently altered her sexuality. Desire is now always linked to rage and hatred, she can only gain pleasure from violence.
|
||||
Color: #f8c3db
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/25-Cece.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/25-Cece.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Cece
|
||||
ID: 25
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Cecelia Whethers
|
||||
Color: #da958d
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/27-Addy_d-Eagle.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/27-Addy_d-Eagle.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Addy d'Eagle
|
||||
ID: 27
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Member of Jack's squad
|
||||
Color: #9a93b8
|
||||
16
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/28-Warlock.txt
Normal file
16
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/28-Warlock.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,16 @@
|
||||
Name: Warlock
|
||||
ID: 28
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Chonomancer / Fly's friend and former lover.
|
||||
|
||||
He told the CA about Haan and the anchor.
|
||||
Warlock supplied the anchor to Haan.
|
||||
Warlock located the anchor somehow? and set Haan up to take the fall
|
||||
|
||||
"You didn't think I knew it was you, killing them all, did you? Every lover I've taken since I ditched you! You murdered every single one, Fly!"
|
||||
Color: #ccb4cb
|
||||
6
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/29-Haan.txt
Normal file
6
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/29-Haan.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
Name: Haan
|
||||
ID: 29
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Full Summary: He sold Fly the ring, then ratted on her to the CA
|
||||
Color: #c0b9a6
|
||||
13
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/3-Fly.txt
Normal file
13
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/3-Fly.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
|
||||
Name: Fly
|
||||
ID: 3
|
||||
Importance: 2
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: kill Cassie, absorb her power
|
||||
#### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Paragraph Summary: Assassin/ one of Cassie's chronotwins.
|
||||
Full Summary: #Interview with Fly
|
||||
Notes: A
|
||||
Color: #f19f83
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/4-Russ_Aractos.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/4-Russ_Aractos.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Russ Aractos
|
||||
ID: 4
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Full Summary: Cosantor-marshall Russ Arractos
|
||||
|
||||
Jack's boss.
|
||||
|
||||
Head of the T
|
||||
Color: #8acfc1
|
||||
14
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/5-Banks.txt
Normal file
14
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/5-Banks.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
|
||||
Name: Banks
|
||||
ID: 5
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Cosantor-Sergeant Banks
|
||||
|
||||
Chronotwin of Warlock
|
||||
|
||||
From a similar timeline to Cassie (forked in 1980s, still not connected to the T3)
|
||||
Color: #f984f0
|
||||
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/6-Rose_Caylitch.txt
Normal file
10
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/6-Rose_Caylitch.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
Name: Rose Caylitch
|
||||
ID: 6
|
||||
Importance: 1
|
||||
POV: True
|
||||
Motivation: ### Sacred Flaw
|
||||
Goal: #### Safety and Control
|
||||
Conflict: #### Hero-maker
|
||||
Epiphany: #### Origin Damage
|
||||
Full Summary: Cassie's Mum
|
||||
Color: #d4a3ea
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
Name: Mark/Mike/Mick
|
||||
ID: 7
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Full Summary: Cassie meets him at the bonfire night.
|
||||
Color: #95b6c7
|
||||
9
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/8-Perps.txt
Normal file
9
Chronoshryther_first_5000/characters/8-Perps.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
|
||||
Name: Perps
|
||||
ID: 8
|
||||
Importance: 0
|
||||
POV: False
|
||||
Full Summary: Attack Cece in the woods on Bonfire Night
|
||||
|
||||
1. Matthew Finch - the "brains." Bought Cece a drink. Cassie killed him with his knife
|
||||
2. Gareth Heaney - the thug. Cassie impaled him on a sharp stick and stomped on his neck
|
||||
Color: #deac80
|
||||
3
Chronoshryther_first_5000/infos.txt
Normal file
3
Chronoshryther_first_5000/infos.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
|
||||
Title: Chronoshryther
|
||||
Subtitle: Chronoshryther
|
||||
Author: Gordon Grant-Stuart
|
||||
6
Chronoshryther_first_5000/labels.txt
Normal file
6
Chronoshryther_first_5000/labels.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
Idea: #ffff00
|
||||
Note: #00ff00
|
||||
Chapter: #0000ff
|
||||
Scene: #ff0000
|
||||
Research: #00ffff
|
||||
Pivotal Scene: #cc02d3
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,38 @@
|
||||
title: Cassie escapes Fly
|
||||
ID: 14
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
POV: 0
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
charCount: 4343
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
Cassie was walking to the station when the madness hit her. She could usually tell when it was on the way, but this time it came out of nowhere. She wasn't feeling anger or fear, and there were no loud noises or flashes of light. Nothing had happened to set it off. She stopped and looked around, searching for anything unusual that might have triggered it. Ahead of her, the footpath led to an underpass beneath a busy street. Cassie scanned her surroundings, but saw nobody else on the path. She closed her eyes with a squeeze, took three deep breaths, and told herself to hurry onward.
|
||||
The episodes Cassie thought of as simply "the madness" always began with a pounding in her head and a floating sensation. Not dizziness exactly, but the feeling of being *not quite there* - of floating outside of reality looking in. Next would come the blurred vision. Again, it wasn't blurring exactly - every movement would leave a transparent trail, like the after-image of a lightbulb. After that would come the confusion; that was the part that really frightened her.
|
||||
The feeling of incoming madness wasn't subsiding. She felt an icy spike of fear as the pounding started up in her head. She'd always had several minutes warning before the head-pounding stage - it had never built up this quickly before. She looked around for somewhere to sit with her eyes closed and hide, but the underpass was featureless - nothing but graffitied walls and a filthy concrete floor. Fluorescent lights buzzed in rusty cages, and traffic rumbled above her. She kept her eyes on her feet and sped up. Her boots were already leaving ghostly trails with each step. If she didn't hurry up and find somewhere to stash herself, she'd be in trouble.
|
||||
The exit to the underpass fuzzed and tried to stretch away from her. She was about to break into a run when a figure blocked her path. Or was it two figures? No, it was one. It was wearing a long black coat with a deep hood. The shape's right hand whipped out of its pocket, and Cassie saw the glint of a blade. Of two blades! Three! No, there was only one blade. Was there? Oh God, the confusion had started already!
|
||||
Three arms shot forth, stabbing at her neck, chest and gut - and simultaneously they didn't. Cassie leapt back, and the phantom arms faded away. The stranger had only one knife, held loosely at his side. How was she supposed to survive this if she couldn't tell what was real? Was *he* even real? Her head pounded from the madness, her heart from terror as the stranger stalked forwards with a careless grace. A gust of wind from the tunnel his hood back. No, her hood - the attacker was a woman.
|
||||
Her dark brown hair was cut into a short mohawk and a black mask stencilled with a demonic grin covered the lower half of her face. Cassie leapt in fright, but it wasn't the sinister mask that terrified her - it was the woman's eyes.
|
||||
Cassie couldn't see them.
|
||||
She could see the attacker's narrowed eyelids and thick lashes; she could see the scar crossing the woman's eye from brow to cheek, but her eyes themselves were two blurry patches of nothingness. Two holes in reality.
|
||||
Cassie spun and ran back down the tunnel. The hallucinations and confusion were now so intense that she could barely see. Noises from the street above were blending into a muffled roar. The only sounds she could hear with clarity were the terrifying woman's footsteps, gaining on her. There was a shout - a man's voice - and someone wrenched her aside.
|
||||
A gunshot cracked the air right above Cassie's head.
|
||||
She heard more shouting, then a shout, and then gunshots from several directions. A knife flew straight towards her eye, but vanished in mid-air. She thought she felt the echo of pain where it would've blinded her, but in the confusion and terror of the madness, nothing felt real.
|
||||
Her rescuer pulled her to the ground, one arm firm around her waist and the other hand firing a pistol. The man holstered his gun and reached for something she couldn't see.
|
||||
"Try to hold still, ma'am," he whispered, his voice now the only thing that sounded real in the chaos. "We have this under control. Now I must apologise for the next part."
|
||||
She felt the sting of a needle, and a heavy slick of numbness slid over her limbs. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed themselves was a flash of curly blonde hair as she was lowered to the ground.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,40 @@
|
||||
title: Fly returns to Wei Long
|
||||
ID: 4
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
POV: 3
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
charCount: 5940
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
Fly cursed as she *shrothe* back to the year 2139. She fell to the floor of her cramped room, throwing her useless knife into the wall. That had been *her*! She'd almost killed Cassandra Caylitch. The *right* Cassandra Caylitch this time. Fly winced as she pulled off her left boot and clutched her bleeding leg. The bullet was still lodged in her calf muscle.
|
||||
That timeline was supposed to have been clear, but the Cosantori had appeared out of nowhere. How the hell did they know? She was *Fly*! They couldn't have traced her - nobody traces the Fly.
|
||||
On top of all that, she was nearly out of *Time*.
|
||||
The door to her room was still locked - not that she expected otherwise. She'd left a nasty little surprise on the latch. If anyone had been snooping, there wouldn't be a room left for her to shrythe into. Heaving herself onto her bunk, she unclipped her mask. The air in here was as clean as the AC could get it - breathable, but still foul - but the mask was stifling.
|
||||
Fly pulled a medpack from the bedside cabinet, fumbled a numbing dart from its wrapper and jabbed it into her leg. It stung for a second, but then the anaesthetic spread, blessedly killing the pain. She made another knife appear from her coat and cursed again as she cut the trousers away from the wound. She dug the bullet out with the tip of her blade and squeezed her last tube of nanoplast into the wound. The clear gel flowed into the muscle and across bone, turning opaque as it got to work. The wound would be healed by morning; the rage and disappointment, however, would take far longer.
|
||||
"Fuck!" she shrieked, finally letting her composure slip. "Fuck fuck FUCK!"
|
||||
She punched the wall until her knuckles dripped red. Somehow a squad of Cosantori Aeturnix had been waiting for her. Had they finally recruited a shryther capable of tracking the Fly? Not bloody likely. She'd been dancing rings around Cozzers for almost twenty of her ownyears. The Fly was on wanted lists right across the Ten Thousand Timelines. She'd seen her face on wanted posters in 1363 and in datacasts as far downstream as 2304, but she'd never seen it in a mugshot. The Fly was uncatchable, which meant only one thing: Someone had ratted her out.
|
||||
Still swearing under her breath, she slipped a cartridge of 3Fall Green from her pocket. She bit down on its mouthpiece and inhaled deeply, breathing in a full dose of the drug. The world wobbled, and shimmers of contentment rolled up and down her body. The high from 3Fall was enjoyable, but it dulled her sense of *time*. She existed almost entirely in the present now - the past and future were just dull echoes in her mind. It made her feel less *real*. She sighed and flopped down onto her bed, blowing a stream of slightly green psychoactive vapour at the ceiling.
|
||||
Shrything was almost impossible on Green, but she wouldn't have been able to shrythe much anyway - the Cosantori had hit her with a leecher. Her store of chronocharge had been sucked out of her body, and was now locked away inside the little golden bullet on the floor. The squad that had ambushed her must have been Special Juris - the C.A. didn't issue leechers to the grunts.
|
||||
There had been five of them, all powerful chronoshrythers - and highly trained fighters. They had hidden from the senses of the Fly until she had already closed in for the kill. And the girl... The girl was immensely powerful too. Of course Fly had already known that, but *this* Cassandra was untrained. She had had no idea what she had been doing, yet the way she had shrythen away from Fly's blade so naturally had been thrilling to see. In anyone else, Fly would have assumed they had been practising for years. She was almost sad that she was going to kill the girl. Such potential was a wonderful thing to witness. It was, on the other hand, an even better thing to take. Fly's mouth watered at the thought of killing her and feeling that power, that potential, rushing into her own veins. She sighed, and took another breath of 3Fall.
|
||||
The nanoplast was turning pink now. New blood vessels were weaving through the gel and the muscle would be knitting itself back together. She would have to be more careful next time.
|
||||
Those five Cozzers *had* been good. Brave too, to go up against the Fly. She had only managed to kill two of them before they had put a leecher in her. How had they found her? Only two people had known where she would be. The first, a skrifter named Warlock, she trusted. Although he was fond of her, and she of him, that wasn't why she trusted him - she had enough dirt on him to bury him if she were ever caught. Of course, he could bury her too if he were caught. It was mutually assured destruction. She still liked him though.
|
||||
That left Haan, the filthy little snake! He had sold her the anchor to that particular timeline. How it had come into his possession she would never know, and frankly she didn't care. Anchors to timelines unconnected to the Ten Thousand were rare, and illegal, but she had known it was the right one the second she had touched it and *looked* into its timestream. She reached for it with her mind just to take another look, but it wasn't there. She frowned. Even through the Green she should at least have sensed it. She had put it on a chain around her neck - touching an object with your bare skin made it much easier to use as an anchor. She reached under her shirt, pulled out the chain, and froze.
|
||||
It was bare. Impossible!
|
||||
For a long, long second, Fly stared at the empty chain. Her knuckles turned bone white beneath the blood as she gripped the 3Fall cartridge, sucking on it until the overdose light blinked, and it switched itself off. With a howl of animal rage she smashed it against the wall again and again.
|
||||
Ripples of pleasure from the drug washed against her rage, barely dampening it. She turned her head into her pillow and screamed until the Green finally wrested her mind away from the anger, and consciousness abandoned her.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,54 @@
|
||||
title: Cassie wakes up in hospital
|
||||
ID: 15
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
POV: 0
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
charCount: 3684
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
The next thing Cassie was aware of was her mother's voice.
|
||||
"Cassandra? Are you awake?" it called from behind ten feet of cotton wool.
|
||||
Cassie's brain sank back into the muddy bog of sleep.
|
||||
"Mum?" she croaked, what could have been hours later. "What time is it?"
|
||||
"Tuesday morning, hun," her mum replied. You've been out since yesterday."
|
||||
"Out? What happ.." Cassie began, but memories were bubbling up through the mud. A spike of fear shocked her awake. "The woman with the knife! Did he shoot her?"
|
||||
Another voice cleared its throat. "There were two assailants?" he queried. "Could you describe..."
|
||||
"Let her wake up!" her mother barked at the man. "What's the bloody hurry?"
|
||||
"Of course, ma'am. I will be at the door."
|
||||
Cassie heard him walking away. Something sharp was tugging her arm and she could hear beeping. She was in a hospital. She creaked her eyelids open and squinted around. Her mother was sitting next to the bed and curtains were drawn.
|
||||
"Mum, was that a copper?" she whispered.
|
||||
"Don't worry love, you're not in trouble this time."
|
||||
"I know that!" Cassie tried to snap, but it came out as a hoarse mumble. "How did I end up in hospital? I was..."
|
||||
"Shh, Cass," her mother interrupted, leaning close and widening her eyes meaningfully. "*It* happened, didn't it?"
|
||||
Cassie opened her mouth to deny it, but her mother was giving her the look. She knew.
|
||||
"I've been taking my meds, Mum," Cassie whispered. "Now tell me how I got here."
|
||||
"The police brought you in. They won't tell me anything."
|
||||
Cassie frowned. "What do you mean 'not in trouble this time'? Do you think I did something bad when I was... you know? Because I can remember everything, and I'm definitely the *victim* this time..."
|
||||
Her mother shushed her again. "Drop it, Cassandra. Just rest, alright? I've called Herbert, just in case, so don't say anything until he gets here."
|
||||
"You do know uncle H isn't a real lawyer, right?" Cassie pointed out.
|
||||
"Yes, but *they* don't know that," her mother replied with a conspiratorial smile. She dug Cassie's phone from a bag. "You should call Cecelia - she's worrying about you."
|
||||
Cassie checked her unread messages - it seemed only her mother and her best friend had known she was in danger. On cue, her phone buzzed.
|
||||
"Cece, hey!" Cassie answered, smiling bravely "Why the video call? I'm pretty sure I look like shit."
|
||||
Cece tried to smile back. "You're alive Cass, that's what matters." She held the phone closer to her face, and a dark curl of her shaggy hair blocked the camera. "Nobody knew where you were, and you weren't replying to my texts. Are you ok?"
|
||||
"Um, I don't really know yet," Cassie said, looking around. "I have no idea what's going on, and even if I did, I can't really say anything right now."
|
||||
"Oh!" Cece replied. She widened her eyes, just like Cassie's mother had done. Cece, too, knew about the madness. "Gotcha - insecure comms channel. Catch up tonight then. They will let you out today, right?"
|
||||
"They'd effin' well better let me out."
|
||||
Her friend said something in reply, but Cassie wasn't listening - she had just caught sight of a dark, shiny ring on her thumb and froze. She hadn't seen that ring since that terrible night, four years ago - the night her madness had started. The beginnings of that madness flickered in her mind, but she closed her eyes, squashing the sensation down and shoving it out of her head. Mercifully, it faded this time. She tried to tell herself that the madness *hadn't* faded, and she was hallucinating, but she knew with an absolute certainly that the ring was real. She opened her eyes and looked at her phone again.
|
||||
Cece hadn't noticed. She hung up with an "I'll be there as soon as I can, ok?", and left Cassie staring at the impossible ring.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,55 @@
|
||||
title: Carruthers interrogates Cassie
|
||||
ID: 5
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:Cassie interrogated by inspector Carruthers
|
||||
summaryFull: He asks about the attack, and Cassie evades.
|
||||
He is "relieved" by Jack, posing as his superior.
|
||||
POV: 0
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
charCount: 7070
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
Two hours later, Cassie sat alternately biting her fingers and twisting the ring in a booth in the hospital coffee shop. The policeman and her uncle Herbert were having a staring contest at the other end of the table. Both had untouched double espressos in front of them - Cassie had an empty cappuccino mug and biscuit crumbs in front of her, lined up in order of size. The teaspoon was balancing in the lip of her mug.
|
||||
The policeman's name was Detective Inspector Carruthers, and it hadn't taken Cassie long to discover that she didn't like him. He had asked a hundred questions, and answered none. Carruthers had come to a compromise with her mother - if Cassie agreed to speak to him in the coffee shop instead of the police station, she would agree not to make a scene. Cassie would rather have gone down to the station anyway - they were attracting too much attention as it was. She had recounted the morning's events as accurately as she could without sounding insane. She'd described the terrifying woman - minus the unnatural eyes - and the rescue. Cassie suspected Carruthers knew she was leaving something out. Most of the questions he'd asked her had been standard - how many people were there? Could she remember how many gunshots she'd heard? - but some had been unusual. He had been more interested in the man who'd sedated her than the would-be murderer, and for some reason he was curious about how *quickly* everyone had moved. Now that Herbert had arrived, however, the inspector had decided not to badger her - for now. Another thing she suspected Carruthers knew was that her uncle was bluffing.
|
||||
Cassie swapped two biscuit crumbs that were in the wrong order, and the teaspoon clattered into the mug. That seemed to attract the inspector's attention enough for him to break eye contact with Herbert, who grinned insolently and took the first sip of his espresso.
|
||||
Carruthers harrumphed and said "If I may go over the identi-fit with your *client* one more time?", sliding a tablet across the table. Herbert nodded rather deliberately, but Cassie had already pulled the tablet towards herself. She looked at the face on the app, and shivered. Identi-fit didn't have a grinning demon mask option, so she had chosen a black bandanna. Police software had yet to catch up with post-pandemic accessories, apparently. Cassie remembered seeing some sort of small industrial filter on one side of it, and she thought it had been made of plastic or rubber. She had already tried to explain it to the inspector.
|
||||
The short mohawk was there, of course. The scar across the right eye had been easy enough to get right - the app had hundreds of scars and tattoos to choose from. She looked at the eyes again, and hesitated. There hadn't been a "holes punctured through the fabric of existence into the infinite void" option, but she'd picked a pair that looked the right shape at least.
|
||||
"Yes, that's what I remember," she told him.
|
||||
"Age anywhere between twenty and forty, about the same height as you?"
|
||||
"Again, yes."
|
||||
Cassie was about to say something sarcastic, but the inspector wasn't paying attention - someone had appeared beside their booth.
|
||||
"Apologies for the interruption, Miss Caylitch, Detective Inspector," said a smooth voice. The speaker was young man wearing a crisp blazer over a t-shirt. There was a badge on a lanyard around his neck, identifying him as another copper.
|
||||
"Gilligan," hissed Carruthers. "Haven't you interfered enough today?"
|
||||
If Carruthers and uncle H had been two strange tomcats shut in the same room, Carruthers and this man Gilligan were a tomcat and a wolf - and it was clear from the inspector's expression which one was the wolf. The newcomer's expression, however, was friendly. If he felt the same way about the inspector, he was good at hiding it.
|
||||
"This case has been transferred to my division, detective inspector," said Gilligan, producing a document from his jacket.
|
||||
"Your division?" sputtered Carruthers. He snatched the document and scanned it, grinding his teeth.
|
||||
"This particular individual is a high-priority suspect," continued Gilligan, gesturing at the face on the tablet. "She is under international investigation for a number of high-profile offences."
|
||||
Cassie couldn't place his accent. It was cultured, but his tone was so formal that she couldn't be sure. She was sure she had heard his voice before. He was smiling pleasantly at Carruthers, who was turning red. She was about to remind the inspector to breathe, but he collected himself. He drained his coffee, snatched up the tablet and left without a word.
|
||||
"Agent Jack Gilligan," said the newcomer, sliding into the inspector's empty seat and extending his hand. His blonde hair shook slightly as he inclined his head, and Cassie suddenly realised where she'd heard his voice.
|
||||
"You!" she said, clutching the side of her neck where she had felt the needle. "You drugged me! Who the fuck are you, *agent*?" Cassie looked to Herbert for help, but her uncle had vanished. His empty cup was on the table, but the chair was empty. She hadn't seen him leave.
|
||||
"Your solicitor had somewhere to be," said Gilligan, with a grin. "Law school, I expect." Cassie was dumbfounded - how in the world did he know about H? "Please, call me Jack."
|
||||
"Okay, *Jack*," she retorted, "kindly explain to me what the living hell is going on? Who is that freak who tried to kill me?"
|
||||
"She is known as the Fly," Jack said, becoming serious. "She is a highly skilled thief and contract killer, and one of the most dangerous people in the... in the world."
|
||||
Cassie rubbed her temple - there had been a twinge of the madness in the back of her mind for a fraction of a second. She examined him closely. Somehow she knew he had stopped himself from saying *in the known timelines*. Very odd.
|
||||
"Why would she come after me then?" she asked. "Who'd pay to have me killed?"
|
||||
"We think she did that on her own," he explained. "We've been tracking her for a long... time." He hesitated over the word *time*, but this time there was no twinge. "It's become apparent to us that she's not entirely sane. Perhaps she has developed a something of a taste for death. You're incredibly lucky we were tracking her, Miss Caylitch."
|
||||
"Why the needle then?" asked Cassie.
|
||||
"Standard procedure," he said, flashing a grin, which made Cassie scowl. She didn't believe that at all. Ordinary coppers didn't go around drugging people and dumping them in hospitals. "Anyway, the local constabulary shan't be troubling you further with this matter. Good day, Miss Caylitch," he said, smoothly rising from his seat.
|
||||
"Who was that bloke?" said a sudden voice beside her. Herbert had reappeared at the table, bearing a plate of cake and another espresso. "Where's Carruthers?"
|
||||
Again, there was a faint throbbing in her head. Looking around the coffee shop, she saw Jack standing at the exit and her heart froze. His eyes! For a second, she was staring into hollow pits of blurred eternity. Then he blinked, and his eyes were a human blue again. He frowned, as if he hadn't expected her to notice anything abnormal, and hurried out the door.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,68 @@
|
||||
title: Cassie explains to Cece
|
||||
ID: 6
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
POV: 0
|
||||
label: 4
|
||||
status: 2
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||||
compile: 2
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||||
setGoal: 1000
|
||||
charCount: 6748
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
"Then his eyes went empty, just like the freak's did!" Cassie exclaimed.
|
||||
Cece nodded as Cassie sat down on the sofa beside her, clutching her third coffee of the day. Their flat was still warming up, since they didn't leave the heating on when they were out. Cece had been sitting with an *expression* on her face as Cassie had told her tale, including much more detail than the Inspector had gotten out of her. Cassie could usually tell what Cece's expressions meant, but she didn't remember seeing this one before. Her eyes were kind, but her lips were tight. She was holding a bottle of beer, and seemed to have forgotten it was there.
|
||||
"They can set it off somehow," Cassie continued, "the madness, I mean. And they just appear and vanish. I didn't see either of them *in transit*. And I'd swear he made Uncle H disappear. One second he was on his chair, next he was away getting dessert."
|
||||
"Maybe you should stop calling it 'madness', Cass."
|
||||
"How else would you explain it?"
|
||||
"Well, you said your uncle also saw that *agent* Gilligan guy," Cece said, making air quotes.
|
||||
"He didn't see the eyes. You know him... if he'd seen anything he'd be wearing a tinfoil hat and nailing the doors shut."
|
||||
Cece pursed her lips again. "True, but that doesn't explain the ring."
|
||||
She had a point. It was made from haematite, and had been one of the few pieces of jewellery Cassie had worn as a teenager. "Maybe I *never* lost it. What if I've been unconsciously keeping it in my pocket every day. That seems more logical, given my poor grip on sanity."
|
||||
Cece took another swig of beer, and Cassie sipped her coffee. Tonight was not the time for drink, much as she wanted to wash the day away with wine. She needed to think. Even without the caffeine, she doubted she would sleep tonight.
|
||||
"You're not insane, Cece said. "I've seen some of the things that... happen when you're around."
|
||||
"That shit about me being a witch again?"
|
||||
"I'm not calling you a witch, Cass. I'm just saying that maybe the headaches and blurred vision are signs that something, um, supernatural is happening to you."
|
||||
Cassie snorted. "So what, I should learn to control it? Train myself in the ways of the Force?"
|
||||
"Never mind," said Cece, shaking her head. "I just think you should keep an open mind about it."
|
||||
"An open mind is the reason my mum had me sent to the shrink," Cassie muttered.
|
||||
"*One* of the reasons," Cece replied, finishing her beer. She smiled to show she was only teasing. Cassie smiled back, to show she understood.
|
||||
Cece's words troubled her, however. She had to consider the possibility that she did have, for want of a better word, *powers*. Logically, it made no sense. She believed that the universe was deterministic, and everything that happened had a physical explanation. Yet, at the same time, she knew on a deep, animal level that she *was* extraordinary. They were two seemingly contradictory beliefs, both of which she knew to be true. It was what Orwell has called doublethink or psychologists called cognitive dissonance... or was it? Cognitive dissonance was something that caused dogmatic people to get angry when you questioned their paradigms - Cassie *knew* the two truths didn't fit together. She decided "intellectual paradox" was a better phrase than cognitive dissonance.
|
||||
Perhaps if she concentrated the right way, something would happen. Could she levitate something? She spied a pen on her desk focussed her gaze on it, willing it to float into the air. Nothing happened, of course.
|
||||
Feeling rather silly, she shifted on the couch, squeezing her eyes in an attempt to clear her mind, but it inevitably drifted back to the subject of Jack Gilligan.
|
||||
"Oh yes, another thing that didn't make sense," Cassie exclaimed, "is that he told me this *Fly* woman was a psycho, and she was killing at random."
|
||||
"You think it wasn't random?" Cece asked.
|
||||
"No, it wasn't. I don't know how I know this, but she *knew* me, Ce. She knew me and she hated me."
|
||||
"And you've definitely never seen her before?"
|
||||
Cassie thought for a moment. "I'm certain. I'd definitely remember the scar. But at the same time I *do* know her. It's weird, Ce. Déjà vu."
|
||||
"Almost getting murdered," Cece said dryly. "Only you could have déjà vu about that."
|
||||
"Only me," Cassie agreed, finishing her coffee.
|
||||
Cece nodded slowly, and tapped her fingers on her beer bottle. She pouted and moved her lips side to side.
|
||||
"What?" Cassie asked.
|
||||
"Nothing."
|
||||
"No, it's not nothing. I might not be good at reading people in general, but I can read you, Ce."
|
||||
"I was just thinking that..."
|
||||
"That it's something to do with my 'mind powers', right?"
|
||||
"Well, yes. That shit about you being a witch inn't because of your odd behaviour," Cece said, dodging a playful swipe from Cassie. "When we were at Knightswood Grammar, even before the... you know? That night?"
|
||||
Cassie winced. "Don't remind me."
|
||||
Cece stood up from the sofa with a stretch and headed towards their little kitchen, and Cassie tried her best not to think about that damnable party. She had to admit that the facts made sense. Every time the madness had been strongest, there had been danger. The more ordinary episodes, if one could use the word 'ordinary', had often landed her in trouble, but more frequently had ended up getting her *out* of trouble. Her logical mind told her that it ought to be the other way around. There was no such thing as clairvoyance or premonitions. It had to be coincidence. It had to be.
|
||||
"I come bearing gifts," Cece's voice cut in. She handed Cassie a bowl of ice cream, sat down beside her and looked straight into Cassie's eyes. "After that night, everyone was frightened of you. You didn't pick up on it because, as you said, you're not good at reading people. But most people were nervous around you, Cass. Myself included."
|
||||
"You too?" Cassie choked, dribbling a spoonful of ice cream onto her chin.
|
||||
"Of course, weirdo. I didn't really know you until then. You saved my life, so of course I got to know you afterwards. But honestly, I was terrified. It's true," Cece whispered, wiping a tear from Cassie's cheek. "I saw what happened. I've always told you that I couldn't remember anything, that it was a blur, that I was drunk."
|
||||
"You saw... everything?"
|
||||
"Everything. I saw what you did, and I know what you can do. Every time you have one of your episodes..." she murmured. "You're special, Cassie. I don't understand how any of it works, but you *are* magical."
|
||||
"You saw... and you're not frightened of me," Cassie said, trying not to sob.
|
||||
"Not anymore, Cass," Cece said, hugging her. She was also trying to hold back tears. "Not anymore"
|
||||
Cassie was about to say "thank you, Ce," but she had just noticed something. There was a pen in her hand - the one she had tried to levitate. She dropped it like it was a centipede, and pulled Cece into a teary hug.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
11
Chronoshryther_first_5000/outline/0-Chapter_1/folder.txt
Normal file
11
Chronoshryther_first_5000/outline/0-Chapter_1/folder.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
|
||||
title: Chapter 1
|
||||
ID: 100
|
||||
type: folder
|
||||
summarySentence:Freak
|
||||
label: 3
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
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setGoal: 5000
|
||||
charCount: 27785
|
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|
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|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
|
||||
title: Blurb
|
||||
ID: 30
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
charCount: 679
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
For most of her life, Cassie has been plagued by fits of madness in which inexplicable things occur. When she escapes from a killer with terrifying powers, she has to admit that perhaps she isn't insane, and that mastering her hidden abilities might be the only thing that can keep her alive.
|
||||
Jack is an officer of the Cosantori Aeturnix - the lawkeepers of the Ten Thousand Timelines - with a desire to prove himself. He finds himself in a situation far more dangerous than he'd planned for, and is forced to choose between the rules and the woman he's falling for.
|
||||
Together they must face the ghosts of their pasts and the demons of their futures, or they risk losing everything.
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,17 @@
|
||||
title: Synopsis
|
||||
ID: 141
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
status: 2
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
charCount: 1
|
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|
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|
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a
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Summary, Synopsis and Blurb
|
||||
ID: 29
|
||||
type: folder
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
charCount: 680
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
|
||||
title: Bonfire Night (Felicity's timeline)
|
||||
ID: 34
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
POV: 24
|
||||
compile: 0
|
||||
charCount: 368
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
As Cassie de-integrates her wounds, and the bodies
|
||||
|
||||
1. Perp1 has bought Cece a drink, she's walking with him towards the woods. He collapses with the knife in his eye.
|
||||
2. Perp2 is waiting in the woods. He collapses with a stick in his gut and a broken neck.
|
||||
3. Cassie (pre-Felicity) is in the woods. She is suddenly overcome with guilt and disgust, then the wounds appear.
|
||||
9
Chronoshryther_first_5000/outline/2-Notes/folder.txt
Normal file
9
Chronoshryther_first_5000/outline/2-Notes/folder.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
|
||||
title: Notes
|
||||
ID: 33
|
||||
type: folder
|
||||
summarySentence:Notes and ideas
|
||||
label: 2
|
||||
compile: 0
|
||||
charCount: 368
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Chronoshryther_first_5000/plots.xml
Normal file
7
Chronoshryther_first_5000/plots.xml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<root>
|
||||
<plot name="The Anchor" ID="0" importance="2"/>
|
||||
<plot name="The Rat" ID="1" importance="1" characters="3" description="Fly needs to find out who ratted her out to the Cosantori Aeturnix"/>
|
||||
<plot name="The bullet" ID="2" importance="0" characters="3" description="Fly has to find use it to track down Jack to get the ring back. She needs to contact Warlock to do so"/>
|
||||
<plot name="Investigation" ID="3" importance="0" characters="10" description="Carruthers is on a task force to investigate shrythers"/>
|
||||
</root>
|
||||
108
Chronoshryther_first_5000/settings.txt
Normal file
108
Chronoshryther_first_5000/settings.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,108 @@
|
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{
|
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"autoSave": false,
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"defaultTextType": "md",
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"dict": "LanguageTool:en_GB",
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"dontShowDeleteWarning": false,
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"wordExclude": "a, and, or",
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"wordMin": 1
|
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},
|
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"fullScreenTheme": "atmo",
|
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"fullscreenSettings": {
|
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"autohide-bottom": true,
|
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"autohide-left": true,
|
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"autohide-top": true,
|
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"clock-show-seconds": true,
|
||||
"progress-auto-show": true,
|
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"title-show-full-path": true
|
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},
|
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"lastTab": 6,
|
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"openIndexes": [
|
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0,
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|
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"14"
|
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],
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"outlineViewColumns": [
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|
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12,
|
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13,
|
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|
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],
|
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"progressChars": false,
|
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"revisions": {
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"keep": false,
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"rules": {
|
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"2592000": 86400,
|
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"3600": 600,
|
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"600": 60,
|
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"86400": 3600,
|
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"null": 604800
|
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},
|
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"smartremove": true
|
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"saveOnQuit": true,
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|
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|
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|
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|
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|
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"Icon": "Nothing",
|
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"Text": "Nothing"
|
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|
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"Outline": {
|
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|
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|
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|
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|
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|
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|
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|
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4
Chronoshryther_first_5000/status.txt
Normal file
4
Chronoshryther_first_5000/status.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
|
||||
TODO
|
||||
First draft
|
||||
Second draft
|
||||
Final
|
||||
3
Chronoshryther_first_5000/summary.txt
Normal file
3
Chronoshryther_first_5000/summary.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
|
||||
Situation: Can time travel change your destiny?
|
||||
Sentence: Chronoshryther
|
||||
Paragraph: Cóm on wanre niht scríðan sceadugenga - From the faded night shrythes the shadowwalker.
|
||||
130
Chronoshryther_first_5000/world.opml
Normal file
130
Chronoshryther_first_5000/world.opml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,130 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<opml version="1.0">
|
||||
<body>
|
||||
<outline name="The Ten Thousand Timelines" ID="0" description="A network of hybrid timelines Called "T3" or T-cubed Timelines are numbered in Cr0ncore records, ">
|
||||
<outline name="T7743" ID="9" description="Year 1860">
|
||||
<outline name="London" ID="5"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Present day" ID="1">
|
||||
<outline name="Brackenhill" ID="6"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Wei Long" ID="7" description="Exists in 283 timelines (that are known to the Cr0ncore), and unofficially in over 3000 more. "All T3's roads lead to Locus, all T3's sewers drain into Wei Long"">
|
||||
<outline name="Economy" ID="18" description="Currency: Quoins / Q0ins / q0ins quantum crypto"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Lunkhor" ID="23" description="A timepool. The "Capital" of the T3, and the seat of the Executive, Cr0ncore and Cosantori Aeturnix. T1 - 100?"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Interesting Anachronisms" ID="27" description="Mammoths Slavery/Indenturement Aristocracy Fusion Power Space travel"/>
|
||||
<outline name="How timelines join the T3" ID="22" description="There's a diplomatic process. Officially, a timeline can be connected by CronCore Nexii and Ports when: - The whole world is aware of the T3 - The world is at peace. - The world's leaders submit to the Executive In reality, it takes corruption, and letting CronCore get their fingers in the pie."/>
|
||||
<outline name="The Impact" ID="68" description="2078 Comet impact. Happens to all timelines, unless stopped by spacecraft from T3"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Timeline tree" ID="51">
|
||||
<outline name="1134 BC - Trojan fork" ID="52" description="Earliest known fork. Fall of Troy caused by a Shrythers">
|
||||
<outline name="Tvarutnan Timelines" ID="46" description="Officially nearly 1700 Tvarutnan timelines are part of the T3. When the Aegean Apocalypse didn't happen. Named after the Tvarutnan Empire ( Founded approx 900BCE) - ">
|
||||
<outline name="468 AD Kjarnos fork" ID="55" description="Nuclear war">
|
||||
<outline name="Imperial Tvarutnan" ID="56"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Kjarnak Timelines" ID="57"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Aegean Timelines (us)" ID="53">
|
||||
<outline name="1277 - Kublai fork" ID="63" description="Kublai Khan conquers Japan, China doesn't turn isolationist in the the Ming Dynasty, and eventually Europe and the Americas are ruled by a post-Mongol kingdoms. Source of the Wei Long timepool">
|
||||
<outline name="Khaganate Timelines" ID="65" description="East Asia becomes dominant. Origin of the Wei Long timepool"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Colonial Timelines (us)" ID="66" description="Europe becomes dominant world power(s).">
|
||||
<outline name=" 1645 - Westphalian fork" ID="54">
|
||||
<outline name="Treaty Timelines (us)" ID="58">
|
||||
<outline name="1839 AD - Victorian fork" ID="59">
|
||||
<outline name="Albert Timelines (us)" ID="60"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Annian Timelines" ID="61" description="Queen Anne II succeeds Vicoria in 1862 AD Jack's Timeline is Annian"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Ottan Timelines" ID="62" description="After a further century of war following the failure of the treaty, Europe is conquered by Ecclesiarch Otto - a brutal puritanical dictator. Even in 2100, theses timelines are ruled by puritans"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Groups and Factions" ID="10">
|
||||
<outline name="Cosantori Aeturnix" ID="3" description="Nickname: Cozzer's The cops of the T3">
|
||||
<outline name="Investigative Juris" ID="42" description="Local authorities handle non-shrything related crime. CA have a mandate to return shrythers to the timeline that raised the arrest warrant. "/>
|
||||
<outline name="Incorporative Juris" ID="69" description="Embedded in local militaries and law enforcement"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Special Juris" ID="70" description="Handle the really big things, like Fly or Black Ribbon."/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Skrifters" ID="20" description="Time bandits">
|
||||
<outline name="Black Ribbon" ID="21" description="Wei Long's most powerful skrifter outfit. Claims territory in hundreds of timelines Led by gangster called Tiablo / the Grandfather "/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Cr0nCore" ID="38" description="The corporation/syndicate that controlled the Nexi and Ports "/>
|
||||
<outline name="The Executive" ID="2" description=""Ruler" of the T3 Nobody knows if it's a person, comittee, or AI"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronoshrything" ID="32" description="The ">
|
||||
<outline name="Rules" ID="33" description="For reference: Sanderson's First Law: An author's ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic. Sanderson's Second Law: Limitations > Power The limitations of a magic system are more interesting than its capabilities. What the magic can't do is more interesting than what it can. Sanderson's Third Law: Expand on what you have already, before you add something new. A brilliant magic system for a book is less often one with a thousand different powers and abilities -- and is more often a magic system with relatively few powers that the author has considered in depth. Sanderson's Zeroth Law: Err on the side of AWESOME.">
|
||||
<outline name="Abilities" ID="71">
|
||||
<outline name="Sensing" ID="74" description="*'s are the level required for this ability 'Feel' Chronocharge in Objects: - Touching the object (*) - Near the object (**) - Feel it moving / being moved (**) 'Feel' Chronocharge in People - touching (*) - nearby (**) - greater distance (***) - nearby timelines (****) - Sensing past/future movements of charge (***) 'Smell' chronocharge - Recognise which timeline and what year (*) - Recognise what object it's been in (person/anchor/reservoir) (**) - Recognise who it's been in (***) - Pick up visual and auditory information from chronocharge (****) - "/>
|
||||
<outline name="Shrything" ID="75" description="reversing their timestream ghosting - the afterimage/before image going above the plane/entering timespace/going "/>
|
||||
<outline name="Moving" ID="76" description="Absorbing Chronocharge - Absorb from high pressure thing (eg Donor shryther or Chronopump) (*) - Absorb by touching (**) - Absorb at a distance (***) - Absorb from a person (***) - Absorb from a death (**) - Black Ribbon practice - Absorb from a person by touch (***) - Absorb from a person at a distance (****) Emitting Chronocharge - Charge a well or anchor (**) - Donate charge to another shryther (**) - Force charge into an unwilling person (***) Absorbing someone's shrything abilities (****) Fly does this by trapping them in resonance, forcing charge into them over and over until the charge absorbs their "mind", then reabsorbs it when she kills them."/>
|
||||
<outline name="Anchoring" ID="87" description=""Bound" CC. - Following an anchorline - touching: (*) - seeing anchor: (**) - following trail (***) - causality bridging (****) - - Creating an anchor when you fork the timestream (**) - "/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Strength levels" ID="72">
|
||||
<outline name="Chronotypical (0)" ID="81" description="Range: < 100ms "/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronoceptive (*)" ID="82" description="Range < 1s Who? - Minimum level for Croncore employment - Low level skrifters"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronadept (**)" ID="83" description="Range < 10s Who? - Minimum level for Cosantori Aeturnix employment - Black Ribbon"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronomancer (***)" ID="84" description="Range < 100s Who? - Minimum level for CA Special Juris - Jack - (Mei and Addy are about a 2.5)"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronosavant (****)" ID="85" description="Range unknown Who? - Cassie and Fly are the only known shrythers this strong"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Limitations" ID="73">
|
||||
<outline name="Range" ID="89"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Causality" ID="90" description="Causality is inviolable. You can't change your own past. If you shrythe back in time, you create a new past. When two anchorlines would create a causality breach, the weaker one snaps."/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Physics" ID="77" description="Natural laws that apply to Time">
|
||||
<outline name="Chronopressure" ID="78" description="Chronocharge flows from regions of high pressure to low pressure,"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronostability" ID="79" description="Chronocharge capacity of an object = Age x Volume x Chronostability"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronoconductivity" ID="80" description="Things that can change easily are chronoconductive - metal - fluids"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Resonance" ID="88" description="Two shrythers trying to predict each other enter resonance Resonance causes the eye blur"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Timeline forking" ID="34"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronocharge" ID="8" description="The best way to think of it is "wrongness" Shrythers feel "more real" when they have more chronocharge.">
|
||||
<outline name="Gathering" ID="30" description="Shrythers naturally generate it Wells naturally accumulate it from their environment, and Shrythers can "suck" it out."/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Wells" ID="31" description="Old stones that absorb chronocharge from their environment. Very chronostable. Which stones absorb the most?"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Anchors" ID="4" description="An object that a Shryther fills with local chronocharge to keep them tethered. For a new Shryther, it's their surroundings at the time of the Shrythe, but experienced Shrythers use more permanent anchors. Anchoring "creates" the fork (makes it real enough to return to?) "/>
|
||||
<outline name="False Memories and Visions" ID="14"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Well-worn paths" ID="19" description="The more Shrythers cross timelines, the "closer" they become. It takes less Time/Chronocharge to cross and reintegrate The twin visions are stronger on closer timelines"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Glossary" ID="39">
|
||||
<outline name="Wraith" ID="11"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Lifeline" ID="12" description="Someone's personal timestream. It is connected to their prime timeline by an Anchor."/>
|
||||
<outline name="Lingo and Slang" ID="16" description="penta-sang = damned K'zin tah = "/>
|
||||
<outline name="ownyear" ID="17" description="Year in someones lifeline."/>
|
||||
<outline name="Timerange / Range" ID="15" description="Shrythers see a range of time at once - eg 30sec into the past, future, depending on strength. They see multiple possible outcomes if they or another Shryther takes action within their Range."/>
|
||||
<outline name="Timestream" ID="48"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Timepool" ID="64" description="A group of timelines tangled up by high levels of shrything. Paths become worn enough that even weak shrythers can move between them without Portals."/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Technology" ID="24">
|
||||
<outline name="The Net" ID="36" description="Data network throughout the Ten Thousand Timelines. Communication between timelines is tricky.">
|
||||
<outline name="Nexus" ID="40" description="Mysterious artifact that provides datalinks between timelines. Like a Portal for photons. Owned by Cr0ncore, but pirate Nexi also exist"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Skiffs" ID="26" description="Vehicles that Shrythe. ">
|
||||
<outline name="Cr0ncore skiffs" ID="29" description="Have Nexi in their chassis Don't need shrythers to pilot it."/>
|
||||
<outline name="Skriffs" ID="35" description="Unregistered with Cr0ncore, so need shrythers to pilot them"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Augs" ID="25" description="Cybernetic Augmentation Not good for Shrything - they glitch when you use shrything. Some of them require">
|
||||
<outline name="Retinal Augs" ID="28"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Q-tab" ID="37" description="The digital/quantum wallet for storing qu0ins"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Portals" ID="41" description="Port / Portal Gateway between timelines Controlled by Cr0nCore ">
|
||||
<outline name="Causality block" ID="13" description="Sometimes a reintegration fails in a firmly-anchored timeline. If two anchorlines would cause a causality breach, the weaker one breaks. No shryther's timeline is stronger than a Portal"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Drugs" ID="43" description="In Wei Long, most come in cartridges.">
|
||||
<outline name="3Fall" ID="44" description="Elite, expensive drugs. Few side effects.">
|
||||
<outline name="3Fall Green" ID="45" description=" Calm and pleasure. Slight disorientation. Dulls mind and sense of Time. Mildly addictive. Overdose: unconsciousness, "/>
|
||||
<outline name="3Fall Blue" ID="47" description=" Energy and Focus Enhances physical senses (can't increase range though)"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Weapons" ID="49">
|
||||
<outline name="Leecher" ID="50" description="Bullet used by the CA. Sucks the chronocharge out of a shryther. Also sucks bound chronocharge from an anchor, weakening the link"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
<outline name="Anchortrace" ID="67"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Chronopump" ID="86"/>
|
||||
<outline name="Zero Stones" ID="91" description="Stones with 100%? chronovacuum. There's a zero stone in Leechers They're a Croncore secret, and are at the heart of Portals"/>
|
||||
</outline>
|
||||
</body>
|
||||
</opml>
|
||||
1
Contena.msk
Normal file
1
Contena.msk
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
1
Contena/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
1
Contena/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
0
Contena/infos.txt
Normal file
0
Contena/infos.txt
Normal file
5
Contena/labels.txt
Normal file
5
Contena/labels.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
|
||||
Idea: #ffff00
|
||||
Note: #00ff00
|
||||
Chapter: #0000ff
|
||||
Scene: #ff0000
|
||||
Research: #00ffff
|
||||
15
Contena/outline/0-Question_1.md
Normal file
15
Contena/outline/0-Question_1.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
|
||||
title: Question 1
|
||||
ID: 1
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:1. What life experience do I have (Traveling, Parenting etc…)?
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
**What life experience do I have (Traveling, Parenting etc…)?**
|
||||
|
||||
I'll start from the beginning and try to keep it short:
|
||||
I'm 36 years old. I was born in Zimbabwe, and grew up in South Africa. I met my wife in high school, and we've been together ever since. We got married in 2014, and moved to the UK in 2016.
|
||||
|
||||
I come from an outdoorsy family, so my childhood was full of adventures like camping, sailing, waterskiing, scuba diving and drives through nature reserves. I spent many hours up a tree and, being a geek too, spent many more hours gaming, reading fantasy and science fiction, inventing board games and teaching myself computer programming.
|
||||
|
||||
My most memorable experience was definitely my honeymoon in Finland. We stayed in an ice hotel, learned to ski, and went dogsledding and snowmobiling.
|
||||
11
Contena/outline/1-Question_2.md
Normal file
11
Contena/outline/1-Question_2.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
|
||||
title: Question 2
|
||||
ID: 2
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:2. What education do I have?
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
**What education do I have?**
|
||||
|
||||
My school education was mostly at private boarding schools which taught me a variety of neuroses and unhealthy coping mechanisms - being a science and computer geek trapped in what was basically a rugby academy that only provided an education because it was required to do so by law will do that to a boy.
|
||||
My university education started with me switching majors every year for four years (Engineering, Physics, Biology and Computer Science) and then dropping out. I worked for six months fixing laptops, then enrolled at a correspondence university where I did a Computer Science degree while working part time.
|
||||
11
Contena/outline/2-Question_3.md
Normal file
11
Contena/outline/2-Question_3.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
|
||||
title: Question 3
|
||||
ID: 3
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:3. What work experience do I have?
|
||||
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
**What work experience do I have?**
|
||||
|
||||
I've worked in IT in Sytems Admin and Support Engineer roles for over 10 years, and have had a few years in which I was mostly out of work. I've worked for non-IT companies (a health foods distributer and a management consultancy) in which I was the only IT Guy, and also for IT companies as part of a technical team.
|
||||
16
Contena/outline/3-Question_4.md
Normal file
16
Contena/outline/3-Question_4.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,16 @@
|
||||
title: Question 4
|
||||
ID: 4
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:4. What would I enjoy learning more about?
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
**What would I enjoy learning more about?**
|
||||
|
||||
I have an interest in learning more about things from my previous IT work, such as Linux, cloud and DevOps-ish things - but working with them all day is draining. Writing about them would be much better.
|
||||
|
||||
My wife, both her parents and her grandmother are all teachers, so I've picked up quite a few things about education, particularly of younger children. I would enjoy writing about teaching, and writing for children.
|
||||
|
||||
I would also love learning more about the latest scientific research, gaming, nature, the Late Bronze Age, space travel and the
|
||||
|
||||
My long term goal is to write a sci-fi and fantasy novels.
|
||||
10
Contena/outline/4-Question_5.md
Normal file
10
Contena/outline/4-Question_5.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
|
||||
title: Question 5
|
||||
ID: 5
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
summarySentence:5. Connections I have in my network to these subjects (Past employers, professors, teachers, co-workers, friends, etc.):
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
**Connections I have in my network to these subjects (Past employers, professors, teachers, co-workers, friends, etc.):**
|
||||
|
||||
I have two past employers in South Africa who might need writing done - I worked on the websites for both of them. In the UK, my sister-in-law is starting an online business, and said that she would like me to do the writing for her blog and shopping page.
|
||||
2
Contena/plots.xml
Normal file
2
Contena/plots.xml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<root/>
|
||||
106
Contena/settings.txt
Normal file
106
Contena/settings.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,106 @@
|
||||
{
|
||||
"autoSave": false,
|
||||
"autoSaveDelay": 5,
|
||||
"autoSaveNoChanges": true,
|
||||
"autoSaveNoChangesDelay": 5,
|
||||
"corkBackground": {
|
||||
"color": "#926239",
|
||||
"image": "writingdesk"
|
||||
},
|
||||
"corkSizeFactor": 100,
|
||||
"corkStyle": "new",
|
||||
"defaultTextType": "md",
|
||||
"dict": "PyEnchant:en_GB",
|
||||
"dontShowDeleteWarning": false,
|
||||
"folderView": "cork",
|
||||
"frequencyAnalyzer": {
|
||||
"phraseMax": 5,
|
||||
"phraseMin": 2,
|
||||
"wordExclude": "a, and, or",
|
||||
"wordMin": 1
|
||||
},
|
||||
"fullScreenTheme": "newtheme",
|
||||
"fullscreenSettings": {
|
||||
"autohide-bottom": true,
|
||||
"autohide-left": true,
|
||||
"autohide-top": true,
|
||||
"clock-show-seconds": true,
|
||||
"progress-auto-show": true,
|
||||
"title-show-full-path": true
|
||||
},
|
||||
"lastTab": 6,
|
||||
"openIndexes": [
|
||||
0,
|
||||
[
|
||||
"3"
|
||||
],
|
||||
null
|
||||
],
|
||||
"outlineViewColumns": [
|
||||
0,
|
||||
5,
|
||||
8,
|
||||
9,
|
||||
11,
|
||||
12,
|
||||
13,
|
||||
7
|
||||
],
|
||||
"revisions": {
|
||||
"keep": false,
|
||||
"rules": {
|
||||
"2592000": 86400,
|
||||
"3600": 600,
|
||||
"600": 60,
|
||||
"86400": 3600,
|
||||
"null": 604800
|
||||
},
|
||||
"smartremove": true
|
||||
},
|
||||
"saveOnQuit": true,
|
||||
"saveToZip": false,
|
||||
"spellcheck": false,
|
||||
"textEditor": {
|
||||
"alwaysCenter": false,
|
||||
"background": "#ffffff",
|
||||
"backgroundTransparent": false,
|
||||
"cursorNotBlinking": false,
|
||||
"cursorWidth": 1,
|
||||
"focusMode": false,
|
||||
"font": "MS Shell Dlg 2,8.25,-1,5,50,0,0,0,0,0",
|
||||
"fontColor": "#000000",
|
||||
"indent": false,
|
||||
"lineSpacing": 100,
|
||||
"marginsLR": 0,
|
||||
"marginsTB": 20,
|
||||
"maxWidth": 600,
|
||||
"misspelled": "#F00",
|
||||
"spacingAbove": 5,
|
||||
"spacingBelow": 5,
|
||||
"tabWidth": 20,
|
||||
"textAlignment": 0
|
||||
},
|
||||
"viewMode": "fiction",
|
||||
"viewSettings": {
|
||||
"Cork": {
|
||||
"Background": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Border": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Corner": "Label",
|
||||
"Icon": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Text": "Nothing"
|
||||
},
|
||||
"Outline": {
|
||||
"Background": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Icon": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Text": "Compile"
|
||||
},
|
||||
"Tree": {
|
||||
"Background": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Icon": "Nothing",
|
||||
"InfoFolder": "Nothing",
|
||||
"InfoText": "Nothing",
|
||||
"Text": "Compile",
|
||||
"iconSize": 24
|
||||
}
|
||||
}
|
||||
}
|
||||
4
Contena/status.txt
Normal file
4
Contena/status.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
|
||||
TODO
|
||||
First draft
|
||||
Second draft
|
||||
Final
|
||||
0
Contena/summary.txt
Normal file
0
Contena/summary.txt
Normal file
4
Contena/world.opml
Normal file
4
Contena/world.opml
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
|
||||
<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?>
|
||||
<opml version="1.0">
|
||||
<body/>
|
||||
</opml>
|
||||
1
Daily Pages.msk
Normal file
1
Daily Pages.msk
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
1
Daily Pages/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
1
Daily Pages/MANUSKRIPT
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1 @@
|
||||
1
|
||||
0
Daily Pages/infos.txt
Normal file
0
Daily Pages/infos.txt
Normal file
5
Daily Pages/labels.txt
Normal file
5
Daily Pages/labels.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
|
||||
Idea: #ffff00
|
||||
Note: #00ff00
|
||||
Chapter: #0000ff
|
||||
Scene: #ff0000
|
||||
Research: #00ffff
|
||||
42
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/0-Thursday.md
Normal file
42
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/0-Thursday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,42 @@
|
||||
title: Thursday
|
||||
ID: 2
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
#First day of writing daily pages.
|
||||
|
||||
I hope this helps me overcome the guilt of ditching Priya. I like her and I think she can help me, but maybe I'm not ready to deal with my issues yet. Perhaps writing will provide some release.
|
||||
|
||||
Catharsis is only part of why I'm doing this. I thought "writer's excercise... might work, might not." I like to think the primary purpose of these essays is to hone my craft. Getting some kind of psychological help is a side effect. At least, that's what I tell myself. I can already feel it working in a weird way. I feel calmer and more focused, and I haven't even completed my second paragraph.
|
||||
|
||||
This text seems to be remarkably grammatical, and I can't spot any typos, even though I'm rushing. I'll need an ergonomic keyboard if Ikeep this up.
|
||||
|
||||
That leaves the rest of the day. Lawns to mow, kitchens to clean, Paul's thing to do. Eureka. I knew that would come back to get me. I should've been more serious about it. Now I'll have to start from scratch (almost). At least I know more about web development now. I'll get codiad and openkm up and running on a devbox, then I'll see if there's a RESTful connector for Angular. I don't think I should try meteor again. Maybe I won't need node.js, depending on how helpful Angular can be. I'll stick it on top of wordpress. That shouldn't be too hard.
|
||||
|
||||
First I need Vince to reset my Office365 passwd, or at least ask him if my email account is still active.
|
||||
|
||||
##Does Manuskript do markdown? Yes! It does! Lemme just add a title.
|
||||
|
||||
Ok, back at the bottom of the text. To do list:
|
||||
|
||||
- See what other markdown goodies there are
|
||||
- Not lists, it seems. Cheat sheet time.
|
||||
+ Plusses?
|
||||
- No, not plusses. Oh well. There's _italic_ then. Also __bold__.
|
||||
|
||||
Ok, enough markdown. Concentration starting to wane. Running out of crap to complain about. Feeling scared for the day. I'll keep writing, maybe inspiration or at least motivation with hit me by the time I get to word 750. Or carpal tunnel...
|
||||
|
||||
So, I should stop writing about writing about writing, and tty to spit out some fiction. It'll be disjointed, but so what.
|
||||
|
||||
I'll talk about animal magic. What if animals could be magic users too? What if a wolf pack had a shaman? How would you tell which wolf is the wizard? Red eyes perhaps? Or glowing yellow? Maybe he or she hangs back from the fray. That doen't seem wolfy, though. Unless a wolfs latent magical powers only manifest when they're too old to hunt. Instead of wondering off to die alone, they follow the younger pack on hunts, and aid them from afar. Or if not afar, then at least out of hoof and horn range. And would there be both male and female mages? A wizardwolf and a witchwolf? Or Magewolves.
|
||||
|
||||
What type of spells would a magewolf cast? Spells of speed and strength on packmates. Confusion on the prey. Maybe slowing or weakening ones too. It depends on the system of magic. In a 'soulfire' universe, the spells/energies/soulsmears would be pure wolf willpower. Perhaps there would be finesse, but nothing as abstract or as specific as human magic, so no triggers or if/then switches. Perhaps the spells/soulshards would be pure thoughtshards (I just came up with that one. See footnote!). No planning, of concept - just little pieces of wolf instinct. Maybe people could get caught up in it. A soulshard for wolfy packing behaviour lodges into the mind and causes you to go feral.
|
||||
|
||||
I think 650 words is good enough for one mornig. How do I feel? Tired mostly.You can't just confiscate all mobile phones from staff (that sentance came from a microdream!)
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
Footnote:
|
||||
|
||||
Thoughtshards - Spells are ideas or concepts taken from the mind and places into the environment. For example, anto-lockpicking spells would have a thoughtshard for recognising something that's not a key, or perhaps detecting the mind of the lockpicker ( which would require a subshard for mind reading). Then there'd be a soulshard/subshard/thoughtshard for the jamming of locks, and the thoughtshard for if/then.
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/1-Friday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/1-Friday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Friday
|
||||
ID: 3
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
6
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/folder.txt
Normal file
6
Daily Pages/outline/0-Week_1/folder.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
title: Week 1
|
||||
ID: 1
|
||||
type: folder
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/0-Monday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/0-Monday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Monday
|
||||
ID: 112
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/1-Tuesday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/1-Tuesday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Tuesday
|
||||
ID: 113
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/2-Wednesday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/2-Wednesday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Wednesday
|
||||
ID: 114
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/3-Thursday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/3-Thursday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Thursday
|
||||
ID: 2
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/4-Friday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/4-Friday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Friday
|
||||
ID: 3
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
6
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/folder.txt
Normal file
6
Daily Pages/outline/1-Week_2/folder.txt
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
|
||||
title: Week 2
|
||||
ID: 111
|
||||
type: folder
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
7
Daily Pages/outline/2-Week/0-Monday.md
Normal file
7
Daily Pages/outline/2-Week/0-Monday.md
Normal file
@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
|
||||
title: Monday
|
||||
ID: 112
|
||||
type: md
|
||||
compile: 2
|
||||
setGoal: 750
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
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Reference in New Issue
Block a user