Fatefall - 1

Chapter 1 -  Poppy

I killed a Fate and they called me a hero. I killed a man and they called me a monster. 

Poppy survived on stolen lives. Becoming an assassin hadn’t exactly been her first choice of a lifestyle, but it kept her alive and that was what mattered. Besides, she might have even considered herself good at it. 

Well, maybe not anymore. 

“Look, either you let me out of this cell or I’ll steal your keys off of you and do it myself,” Poppy sighed, folding her arms across her chest. Best to give the illusion of her strength when in fact she felt vulnerable without her daggers at her sides. 

“Take off your mask and maybe we’ll consider it,” retorted a soldier clad in gold. 

“Take off my mask and I’ll take off an arm,” Poppy snapped, slumping to the floor but never letting her eyes leave the soldier. She felt his pulse spike, felt his fear twist beneath her fingertips. “Do you know who I am?” 

The soldier’s voice wavered. “I know enough to believe you’re dangerous.” 

Poppy smirked to herself. A good assassin never leaves a mark, Griff had told her. It seemed that ignoring that rule had benefited her after all. Her reputation preceded her. 

“So if I told you that your leader has ten minutes to get down here to my dank, little cell and explain why he saw fit to arrest me or I would kill you, would you believe me?” She layered her voice with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping this pathetic soldier fell for it. The other assassins would come … hopefully. 

The soldier swallowed. “You can’t hurt me from inside your cell,” he stated dumbly. 

Poppy tipped her head to the side, glad that her half-mask didn’t hide her smile. “Are you sure about that?” 

She already had a hold on his pulse, so Poppy used her Grace to tighten the tiniest bit. It was the most she could do from her cell, but it was enough that the soldier’s eyes grew wide. He felt her Grace and he knew its power. 

“Run along now,” she cooed as the soldier leapt to his feet, metal clinking as he hurried to his master. 

Relief swam in Poppy’s chest. She could stall for time until Griff got here to rescue her, and then she could finish the job she’d been paid to do. None of the assassins may have liked her, but being the only passable healer in the whole faction, they needed her more than she needed them. Griff would come, even if no one else did. 

At least, she hoped he would because she wasn’t sure how long she could handle the smell of this cursed cell. Poppy wondered which jail they had decided to lock her up in. She’d been blindfolded on the journey, but based on the rainwater steadily dripping from the ceiling and the dark stains in the corner, it had to be the local prison. 

Footsteps startled her back to reality and Poppy sat up a little straighter, prepared to negotiate her release. 

The soldier slunk into view, accompanied by another young man garbed in all black with a hood obscuring all of his face but his lips, which curved into a small scar pointing downwards that gave the illusion of a frown. 

“This is your master?” Poppy inquired, gesturing to the new boy. 

His dark eyes bore into hers. “This is the assassin we’ve been tracking?”

“I suppose I should be honored to be the subject of your searches,” Poppy noted, crossing her legs and leaning back against the wall of her cell. “Although I must say, I much prefer the open sky to your prison - no offense, of course.” 

“None taken,” the stranger replied with a shrug. “If I were in your position, I would be dreaming of my freedom too.”

“Then it’s pretty obvious what should happen here. You can let me go and then we’ll both be happy.”

The boy smirked to himself, shaking his head as if he was amused with her. He waved the soldier away. “You can leave us now, Miles. Trust that I can handle myself.” 

The soldier - Miles - gave the boy one last wary look before disappearing from Poppy’s view once again. Now alone, the boy seemed to relax a bit, his shoulders drooping almost undetectably. 

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, neither daring to give in. Finally, the boy heaved a sigh. “I guess you can’t be convinced to drop your mask.” 

“Lower your hood and we’ll see,” Poppy countered. She knew it wouldn’t benefit her to know this mysterious boy’s identity, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity. 

He ignored her comment. “Could I at least have a name?”

Poppy didn’t see the harm in giving him her assassin name. If he didn’t know it already, Miles would surely tell him later. “Bella.” 

She could’ve sworn she caught the boy’s jaw tightening slightly. “Belladonna.” A statement, not a question. “Who do you work with, Bella?”

“Skipping to the easy questions, are we?”

“That’s not an answer.” 

“It’s not a question that I’m willing to answer. How did you find me?”
The boy gave a low chuckle. “You can’t turn this game on its head.”
“I don’t play by the rules. How did you find me?” she repeated more forcefully. If he didn’t give her the answers, she could always pluck them from him using her Grace. 

The boy hesitated, seemingly weighing his options. “What matters is that I’ll be able to find you again, so you best give me the information I want if you want to live.” 

Poppy scoffed, but she actually believed him. The conviction with which he said the words - he truly thought he could find her again, and she had no reason to doubt him. Meaning that Poppy needed to make up a good lie, and fast. 

“Fine,” she relented. “Maybe I’ll answer.” 

How she hated that smirk. “Wonderful. Who do you work with?”

“I don’t work with anyone,” she said truthfully. “Most assassins are independent.” 

“Hmm.” He contemplated this as though deciding whether or not to believe her. “Do you know of any assassins who might have received a request about the royal family?” 

The royal family? “Who are you? The royal guard dog?” She shook her head. “The royals are off limits to all assassins.” 

The boy didn’t seem impressed. “Are you sure?” 

“I haven’t even heard of a royal death recently,” Poppy noted. “Unless, of course, you’re looking for someone to do the job for you, in which case-”

“No!” he interrupted. Poppy startled at his sudden outburst and the boy shrank back, tugging subconsciously at his hood. “I just … no. I’m sorry.”

Poppy raised a brow. Intrigue prickled at her gut. Who was this boy? 

“Don’t give me that look,” the boy spat. “Are you sure that none of your little assassin friends killed any of the royals?” 

Her little assassin friends didn’t kill royals. It was one of Griff’s few rules - the royal family was off limits. If someone had disobeyed, Griff would have their head. “Why don’t you ask them when they come to kill you for kidnapping me?” she countered. 

The boy laughed darkly. “You still think they’ll be able to find you?” 

“Let me out,” Poppy pleaded, dropping her air of strength. “Whatever problems that you’re dealing with, they don’t concern me.” 

The boy shook his head. “None of you are innocent.” His voice was low and dangerous. Warning bells sang in Poppy’s head. “Do you know what the punishment is for murder in Xegalla?”

Fear panged in her stomach as the boy’s mouth twisted into a cruel snarl. “Murderers are put to death.” Fates, she needed to get out of this cell. 

He stood abruptly and Poppy was on her feet a moment later. They met at the bars of the cell, shadows obscuring their faces. She could see a key hanging on a chain around the boy’s neck, tempting her. “Tell me who killed the prince,” he hissed.

“Someone killed the prince?” Poppy breathed. Fates, did Griff know? Why was it not public? “Look, I don’t know who killed the prince, but it wasn’t me. I’m-” 

Hands gripped her shoulders and yanked her forward and suddenly Poppy couldn’t breathe. The boy’s breath was hot on the exposed lower half of her face. “You’re what? Innocent?” Another rasping laugh. “We both know that’s far from true.”

His fingers pressed into her skin and Poppy squeezed her eyes shut. The situation had escalated too quickly for her liking. 

Poppy called upon her Grace, sensing the boy’s pulse beneath her fingertips. One tiny tug and he would slip into unconsciousness. She’d done it hundreds of times before, so it seemed like it would work as she ushered her Grace forward and slowed the boy’s heart rate.

Except the boy only smiled and Poppy’s confidence drained away along with her Grace. 

Asa save me now. Cursed Voids. Their Grace gave them invulnerability to other Graces as well as the ability to temporarily nullify another Grace. Any chance Poppy had of escaping would be completely gone until her Grace returned. 

“Who killed the prince?” growled the boy, pulling Poppy even closer. She wriggled under his grip, but to no avail. “Answer me, you-”

A moment later, Poppy was on the floor breathing hard as another figure in dark clothes tackled the boy to the ground. Griff - either him, or he’d sent someone else. Relief washed over Poppy as she struggled to her feet. 

“The key is on his neck!” she cried to her rescuer, who gave a grunt and yanked the chain off of the boy. Metal clinked as the key hit the floor mere inches from Poppy’s outstretched hand. She strained for it but it was too far away, leaving her futilely pounding at the bars. “Hurry!”

Her rescuer landed a well-placed punch to the boy’s chin and he fell still almost immediately. The other figure rushed to Poppy’s cell and snatched the fallen keys, quickly unlocking the door.

Poppy scrambled to freedom, her own heart beating a frantic rhythm inside of her. She adjusted her mask and regained her composure before facing the other assassin. “Thank you.” 

“Our, uh, master insisted on this, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” She recognized the gruff voice as Jaspar - Griff’s son - and the only member of the faction that didn’t actually kill. “You missed the … meeting.” He eyed the unconscious boy nervously, like he might be listening.

“I was on business,” Poppy argued, already defensive. 

“Yeah?” Jaspar retorted, his hands on his hips. He shot another look at the boy. “We should probably go.” 

Poppy glanced at the boy a final time. She wondered if she should tie him up or something, just in case he was still awake and listening but quickly dismissed the idea. To keep Griff waiting for even a few minutes longer than necessary … she shuddered at what the punishment would be. 

Jaspar didn’t try to engage in conversation as the pair wove through the cramped streets of Xegalla. Just as Poppy had suspected, she’d been placed in one the prison that bordered the docks, meaning they didn’t have a long walk. 

The humid air seemed to cling to Poppy’s skin. She and Jaspar kept to the shadows, which were deepened by the obscured moon. Winters in Xegalla were mild compared to Aecheral, where she’d grown up. She didn’t miss the constant bundling up just to walk outside, nor did she miss the extremes of the summer heat that left the cities parched.

Griff’s current headquarters were located on the upper floor of the bar his wife ran. The Midnight Palace. Poppy hid behind Jaspar as they slipped between the patrons occupying the tables. Most were gamblers, but there was always the occasional man seeking something more. 

Not to mention the other assassins she would have to avoid once they discovered she was working outside of the faction. 

“Griff is in his office,” Jaspar informed her, his eyes devoid of pity. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” Poppy murmured, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants one last time. “I hope you win at the tables.” 

Jaspar nodded in acknowledgement and then disappeared, leaving Poppy alone with her thoughts. Should she pretend to be innocent? Come clean but explain her situation? Lie and say someone else dragged her into it? She had to hope Griff would be sympathetic, but a cold-blooded killer like him wouldn’t care for pity, would they? 

Her knuckles rapped on the wooden door of Griff’s study, her fingers trembling.

“Come in.” An order to be obeyed, spoken in a monotone whisper. There weren’t choices when it came to Griff, only obedience or death. The golden knob seemed cold enough to freeze her fingers as she turned it. 

Griff’s face was a mask devoid of emotion and Poppy sucked in a breath, anticipating his disappointed stare. “Please, have a seat.” 

So polite, so formal. Poppy took a seat at the desk across from Griff, allowing her eyes to wander anywhere but him. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dusty volumes and odd trinkets. Behind Griff hung a painting of the Fates, stolen from a noble estate by Griff’s the best thieves in the faction. The desk itself was covered in more stolen treasures, including golden pens, a tiny candle that glowed with emerald flame, and a portrait of Griff, his wife, and Jaspar. 

Of course, Griff’s appearance didn’t match the one in the picture. His Grace of Deceit - bestowed by the Fate Medea - allowed him to change his features, which he did. Often. 

“Poppy,” he murmured. “What am I ever going to do with you?” 

She bit out the words before he could continue. “I’m sorry. I … I don’t expect you to understand.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to discuss with you,” Griff noted. Poppy watched the way his fingers folded politely on the desk. His current form was paler than what he normally opted for. 

“I have a guess.” 

Griff chuckled to himself and the sound loosened some of the knots in Poppy’s stomach. “Oh, Poppy, it’s a good thing that I like you. If you were anyone else, I would have dumped you on the streets long ago.” 

It wasn’t a compliment, but … from Griff it was the best Poppy could get. 

“How much do you know?” she found herself asking, dipping her gaze to her hands in her lap. 

“Enough,” he responded curtly. “You’ve made good progress on your indenture, Poppy. Why did you seek help elsewhere?” 

Because I have a family waiting for me. Because I hate this life you’ve chosen for me. Because soon isn’t soon enough. She struggled to find the right words. “I guess I just thought I could make a little extra coin.”

She dared a look upwards and watched Griff’s brow wrinkle. “Are our services not enough for you?”

“I just want out of here,” she answered honestly. 

“As does everyone else,” Griff replied. Poppy hated how logical he could be. How he made it impossible for anyone to hate him. It was the reason he still ran the faction, despite his ‘retirement’ from the dirty jobs. “What entitles you to extra jobs?”

“Healing doesn’t come for free,” she bit out. 

Griff nodded. “Indeed. I suppose I should have seen that coming. In the future, I will see that you are rewarded for healing my men. Nevertheless, there will still be a punishment. You went against my orders, Poppy. And while there was no harm done this time, who knows what could occur should you - or anyone else - be captured again?” 

She hung her head, fiery waves of her hair spilling into her vision. Poppy had known she wouldn’t get off the hook so easily, but a small part of her had hoped for Griff’s mercy. 

“I could take a finger, or a hand,” mused Griff. Poppy was careful not to flinch, holding her muscles still and her expression unaffected. “Hmm. You’ve only lived here for a few years, correct?”

She nodded once. Fates, please don’t add years to my indenture. 

“Have you heard of the Tournament of Fates, Poppy?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, dread draping over her shoulders as she realized where Griff was going. 

“The Tournament of Fates, or the Graced Games, happen every five years,” Griff continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “This year, they are offering 250,000 marks for the team that can prove their skill as Graced. I’d heard you were planning to participate.”

She should have been more subtle in begging for other assassins to join her team. Of course Griff knew she was out for the money. Griff knew everything. 

“I think it would be an adequate punishment to bar you from entering the Graced Games, don’t you think?”

Poppy’s lip quivered. She could picture her family anxiously waiting for her return, and allowing them to wait an extra few years seemed cruel. Never had an ocean away seemed so far. These games could pay for my passage home, she reminded herself even as she agreed, “Of course.”

Griff nodded solemnly. “Then it is decided. Poppy, you will not be allowed to participate in the Graced Games as one of my fighters. You are free to go.”

Poppy practically leapt to her feet, eager to escape to the relative peace of her apartment where she could mourn her loss of money in peace. Her hand had just grazed the door as Griff called out again. “Oh, and Poppy? If you ever disobey me again, I won’t hesitate to take one of your fingers, if not your life.” 

Author's Note

One of my worst skills in writing are first lines and opening scenes, so let me know what you think. I'm pretty excited for this story - especially for the multiple POVs from very intricate characters. Poppy is one of five protagonists for this story, but when I was planning it I actually ended up switching ideas halfway through so if there's anything confusing (plot points that don't match up throughout the story), just leave me a note and I'll fix it. Thanks, and happy reading!

Reviews

[JayG]

• One of my worst skills in writing are first lines and opening scenes,

Naa. In fact, it’s not a matter of skill. It’s knowledge. Think back to school. Did a single teacher cover the three things we need to address on entering any scene? How about Motivation/Response Units and Scene and Sequel technique? No?

Did even one spend a single moment on why a scene on the page is so different from one on stage and screen, or, what the elements of a scene are?

My point? How can you write a scene if you don’t truly know what it is, or how to manage the parts of one, like the short-term scene-goal? Hell, they don’t even touch on why scenes end in disaster for the protagonist, and that's critical.

You, like everyone else, are suffering from what I call, The Great Misunderstanding. We learned a skill our teachers called writing. And not once did they tell us that all the reports and essays we were assigned were to train us in the kind of writing that most employers need from us: Nonfiction. Its goal is to provide information, so its methodology is to report and explain, via a narrator who talks TO the reader. It has all the excitement of a history book. Fact follows fact, presented in overview and synopsis. And, if you write fiction using that skill it has all the excitement of a history book.

Problem is, you’ll not see the problem, because for you it will always work. But you cheat. Before you read the first word you have context for who we are, where we are, and what’s going on. And, you have intent guiding your understanding. The reader? They have only the emotion that punctuation suggests. They have the meaning that the words suggest to them, based on their background, not your intent. See the problem?

One really good editing technique is to have the computer read the story to you. That picks up awkward phrasing and missing punctuation really well. It’s part of my final editing before any novel is released.

To see how much your perception of the story diverges from the readers, look at the opening as a reader must:

• Poppy survived on stolen lives.

What can this mean to the reader who doesn’t yet know where we are in time and space, what’s going on, or, whose skin we wear? It’s not a bad line, if we acquire context for it, as the actual story begins.

• Becoming an assassin hadn’t exactly been her first choice of a lifestyle, but it kept her alive and that was what mattered.

This might be meaningful to you, who know the situation, but I’m not an assassin, and I stay alive. And what does “not exactly” mean? And how is being an assassin a “lifestyle.” I was an engineer for forty-plus years, but it didn’t define my lifestyle. And we still haven’t started the story, because this is you, talking about things unrelated to the opening scene.

• Besides, she might have even considered herself good at it.

You just told the reader that she wasn’t good at it. Because if she “Might” have considered herself good at it, she clearly didn’t. Not what you meant to say, but it is what you told the reader.

• “Look, either you let me out of this cell or I’ll steal your keys off of you and do it myself,” Poppy sighed,

Try to sigh words. You can’t do it. But it’s what you said she did. We can’t say, “You know what I mean" to a reader because they don’t.

And seriously, won’t someone who’s told what she said make sure the person can’t? You’re having your characters say and do things for dramatic effect. That doesn’t work because in the real world she wouldn’t be dumb enough to warn him—or be able to do it. You're also talking as if the reader knows her world. But they don't.

• “Take off your mask and maybe we’ll consider it,” retorted a soldier clad in gold.

So the man is wearing plates of gold? It's what you said. But assume the reader understands you mean a gold uniform. Who cares? Would the story change were it black? No, And the reader can't see it, so why bother?

And: Someone has been taken prisoner and placed in a cell and they don’t remove a mask? No one would do that, if for no other reason than to see if her face was one they recognized.

Again, you’re moving your characters like board pieces, not living characters who will respond to the situation. That cannot work.

But of more importance, this cannot work as fiction, because it’s a transcription of you telling the story. That works in person, because the storyteller’s performance substitutes for that of the actors in the film version. But how much of your performance makes it to the page? Who, other then you, knows how you want the words read?

In the film version we have sight working for us, and in an eyeblink's time know where we are, what’s going on, how many characters are in sight, the ambience of the scene, and a lot more, including everyone’s voice and the soundscape.

In the storyteller’s performance we have what I call the storyteller’s dance: gesture, body language, eye movement and expression change. We have the storyteller’s voice, the emotion in it, the changes in intensity and tempo, and more. But not the smallest trace of that makes the page.

And unlike a performance, our medium is serial, so everything must be spelled out, one item at a time. But given that a picture is truly worth a thousand words, that means four standard manuscript pages to give the reade what can be seen, most of it being ignored by the characters.

What that means, in practical terms, is that we must drastically restructure the presentation, and take the reader where film and stage can’t: into the head of the protagonist. We make the reader know the situation as the protagonist does, and as that person evaluates and reacts. We place the reader into that tiny slice of time the protagonist calls “now.” Why? Because the reader learns what’s said and done first, because they read about it before they learn what the protagonist does and says.

What that means is that we-react-first. And if we don’t respond the protagonist does, we’re going to argue with the character…and stop reading. But if we, as writers, make the reader respond as-the-character, then when the character reacts we’ll feel as if they’re listening to us, and nod in approval. We'll also have a personal interest in the character's success.

But how much time did your teachers spend on that? None, right? And that’s my point. It’s not that your skills are lacking, it’s that at the moment, you have the WRONG skills. So it’s not about how well you write, or your talent, it’s that your talent is untrained. And I can help with that.

First, the thing no one ever told you: our goal. As E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” Doing that, we show the reader the protagonist’s life by placing them into it, in real-time, and in a way that makes the reader feel as if time is passing for them at the same rate it does for their avatar, the protagonist. That’s critical. We get the narrator off stage and into the prompter’s box. Done right, if someone swings at the protagonist the reader ducks.

And here’s the best part. Using the skills of fiction we’re forced to mentally live the scene as-the-protagonist, thinking as that character does, and having the same forces driving us. Bound by the character’s knowledge, personality, and background, we live the story. And when what we want our protagonist to do isn’t what that character sees as in their interest, we either change the situation to make them want to do it, or rethink our protagonist’s resources and personality. Doing that, though, is chancy, because it may change the character’s reaction to previous events, meaning we need go back and rethink that. And that may be a no-win situation.

So where to begin? My suggestion is to pick up the basics via a book on technique, before digging into style and character development issues. The library’s fiction-writing section is a great resource. Personally? I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found, to date, at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Give it a look. After a chapter or three I’m betting you’ll be saying, “But that’s so…how could I have missed so many obvious things?”

And if an overview would help, the writing articles in my WordPress blog are based on what you’ll find in such a book.

So…I now you were hoping for a very different response. But since we’ll not address the problem we don’t see as being one, and you did ask, I thought you'd want to know.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/