Hey Hugh, that’s really excellent work - looking forward to having a go at it. I wonder if we’ll see new generations of guide-writers appearing as the books continue to release - I certainly hope so. It’s just a small thing but I wanted to do something nice to say thank you, to you and the others who’ve written guides since the first book was published:
Edit: (The original was removed from youtube twice for hate speech, so here is an alternate source.)
I wondered if it wasn’t quite challenging for an author to create such emotively distressing words and characters. I imagine the use of fictional terms and atypical vernacular helps to create some distance, but as seen in two of the examples above that isn’t always possible. On your next post would you be willing to do a short writeup of your experiences with regards to that aspect of the writing process of the books please?
This is a very tragic character
Your father hissed at you to stop wailing before someone asked the matter.
Your mother often protested sharply at his hard-heartedness, but that would only drive him into a fury. “This is exactly the sort of ‘kindness’ to the helotry that will spoil them, wife. And it’s bloody dangerous! It’s as if she’s apologizing for the Harrowing. What does she expect will happen once they begin to take that idea seriously?”
“We’ll just see how long they let her keep it up,” your father growled. “It’s not an Ecclesiast’s job to hand out sweetmeats and weep at Harrowings.” He leaned in toward your mother, breaking into a thin, unreturned smile. “I’ll wager with you, wife. Your friend the priest: you think the nobles will have her removed, or will they wait till the Hegemony gets round to it?”
“Don’t ask questions,” your father snapped. “And you just keep your distance from her.”
Under your kyrtle, the last ghostly bruises from your father’s thrashing were finally beginning to fade.
Your father caught you easily and struck you across the face. “No more cheek from you. I said, what’s happened?”
As so often, your silence sparked his fury. He seized both your shoulders and shook you until you felt dizzy and sick.
He swayed slightly, as if he were drunk, or simply hadn’t slept in a month. Grieving your mother, you’d heard people murmur. More likely, he was just so used to lying awake thinking of ways to win arguments or wear her down that he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop.
His face went ashy, then darkened again. “You impudent whelp!” The other helots around you jumped back to a safe distance. “Defy me to my face? You…you dare?”
Your father lunged across the table and cuffed you sharply on the head. “None of that, damn it. You’ll heed me on this.”
After a long silence, he finally rasped, “They’ll come in the morning. They’ll come to us all. And I’ll tell them that you couldn’t possibly be the one they’re looking for.” You heard his knife snick free, felt it begin to hack off your hair in the ugly, unfamiliar cut you would be wearing for the next three years. “Because I thrashed you within an inch of your life today. So bad you couldn’t even walk to the ditch to pass your bloody piss, let alone to the wineroom. And they’ll come to look. And they’ll see it’s true. They won’t even recognize your face, for the bruises.”
When you saw your father just outside the doorway, you were so distraught that you actually ran straight to him, sobbing, arms outstretched. He looked up in customary irritation, a caustic remark forming on his lips.
“Don’t you quote your mother at me.”
Your father stared at you, aghast, then lashed out with an open hand. “I don’t want to ever hear such Xaos from your lips again. No helot is ever innocent in such matters.”
Your father’s face instantly darkened with rage. “What did I tell you about questions?” Fighting not to cry, you raised your hands to protect your head.
Your sullen tone sets your father scowling. "Think I won’t thrash you at a Harrowing, girl? Just wait till I get you home.
Your father just cuffed you too, hard enough to make your ears ring.
You’ve never seen your father looking so undone. This is the nightmare at which he hinted so many times: the hour when Xaos prevails, the chattel turn cutthroats, and all Order is swept away.
“What have you done?” he whispers. You’ve never seen such a fearful, unfocused look in his eyes before today. “Foolish child, what lunacy possessed you? We’ve lost everything—everything.”
Your father is the first to look away, and when he speaks again, his voice is thin and tremorous. “Curse your own father. Add disgrace to disgrace. Why not? I have sired a madwoman. You rave about toppling the Hegemony, but all you have done is banish me from my home and condemn me to death, along with every helot here.”
A frantic note has entered your father’s voice. “And all because of your damned pride! All because you’ve always thought you were wiser than the Theurges and stronger than the Hegemony.”
Your father cackles madly for a moment, then pulls the blade from its sheath and hurls it at you. “I knew you’d be back for it, you poltroon,” he howls as you dodge the clumsy throw. “What next—the shirt from my back? Will you expose your father’s nakedness before this herd of swine?”
Your father, of course, looks like he’s about to choke on his own bile.
“You want me to go begging? To helots?” he sputters. “Xthonos’ Eyes! Is there no bottom to the shame you’ll inflict on this family?”
“Force me?” he snaps, eyes bulging slightly, all tenderness gone. “Did you ever dream that you could, you unnatural little beast?”
For his part, your father looks apoplectic. He catches you later, just before camp-breaking. “What…what shame and madness…what crime against your House…”
“But what’s going to be left when you’re done?” he demands. “Will there be a Shayard worth having? How much damage are you going to do before they finally pour Theurges and Alastors into these hills and crush us?”
“You kidnapped a noble?” your father sputters from the entry flap.
Then he turns a savagely shining eye to you. “My own luck with marriage was worse. More than twice as long, for still but a single fruit. And a rotten one at that.”
Your father scowls and shakes his head bitterly.
Quiet, thoughtful Ganelon, who might have been your closest friend but for your father’s hatred.
When the news is widely known, your father bursts in on you, white-eyed with outrage. “You idiot girl—what are you thinking? You’ve just ensured that Conte Phrygia will throw everything she has against us.”
Your father takes a step back, draws himself up to his full height. His voice quavers as he demands, “Now, you take care, girl. You just take good Xthon’damned care how you talk to me, and what you think you’re saying.”
You’d thought you knew how fast your father could move; maybe it’s just that he hasn’t dared lay a hand to you in so long. But before you know it, his fists are clenched in your kyrtle collar, his breath seething on your face. “My child’s been dead these twenty-one years, girl. You’re the one that should never have been.”
Your father drives on, savage and shrill. “Your mother was a worthless bit of meat.”
His eyes are dry and bulging now, but his voice comes in sobs. “I wish I’d strangled you in your cot.”
“I was the hope of our House! The last of the name!” His howl rocks him up on his toes, as if drawing force from his whole body. “Every day my mother reminded me of that burden. When I did aught to shame the name, she’d stripe me for it. And I passed it on to you—a hope that you never cared a whit for. Traitor, ingrate, familicide. You’re your mother’s child, you careless, weakling harpy. I’ll have none of you!”
Your father’s eyes widen; something in what you’ve said has struck home. “You murderous whelp…you dare to stand in judgment on…” he begins, trying to regain his fury.
Your father’s lips twist into a bloodless snarl. “If there’s any justice in the world, you’ll be Slow-Harrowed before the leaves change. You’ll die as long and hard as the worst murderer in Shayard. And I’m just sorry I’ll be dead in these woods so I won’t be there to see it.”
“Xthonos wither your loins and gall your blood, you helot-consorting filth.”
“You mewling, insinuating little parasite!” he barks. “How dare you suggest that I might be party to this manner of blasphemous crime?”
