Going to be putting some world building tidbits in here and there as work continues apace on my 'Solve For Hex' series from #campnanowrimo...

'Augustus Simulacrum'

These Elemental-crafted mechanisms are magical artifacts used by the rulers of the fantasy-EEE (Edwardian Era Earth) of my stories to maintain their control over the continuum, despite the indisputable evidence that their usage is increasing instability and uncertainty in the fundamental levels of Alternity. Nevertheless, scientific advances are deemed the best defense against perceived threats to the sovereign powers of the world by unsanctioned rogue magicians. The false narrative maintained by the corporate religious state which promotes a hierarchical birthright government is that only the divinely ordained are worthy of authority status. The truth of the matter is that all sentient beings have the ability to manipulate reality (i.e; 'cast spells') by virtue of the presence of the Divine Spark within themselves. Augustus Simulacrum are merely machinery, albeit powerful, that enable one to achieve great mastery over the continuum without the usual methods of progressive self-discipline necessary to achieve the inner stasis points required for the optimal transmutation of a given set of physical principles.

First time doing this; absolutely blundering about as usual! I read something along the lines of character intros and haunted houses so here goes...

'The Greyhound' was one of those buildings that had weathered the coarse passages of time far better than any amongst its long procession of tenants. The current proprietor, Edmund Huckstep, pleasantly surprised upon personal inspection to find that the old coaching inn he had acquired at debtor's auction in London to be in such prime condition, forewent the anticipated extensive repairs and began at once to plan for his renovations.

Once bypassed and forgotten by the era of railroad and steam, Huckstep foresaw the location of the property in the middling fens as being indispensable to the expansion of his chain of hostelries in the coming age of motorcars and petrol. He had noted with particular fondness the fine quality of the Egyptian Revival-style stucco murals that were carefully painted on the roadside facing brick facade. These depicted the building's namesake, coursing greyhounds at the chase. It was quite remarkable how well preserved they were, considering that the artist had undoubtedly been deceased for upwards of a century.

My thoughts about novels is that most of them are not- novel, that is. Now, every writer need never devote their lives into creating entire histories and languages before a single paragraph of story in order to create something new- the real craft, I believe, is in knowing your audience well enough to tell them a story in a way no one ever has before. The main task of a writer then becomes to immerse oneself in the genres that they themselves are best read in, and then translate those stories into their own wording in such a way that it reaches as broad of an audience as possible. To that end, I believe the best novels come from a writer well-versed in several genres and who is able to relate a cohesive storyline that has appeal and common interest on as many intersecting levels of character, plot and theme as possible in order to deeply engage readers.

Bobbin Sith had never been one to trifle with or dismiss easily, so Aardsteen had to tread lightly. "Supposing I were to consider this offer," he said, in a convincingly grudging-yet-yielding voice. He gathered all the tea things into an accessibility pouch, then added, "Apologies for the haste, but I've just remembered a meeting at the Divinity School to discuss the autumn curriculum. If yourselves are agreeable to come by my chambers to discuss this further; shall we say tomorrow evening about six?" Their features remained as unreadable as passing clouds at this, and Aardsteen readied his silencer chime so as to be able to blunt the banshee keen.

"We shall have your answer tomorrow at vespers," they intoned after a long moment, and then to the Pygmy's relief the assassin vanished in an iridescent shimmer of diaphanous wings and silken shift.

"They will," the Sylph whispered, "because the days when a Human need not depend upon magicians are swift upon us. The day when humanity no longer requires an Elemental's services need never arrive."

Aardsteen considered what they had said. True enough, the magic bans handed down the previous night by Parliament had hardly come as a surprise. But to leave his beloved Magdalen College and be bound to one such as Hamilton? Perchance, another way might be found that would allow him to remain? And then, he swiftly rose from the table as the realization that there was literally the ghost of a chance came suddenly to mind. He had to be both quick of sleight and tongue to shake loose the Sylph for some space and time, and then fortunate enough to catch up with an old friend that had quite the knack for divination. All of this assumed, of course, that John Ruskin's spirit could be roused for a chat.

Bobbin's ghostly eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment at Aardsteen's mention of the laird of some of the Black Country's most notorious collieries. "Our masters are building a new world, Saan," they mused, "a new world where ever-multiplying machinery will have taken precedence over the ever-dwindling dweomers of our kind. Consider the Salamanders: do you suppose the artificers of the hive minds willingly remain in service; albeit as apprentices, to these vast behemoths of iron and steam, when the alternative is to slowly cool and grey as the spark of ether within us all grows dim?"

"Really, Bobbin, it has been tremendous seeing you out and about again," said Aardsteen, trying not to let too much sarcasm drip into his voice as he posed the Sylph a questioning prompt. "Am I to gather that there is some matter with which yourselves had wished to speak to me about, or are you come here merely on holiday from Lanarkshire?"

"Aahhh...the same snarky Gnome I remember so well," they breezily replied, with enough of an arch to their misty brows to let Aardsteen know he'd drawn them out. "Consider this little chat a professional courtesy...one Elemental to another. Needless to say, your recent empirical article in the alchemical society journals regarding the quiddity of coal attracted a great deal of interest from my current benefactor. We came here today to gauge your interest in also securing employ with our patron."

Aardsteen kept his craggy features as still as possible as his mind congratulated himself on remembering the Sith's homesite. All Elementals, even the ones as deeply rooted in the Prime Material as he, were nonetheless bound by place and time to the intersection of planes that allowed them to traverse the realms of being. Control over those sites by a summoner meant control over the summoned; and, like it or not, all Elementals were bound in service to varying degrees. Aardsteen decided to play another hunch. With barely a glance up from his half-finished breakfast he calmly said, "Inform Lord Hamilton I will consider his proposal."

As far as a planning process goes for my storytelling, there really isn't one at all, to be dead nuts honest. What more or less happens is I start to get this really agitated feeling; it isn't a good or a bad it's a restlessness, like there's something really important on my mind but I can't for the life of me think what it might be. So I go about my business doing whatever it is I need to be doing, trying to not think about that itchy restlessness and then something happens; I read something in the papers or I overhear some conversation on the street or I have some oddball daydream and it's like the tumblers on a combination safe somewhere in my subconscious just click into place and the vault door swings open and inside are all these pieces of an idea; they've been there all along but for whatever reason they're not isolated fragments and broken pieces of unrelated ideas anymore, suddenly they have cohesion and connectivity so I start to put the pieces together. Idk if that's a helpful answer or not but that's how it works for me. I'm honestly glad I don't have to make a living as a creative artist; I have literally no idea when or where the muse strikes.

All that being said, the next steps past that initial inspiration burst depends on what just struck me. As I start to put flesh on the bone, so to speak, I do have these wonderful bags and boxes full of composition books dating back decades as sort of a tried-and-true reference work on myself, haha. These are all the little dialogues, scenes, sketches, vignettes etc. that I went on my rant about earlier. They're not particularly organized but I do keep coming back to several meta themes again and again which is very useful for focusing concepts- that's the beginning phase of development for me, trying to figure out what it is I want the reader to be thinking about when they have finished with my work. Structurally, my job from there is the building of the medium that will most effectively communicate the essence of that message. Whether the story eventually turns into an essay, novel, play, poem or song really depends on how much of that restlessness remains of what I felt before the lightning strike. The residual levels of that feeling dictates whether the end product is a hundred word drabble or the footers of a bridge arching to something much more. At the moment I seem to be really juiced about this historical fantasy I've been working on; it started out as nothing more than a tirade against government intervention in the 21st century educational system and within three weeks metamorphosed into an ongoing series of novels set in Edwardian England. Go figure 🙂

Aardsteen swallowed hard on his forkful of ratafia. He took a long pull at the tankard of black tea on the table in front of him with his right hand; underneath his left felt for the entangler crystal he kept in an accessibility pouch sewn into his trousers, hoping there was still enough spin cast into it if things began to take a turn for the worse.

"Hello yourselves, Bobbin. What a delightful surprise! I trust all of you have been well since the Houses voted to have Newgate Prison demolished?"

The jab drew the expected response he had intended, as the Air Elemental let out a sharp hiss from between their bloodless lips, which then wispily curled into a burlesque of a sneer.

"How thoughtful of you to recall our recent incarceration, Professor", they curtly replied. "Doubtless, happy memories of those halcyon days spent camping along the Orange River are never far from your mind on summer mornings."

Aardsteen choked back the rage that instantly rose in his throat at the mention of those disease-ridden death camps that he and the rest of the defeated Afrikaaners had been herded into after the war. The Sith assassin had been summoned to send him a message, and so he needed to hear what they said- and then deduce who the conjuror was, and why.

The introduction to Upton Sinclair's 'Cry For Justice' by Jack London- a seminal work on social protest and well worth a read to all those who value labour

Aardsteen sat down on a landing overlooking the flood-meadow at a public punting launch to enjoy breakfast amid the last few wraiths of river fog. A reach into his satchel of holding produced a fine porcelain plate and kettle as well as a brass service set of knife, mug, and fork. "No sense in deprivation despite the magic bans", he mused, taking a look about to ensure no one had paid particular attention.

"Fancy the company of a fellow Elemental?" The words left a faint ringing in the air like wind chimes in a freshening breeze, and then the wisps of curling mist gradually resolved into a ghostly and pallid form. A Sylph hovered above the bridge across from where he sat. "Hullo, Saan", they whispered.

The street seller fetched his requests all together in a neat packet for the Gnome, snipping a tiger lily and dropping it into his lapel. "For your belly and your buttonhole, sir...Brandy Brae is the name and a pleasure it was you came this way!" She had a bright, lilting musical voice which he found rather charming, and considered the 5s well spent.

"Likewise a pleasure, Miss Brae; I am Saan Aardsteen, soon to be ex-Professor of the Departments of Alchemy and Transmutation...a most pleasant morning to you as well!", he called back gaily to her, as he raised his stovepipe and continued on down High Street to the bridge.

He stood up from the desk, stretched out to his full three and-a-half foot frame and decided to go for a stroll to clear his head. All the wildflower colours blooming amongst the bracken down by River Cherwell would be just the counterpoint to the glum thoughts crowding about in his mind, Aardsteen decided, and donning a favourite walking suit he headed out of his chambers and down the main stairwell of Magdalen Tower. As he went out the front door, a few beams of sunlight broke through the scuddy clouds and lit up the High Street gates.

"Nice bit o' summer to warm you right here, guv." This from a young woman selling biscuits, hot tea, and fresh cut flowers from a pull cart stall she had set up just off the cobblestone's curb. "Right you are on that score, miss", replied Aardsteen, already feeling the better for having gotten out of doors and away from his attic offices. He rummaged about in his trouser pockets for a moment and fished out a silver crown. "A few of those almond ratafias, a pint of straight black and a cheery bloom will do quite nicely", then added with an impious grin, "and as I am on the brink of losing my position, good woman, keep the change as well as my thanks for brightening up an otherwise gloomy summer morn."

'The summering morn has lost much of her lustre for me this day, as news breaks across campus that the star chamber which masquerades as royal court has passed a series of edicts in the dark of night this past moon. My fellow professors and I had hoped that the Lords Mercantile could be persuaded to exercise their titled rights on our behalf to stand against the tyranny of the Lords Bishopric, but that hope has proven to be a vain one at the last.'

'As these proclamations now read, it will be upon the threatened pains of imprisonment or state exile that I continue in my role as chaired instructor of alchemy and transmutation here at this beloved university, as theocratic bigotry at the highest levels of authority across the land now deem mine, as well as other certain branches of the liberal arts of magic, not only unworthy of academic pursuit but of actual threat to the sovereignty of our nation, and heresy against the Crown itself.'

Aardsteen set the Leonardt dip pen back in its copper holder, pushed back from the secretaire and rubbed his eyes with thick brown knuckles. "To whom in the Nine Shades am I writing this?", he said aloud to himself. "And who will listen to a Pygmy?"

Sharing a work in progress this summer; any and all comments most welcome. Thematically, I am trying to portray what goes through the mind of the professor of an advanced study curriculum attempting to prepare for the coming semester, when the governing body of said professor's institution has banned all the tried and true modes of instruction in that very subject, solely on the theocratic whims of an authoritarian ruler. Note to those unfamiliar with this Tumblr: I use AI generative art in my posts, but as a means of firing up the inner wordsmith, and never to compete with other visual artists. The working title is 'Solve For Hex'. Class, proceed to the great task remaining before us 🙂