Colton's Dieselpunk Thingy

Alright, it's been noticed before that I like to reuse settings. For NaNo, I've been trying some experimentation.

Basically, I'm looking for both how character backstories pull the story together, as well as the worldbuilding itself.

Here's the link to the document.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mZq9FoaH9-jkO3MYuhyVOa4nVn48HL1J12QL6YTvsHM/edit

My question is more a request. At the end of the document is several characters. I'm looking for backstory ideas on them. Likewise, I'm just looking for feedback on worldbuilding, technology, or even other characters you think would be awesome.

Three if by Air

Alright, here is the next piece I'm working on turning in for Writers of the Futre. I wish that I had gotten it on here more recently, but I've been sort of busy and kep forgetting. Well here it is. Some of you might already have it, and some of you might not. Either way, here is the first bit of it, so let me know. I'm not looking for any sort of specific feedback, just overall thoughts, typos, plot holes, etc.

Three if by Air

One if by land, two if by sea, three if by air. I repeated the mantra until it became a meaningless drone in my head. There was nothing special about this litany, yet the words danced across my mind like a catchy tavern tune. My eyes darted from the North Church, to the HMAS Somerset moored above Boston Harbor, to the deserted streets of Boston itself. The only illumination originated from the airship’s deck lamps where sentries watched from their lofty perch for the few brave souls who dared to break General Gage’s curfew.

Brave or foolhardy. Paul Revere claimed his signal would occur the moment he had an answer. I doubted his plan would proceed that simply. Light the lanterns, and cross the bay, Madeline. We’ll be out before the lobsters know what’s happening. A daring sentiment considering Gage’s standing order to shoot anyone suspected of running messages out of the city. I remained wary all the same. My job was just to hold the iron horse while he crossed. Doctor Warren’s orders on behalf of the Committee of Public Safety. Paul was the more reliable rider, so he got the hard work. Me? I got paid either way.

I glanced to the silent machine. It looked as much like a horse as a doll looked like a baby. The legs, head and body held a similar position and orientation, but regular horses weren’t filled with steel joints, hydraulic pistons, and covered in exhaust vents protruding from every angle. The animal—the machine—was still as a statue, not similar to a real horse in the slightest.

A dog in Boston barked, and I flinched, my eyes flickering towards the church. No signal. What’s taking so long? By the time on my chronometer, the Regulars should have begun their march fifteen minutes ago. Paul’s contacts in the Regulars were reliable enough to confirm that information. General Gage had given orders to leave Boston tonight. They intended on heading to Lexington, most likely to arrest the Patriot leaders there.

Most had since fled the city. If the gossip was to be believed, John Hancock, my former employer, as well as fiery Samuel Adams hid somewhere nearby to coordinate resistance, but I couldn’t confirm that rumor. No one ever told me anything. War is not a woman’s business. How many other women have risen to helmsman on a merchant ship? Fought in a duel with three men at once and won? Not damn many.

The HMAS Somerset lit up, interrupting my diatribe. The decklights on the airship created a new star in the night. Men called to each other, each an unintelligible vocalization coming from far above. My eyes went to the church. Nothing. Did they see Paul? His crossing might not go unnoticed.
I shifted uncomfortably where I stood at the edge of Charleston. A person out at night with an iron horse, an illegal piece of machinery, would raise eyebrows. A woman out an night with an iron horse demanded an explanation. I stilled my breathing to listen as the lights and voices dulled away. No, just the changing of the guard. I sighed in relief.

One if by land, two if by sea, three if by air. The mantra relaxed me for some reason. Any of those choices were likely. The Regulars might take the land route, or they might cross the harbor. Either meant Lion Knights. The great mechanical-armored Regulars would be slow moving, but would have the momentum of a runaway wagon. Nothing would stop them.

But if the Regulars traveled by air, they’d arrive at their destination and meet no resistance, having left the ground bound militia behind. The iron horses were there in that event. They ate fuel like a Hessian at dinnertime, but when comparing their speed to a dirigible’s, the dirigible might as well be at a standstill.

Revere’s signal occurred with such subtlety, that in my focused state I almost missed it. A light in the tower. Another. Then a third. The lights lasted half a heartbeat. The Regulars would move by air. That left me waiting for Paul. His favor, owed to him from a year back.
I paced back and forth, trying to busy my mind and stop worrying. Other riders would already be leaving from the city. William Dawes, Paul’s partner in crime had no doubt left from southern Boston. He was but one of several insurance policies against the Regular’s intervening in our warnings. The signal from the tower was a beacon to several other riders in nearby villages to begin the warning. They already must be well on their way out.

Voices came again from the Somerset. In the darkness, I spied movement on the airship’s railing. Another changing of the guard? Fear crept up like a lion stalking its prey. The Somerset’s foglights still lay unmanned, but there was movement on deck. Hand-held blue gas lamps shifted from position to position marking the movement of the watchmen.

Hurry it up, Paul. I watched the opposite shore for any signs of the man. The glows still moved about the deck above me, but I couldn’t make out their activities. Another voice called out, the wind carrying it to my ears as an incomprehensible whisper.

I heard a splash, too powerful to be a wave, too light to be unintentional. I locked onto the opposite shoreline. Another splash. A tiny brown shape slowly manifested into a lone figure riding low in a boat. Paul Revere. He sat alone in the small boat, accompanied by nothing else but the wind and the silence of the night.

From my vantage point his direction of travel suggested a landing a half-mile to the north. I grabbed the dangling harness of the iron horse and pulled. It fell into step behind me with slave-like obedience.

Anxiety fluttered inside me like a bee inside a jar. I’d misjudged Paul’s landing. The current was pulling Paul farther north. Right towards the Somerset. His flurried attempts to correct his course showed he wasn’t oblivious to the danger. He plunged his oars in, each stroke pushing him farther from the imposing airship.

The foglights on the Somerset exploded into life. If the earlier lights were a new star, this was a new sun. The cascades of illumination began to scope out the bay, highlighting every part of the harbor. Relax; they might be just performing a random sweep in the bay for smugglers. I knew this wasn’t the case. Just a little further. They hadn’t spotted Paul yet.

Despite his efforts, Paul drifted closer and closer to the shadow of the airship. The spotlights roamed the water, each a predator looking for prey. Revere stilled and dropped into the boat, freezing as the lights crept closer. I held my breath. The lights slinked by fewer than ten feet from where Paul sat.

Then they were gone, off to explore other parts of the bay. Paul dipped the oars into the murky water. I looked at the iron horse, and missed what happened next. One minute he was rowing across the bay and the next, he floundered about in the water next to his capsized boat.

Before I could move, the foglights were back, each an eye from heaven glaring down at Paul, now within fifteen feet of the shoreline. Their intent was clear. The rata-tat of the repeating rifles mounted on the deck of the Somerset drowned out Paul’s frantic attempts to stay afloat. I bolted for the water’s edge, abandoning the iron horse.

The lights spotted me as well, but I welcomed their gaze. Each glow brightened my path to the shore and Paul. The guns continued to howl out terrifying bursts that rocketed both water and dirt into the air, splattering me with both. I arrived just as Paul floundered onto shore, looking more like a drowned jester than a drowned rat. He collapsed but my arms shot out, grabbing him to stop his fall. Without waiting for him to speak, I gripped him under the shoulders, and dragged him to the woods. The strength to pull him came surprisingly easy, no doubt due to the adrenaline coursing through my body. Bullets continued to spray around us, yet by some miracle, none hit us. As I came into the canopy, the shots tapered off, leaving the sounds of shouting from the Somerset to fill the air.

As I dragged, I laughed aloud, as I couldn’t help but think of what my father would say. Grabbing a man and dragging him into the woods? That wasn’t how he had raised his only daughter. I’d been the mistress to the Marquis Caulaincourt a decade ago, and was now on British controlled colonies, working with the Colonials. He’d die of heart failure when he heard.
The thought of my blustery old father collapsing was humorous, but the mirth faded as I considered my situation. Ground troops would arrive any moment and mirth would be the last emotion on their mind.

I gently set Paul down next to several red maples. He groaned as I patted him down and my hands came away red. I wiped them across the trees, while I thought. Shot, at least twice. For all my various skills, I did not count medicine or surgery among them. Charleston had a doctor. But I can’t take him there. That’s the first place the Regulars would look. They’d find him immediately, and haul him back to jail for questioning. If he survives the night.

“Madeline…” Paul gasped.

“Stay silent, you’ll be fine,” I said.

“You’re a lousy liar. I can’t finish this now. You take the horse.”

“Nonsense. You need a doctor, man.”

I tore off a section of his shirt, and wrapped it around the bullet wound in his lower torso. I knew I needed to bandage his wounds, but beyond that, I was unsure what needed to be done.

“Damn it, girl. You can’t do anything for me now. Every minute you waste—” his words cut short as he coughed like a plague victim.

“Fine, I’ll do it, just stay still and—“

He cleared his throat. “Get out of here. I’m calling in another favor. Everything is counting on you. You’ll find help in Lexington. Look for a large double story gray-green house with nine windows on the front. I’ll be fine.”

I began to speak, but he let out another cacophony of coughs, and then went still. I sat for a moment, shocked. I looked to my yet again bloodstained fingers and wiped them on a nearby tree. Just like that he was dead. I stood, still looking down at him. He was alive and then he wasn’t, as easy as blinking your eyes. I knew what I needed to do. I always paid my debts and kept my promises. Paul lay peacefully, uncaring of the world around me. Promises to a dead man. I turned and didn’t look back.

Several moments passed before I found the abandoned iron horse. With such an odd framework, you’d think it would be easy to find, but a motionless machine at the edge of the forest in the middle of night is hard to spot.

I jumped to the saddle and slid my hands into the saunters. My arms and wrists hung loosely inside the oversized controls, obviously meant for larger hands. I de-activated the automatic-slave; the setting that told it to follow harness tugs, and took manual control.

The machine shifted with the motion of my arms and stumbled several steps. Only internal balance systems kept it from falling to the ground. I hadn’t used one in years, not since me and Johann Hammer were together. I recalled us both astride stolen iron horses, running across the countryside of northern Europe.

I, the eager young student, and he the wise teacher, showing me how to sing, fight, and think. He changed my life over three years, but our relationship didn’t last, and he remained in Europe, while I left for the colonies. Like him or not, the gruff Hessian mercenary certainly changed Monsieur Dautier’s daughter.

I leaned my shoulders forward and the machine took several steps in response. I leaned even more and it sped up. The memories of using the iron horse slowly came back to me, as if I had ridden just yesterday. I leaned into the saunters and the machine shot away, quickening to an intense speed that threatened to steal my breath. Given its state of ill-repair, it moved with surprising ease, racing at least four times as fast as the quickest horse.

The world around me became a blur of passing trees, and the road melded into a gray stream flowing beneath me. I focused onto the road and only the road. If my concentration wavered for a brief moment, I’d run into a tree. I was unfortunate enough to witness the result of such an incident and it was an outcome I wished to avoid.

The wind on my face was exhilarating and I embraced the flow, relishing the speed. I suddenly realized I was ignoring my original purpose. There was a promise to keep. The road on which I traveled curved to the north, passing by several unfamiliar villages before shifting south to join the main road towards Lexington.

Already up ahead, I saw a village coming into view around the leaves and branches of the forest. I brought the iron horse down to q slower speed, worried I might send the villages into a panic when I stormed through their town like a thunderbolt.

I stopped into the square and the iron horse fell silent as it awaited my next command. I switched it into automatic-slave setting and dismounted, looking about my surroundings. Large buildings of new construction rose around me, each belching smoke into the sky as their furnaces burned coal for the inhabitants. Their nearness to Boston meant cheap goods, as shown by the coal furnaces, the gas lamps, and various other technologies.

As expected, my arrival did not go unnoticed, and I had scarcely taken four steps before blue glows were flickering on inside the village.

I first thought to knock on a door, but I knew that if I just waited, the locals would come to me. Warnings regarding possible Regular movements against the Colonists already permeated the countryside and the villages only needed a catalyst—myself—to dispatch the militia. As I waited, I became aware of a low rumbling. I looked to the sky, imagining a storm on the move, but the air was empty save for the bright stars.

I looked back towards Boston, hoping to spot the airships. Nothing sat in the sky. No imposing shapes or amorphous airships hovered in the sky. I almost looked away when I saw a star eclipse behind a shape.Intently I watched the spot, and another vanished. There. Two airships. Easily a mile up if not more. They were so high, I couldn’t even hear the low drone of their engines, and their shapes were illusive shadows that one would miss unless they already knew where to look.
“Regulars are on the move,” said a voice behind me. I nearly jumped, but part of me kept my nerve and I faced my guest.

WotF Outline - Three if by Air

Alright, people have probably noted that I haven't been submitting stuff. This is not due to boredom on my part, but due to me working on outlines and worldbuilding. Here is the outline for my next WotF entry.

Firstly, this is an outline, not writing. It is present tense, third person omnipotent. It gives the story synopsis in telling format. It is not meant to be entertaining, but is to give the dynamics of the story and tell the plot, characters, resolution, etc.


Questions:

1. Did you see any plot holes? Put another way, do I raise questions and never answer them? This isn't about world building questions, but actual plot resolution.
2. How are the characters? Are they interesting? Do they seem invested in the plot, in each other?
3. How does the setup sound? Do you see any logical pieces missing? This means questions like "Why don't the characters just do X" or "Why are they doing X when it won't work?
4. Anything else. This is an outline, so I don't care about the actual writing. I'm looking at content.



Three if by Air Outline 2

Background

April, 1775. The colonies are at an uneasy standing with Britain as the Crown levies more unfair taxes and treaties against the unruly Colonials. Boston is held under military rule by General Gage, as he tries to destroy the hotbed of revolutionary activity taking shape in the Americas. The Patriots, the leaders of the opposing faction, have fled to Pennsylvania, leaving only Samuel Adams and John Hancock in Boston.

Fearing tyrannical British ordinances, many colonists have stockpiled weapons, preparing for the fight they see as inevitable. The British are wildly unpopular. General Gage, knowing that Sam Adams and John Hancock are in close proximity, discovers the colonists are hording weapons outside of Boston, in the city of Concord.

With this knowledge in hand, Lord Gage orders the Regulars to seize the weapon caches as well as arrest Adams and Hancock if the opportunity presents itself. The Patriots are also aware of British orders to march, and messengers await the sign that the British have mobilized and are marching.

Unbeknownst to the British, the Benjamin Franklin currently in Britain, is not the real Ben Franklin. The real one along with several Patriots setup a workshop in Massachusetts, near Concord, away from prying eyes. Franklin is building a new mechanical armor, one that doesn’t require a man to operate. His hopes and the hopes of the people helping him is that the weapon will be a deterrent and the British will back down. Unfortunately for Franklin, the British have become aware from a loyalist spy that the Patriots have a workshop somewhere in the forests near Concord, where they are making something dangerous.

Characters

Montgomery McCullough

Monty has been a business partner with John Hancock for some time, dealing with the smuggling in Boston, under the nose of the British. Born an urchin on the streets of the same city, he worked his way into the docks business. He was able to succeed largely because of his discerning ability to find patterns and know the right thing to say at the right time.

A house fire some years back severely burned his left hand, and he now keeps the maimed digits wrapped in a bandage. The house fire claimed the lives of both his wife and young son of six. Or at least so he thought. During the fire he was injured trying to go back in after them, and was held back by concerned neighbors. The son was rescued by another man who ran in to help.

The tremendous blaze destroyed several buildings, and in the confusion father and son were separated. Monty thought the boy dead, and the boy was given to the orphanage when no father could be found. Subsequently adopted, Monty only found out the son lived five years later. He has begun watching the boy, giving him gifts or helping him behind his back. He doesn’t want to break the emotional wounds open. His son already lost his father. Regaining him would be just as bad.

With problems like that, Monty has less patience for the Patriotic fervor of his friends. He is in the business to get money, and though not dishonest, he does have a reputation for being financially tight-fisted. He is neither loyalist nor patriot, but he has a growing dislike of the British with each new tax making it harder for him to do his job. He is a man respected by his peers, known as someone who keeps his word, and does the work asked of him. He is also a very well known gambler, and has an enviable lucky streak.

Monty finds himself pushed into a cause that was someone else’s, and is forced to find just whose side he is on, and whether he is simply staying away from his son for his son’s sake, or for his own.

John Hancock

The smuggler (it is not blatantly stated, but implied) and patriot is a man who is unashamed of what he believes in, and forceful in speaking and personality. He has money, and he has contacts. He is someone who knows what he wants and then pursues it for whatever he can get out of it.

He is remaining near Boston largely because he refuses to be kept out of the fight. He is a man who is not afraid of getting into the thick of things, and almost has a fearless edge to his personality. He is with Samuel Adams, planning issues against the British when the Regulars leave Boston.

He is zealous and good mannered. He is unafraid and yet knows fear. He is charming in his own way, yet he has a personality which beckons to mind someone who will get what they want every single time.

Benjamin Franklin

The Renaissance man who is Benjamin Franklin is one who is calm and collected, yet becomes a dragon when upset. He is always quipping when he speaks, and has an overbearing personality that will blow people away. He gets his head lost in his work sometimes, but he is no bumbling scientist.

Under the guise of going to England to negotiate treaties and fair treatment for the colonies, an imposter was appointed to pretend to be Franklin. Instead, the real Franklin with the blessing of rich Patriot patrons began work in a lab near Boston on a machine.

The strength of the British has always lied in their disciplined soldiers, as well as in their Lion Knights, the soldiers wearing the mechanical armor and act as Britain’s heavy guns. Franklin plans on achieving a true automaton Lion Knight, that will tell the British that the colonies can take care of themselves as well as leave a Damocles sword over the Crown so that they know the colonists will not be backed into a corner.

His work is nearly completed, and soon he will have made the world’s first automatic soldier, a being who does not fear, needs no food, nor rest. With it, he hopes to create a new revolution and create a utopia for men. He is not aware that the British are coming, and when they find it, they’ll have their own purposes for the automaton.

Plot

Montgomery McCullough sits in Charleston holding the keys to an iron horse. He repeats the mantra, “One if by land, two if by sea, three if by aAir,” awaiting the signal from the Old North Church to signal the departure of the British. Everyone suspects the British to travel by air, but some think they might try sneaking their soldiers out via land or sea.

He is there not out of any sense of patriotism, but because he was asked by Paul Revere. Revere knows that Monty is a man of his word, and called in a favor owed by Monty to wait for him Charleston while he crosses the bay on a normal horse. Monty sees the signal. As expected, the British are traveling by air, hoping to catch the Patriots off guard.

Monty sees a boat crossing the bay. He knows this is Revere, trying to sneak past HMAS Somersat which sits moored nearby. Just as Revere is about to make it, the Somersat spots him, and, under orders to open fire at any messengers, shoots at him. Revere stumbles ashore, bleeding out. In his last moments, he convinces Monty to take his place and warn the countryside. He tells him to head to a certain address at Lexington and he’ll find people who can help him.

Revere asks, “When was the last time you saw your son?”

Monty says, “Three days.”

“You should talk to him. A son should know his father,” Revere says and then he dies.

Monty, having made a promise, gets on the iron horse, a familiar steed, and tears off into the countryside, arriving at Mystic. There, he awakes the commander for the militia, and gives the warning out. Already, the British movements are becoming obvious as the great airships fill the sky. The militia warned, Monty continues towards Lexington.

On his travels, he encounters a patrol of British regulars (two men), who immediately discern he is a messenger. They try to detain him, but he breaks away, relying on his own knowledge of the terrain to escape. He warns every house he comes across until he hits the main road near Pierce’s Hill. He finds he is behind William Dawes, one of the other riders, and so he heads straight for Lexington, passing by roused Militia.

Upon arrival, he seeks the address Revere gave him, and knocks at the door. He is pulled inside at gunpoint, and asked to identify himself. He tells and there is murmured discussion before he is allowed to see his captors. Monty is surprised to discover himself among the presence of Samuel Adams, John Hancock (his business partner), as well as the other main rider, William Dawes.

Monty finds the group is preparing the militia to resist the British, even as the sounds of airships fill the air. The Patriots were initially under the impression the British were to arrest them, but they realize that the amount of manpower deployed is too great to just arrest them, and the Regulars must be after the weapon cache in Concord.

“Or worse,” Hancock says, as he casts an uneasy gaze at Adams.

They tell Monty that whether he wants to or not, he’s now officially part of the conspiracy.

“Welcome aboard. Membership fees are due in a week!” Hancock laughs.

Monty is told that things are better left shown than told, as to just what could be worse. Hancock was already adamant about being close to the action, so they agree for Adams to head to another safe house, while Dawes and Prescott continue to Concord. Hancock is instructed to take Monty to “the project” since there needs to be a warning there as well.

While they are riding, the two reminisce about old times together, smuggling different supplies past the British during the past few years. Hancock talks about Monty’s son, and tells him he really needs to talk to the kid. Their conversation continues for a moment until they run into another blockade of British Regulars, these ones mounted on iron horses rather than real ones. The blockade forces them to stop, and their owning two iron horses raise more than one suspicious eye.

As they are awkwardly answering questions by the Regulars, Hancock gives Monty the signal, and they both bolt for freedom. The startled Regulars give chase, realizing that the two are messengers.

A sudden gap in the trail, and a swift Regular force the pair to split up, and Monty finds himself in a desperate chase through the forest with two Regulars hot on his trail, trying to subdue him. They fire their guns at his horse, trying to damage the machine and dismount him.

((Find some interesting way to shake off his pursuers? Either through mechanical knowledge, or knowledge of the environment?) He finished the chase, having lost his pursuers. However his iron horse, long since having lost much of its fuel, collapses.
Monty gets up, and realizes he doesn’t know where he is. He sets off to find the road, which he does, and follows it in a westward direction.

He sees a barn and stops there to check and look for directions as well as warn the inhabitants of the regular’s procession. The dirigibles are still some distance behind him. He knocks, and the door opens to reveal John Hancock. Hancock seems unsurprised to see him, and pulls him inside.

“What have you brought me this time?” a voice from inside the workshop calls out. The voice is Benjamin Franklin. Monty is surprised, since it is common knowledge that the statesman is in England. Franklin picks up on this immediately and informs Monty that the Franklin in England is an imposter to throw the British off.

“You wanted to know what was going on?” Hancock asks.

Franklin gestures to a large statue-like creation in the middle of the workshop. It is an automaton, like the British Lion Knights, but unmanned. Franklin says he hopes to use it to coerce the British to ease up on trade restrictions, both as a deterrent, as well as proof that the colonies don’t need British protection.

Franklin is almost done, and he bemoans the poor timing of the British to march this night. He just has one last piece to tinker out and his final product is but several hours from completion. The object is a resonance manifold, a device used to direct power inside the automaton. Hancock stresses the danger, but Franklin says he only needs a few more hours and they can leave on their own initiative. He goes back to work.

Franklin barely gets to his worktable when the door is smashed open and a team of British Regulars storm inside. Monty recognizes one of his pursuers among them. They followed him here! The three are arrested and the automaton seized. The Regulars don’t understand what the automaton is, but they know they have to keep it out of the colonial’s hands.

A wagon is summoned to haul the automaton, and the three ride with it while the British march to Concord where the dirigibles are. The journey is taken in silence and they arrive to see the city fully in the hands of the British who moved quicker than the colonials could. The British didn’t have the space to take Lion Knights, so there are just regulars. The local militia is kept under armed guard while the British destroy the arms cache.

While their guards talk to their commanding officers, Franklin smuggles something into Monty’s hands. It is the manifold, completed. Hancock would never make it close enough, but Monty might, Franklin instructs. Monty is unsure for a moment. He could very likely be killed in the attempt. He sees a family being shepherded out from their house, the father blocking the British from pointing their weapons at his family. Willing to die for his son.

Monty makes his move. He slips towards the automaton and gets next to the machine. He activates the robot and prepares to attach the manifold, when he is spotted. The British soldiers immediately apprehend him and seize the manifold. They demand to know what he was doing. Monty gets an idea, and informs the British that he was retrieving the manifold, planning on denying them an essential piece, and planning on selling it. The British are not impressed with this avarice. One Regular reinstalls it, while Monty is forced, at gunpoint, joining Franklin and Hancock.

The manifold is installed, and the automaton awakens. The silence over the village is deafening as people look on in curiosity. The automaton turns to Franklin for orders. Franklin tells the robot to “drive the Regulars away!” The automaton attacks, blasting the Regulars with lightning cannons. The city is driven into chaos as the militia joins the attack.

Monty grabs a gun as well from a fallen British soldier and begins fighting. Franklin takes shelter under a building, keeping an eye on his automaton. The dirigibles use their mounted guns to fire down at the automaton, but are unable to pierce its armor. Franklin orders the automaton to attack the dirigibles. The automaton blasts a bolt of lightning into the sky and sends one dirigible down in a blaze of fire. Over the course of an hour of fighting, the British are forced from the city, and flee towards Boston on foot. The other dirigible limps away to its mooring towers.

Hancock is jubilant that they have won an important victory and the fight for liberty has begun. He asks Monty if he’ll join them. Monty pauses in thought for a moment before speaking.

“I will, but I need to return to Boston. There’s someone I need to speak to.”

THE END

The Wolf of Heaven

Alrighty. It's time for a new start. I had spent almost two months working on piecing together an intricate plot from scratch. Well over 20k words in back story writing, as well as about 10-15k in actual plotline workings. Then I got 10k words into the story and realized I hated it. Then I sat for about two weeks, realizing why I hated it, and realized yet again, I was trying to work as an outliner and summary writer, which I am now quite confident I am not. This part I have already hit 10k words by the point of posting this, and am fairly certain this is ALOT better. And I even thought up a great title.

This is based off of my original Eternity's Reach, so I threw that storyline into the woodchipper and picked and choose different parts that I still liked and put together here. In other words, expect some names from original characters to show up, as well as new cast members too.

Content Editing:
1. Keep an eye out for anywhere that refers to Zapporo as being a "duke". Initially he was, but he got downgraded to a "marquis".
2. How do the characters seem? Does Augustus seem Southern enough?
3. How about Quentin? It's early in the story and I may not have really fleshed out his "voice", but he is supposed to be a man's man. James Bond, but with a sense of Chivalry and honor, as opposed to a mind of vice and blood.
4. Does the setup between Norman and Zapporo seem well thought out enough?

Line Editing:
1. Any awkward sounding parts?
2. Any telling versus showing that ruins the scene?

Chapter 1

Norman West clutched his coat tightly to him and he shuffled through the abandoned junkyard. His reanimated bodyguards surrounded him closely, but if something went wrong, he wasn’t terribly convinced they could keep him safe. For what good a dead body was, a living body was always better. Get in, get the stuff, get out, he reminded himself.

Several more steps brought him into a large open area of the junkyard. A flicker of movement in the darkness caught his eye, and the reanimated shifted warying, unknowing if they should be jumping into action or not. The movement continued and he saw a shape materialize out of the darkness walking towards him.

Excellent, this must be my contact, he thought and he felt his muscles relax. Only a little.

The figure soon turned out to be a humanoid figure, about nine feet tall. He was covered in a massive coat that fell to his feet. A fine pin-striped suit covered his form underneath the coat, and a grey fedora covered the being’s red head. Fine black tufted hair poked out beneath the hat, and yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness down at Norman. He got the distinct impression that Marquis Zapporo was not impressed with what he saw. Think what he wants.

“What’s the words?” Zapporo asked.

“Daisy fields,” Norman responded without missing a beat. That was what his contact had told him to say. Zapporo was supposedly the biggest arms and black magic smuggler both in and out of the Infernal realms. Personally meeting the big guy himself was somewhat an honor.

“You got the stuff?” Norman said.

“Of course I do. It wouldn’t behoove me to not see to it personally. The Guild has been cracking down on shipments. Papa John himself has been nosing around business,” Zapporo said in his unearthly voice.

The Marquis reached into one of the pockets of his coat and pulled out a small bag. A flick of the wrist sent it flying towards Norman. He tried to catch it and failed utterly, instead knocking the bag into one of the guards. He scrambled to pick it up and was relieved to see that it had not spilled.

“Hamadryad dust. Fresh. Should be exactly what you’re looking for. You’re lucky. My last shipment got seized out of Dysporia,” Zapporo said.

“Is it pure? You’re asking a fair price,” Norman said as he gazed into the bag.
Zapporo snorted. “Of course it is. Dust a little of it on your rotting friend there and see if it isn’t. But don’t cheat me. You know what happens to cheats.”

Norman was already grabbing a tiny pinch of the dust. Supposedly Hamadryad dust had what his contact had said was “distilled essence of life.” Something that would make his reanimated more agile and able, and less chaotic and maddened. He had almost been killed several times by rogues. He tossed a handful of dust into the face of the closest bodyguard. Immediately the reanimated stood straighter, and looked dead ahead. Its muscles tensed and it gripped the club at its side more tightly. Norman willed it to move, and it did. No longer did it have the shambling gait he had so often seen. Had he not known otherwise, he would have thought it was alive. A wide smile stretched across his face.

“Satisfied?” Zapporo said.

“Immensely,” Norman responded. He began searching for his pouch to pay the devil with. Not ordinary money. The Hierarchy of Hell had no use for American currency. Souls had once been used, but now so many flowed in; inflation had turned them into valueless remnants for the Abyssals. Marquis Beelzebub, the devil in charge of the Abyssal Treasury had changed the currency of Hell to something more solid. Norman tossed the bag of gold drachmas towards Zapporo.

A heartbeat before the bag reached the devil, a burst of rock ruptured the ground below the gold bag and shrapnel knocked the parcel wide of Zapporo. The open bag hit the ground spilling golden coins all over the area that glinted off of the lights from some remote area of the junkyard. The reanimated tensed toward the new threat, and Norman spun, looking for their attackers.

Two solitary figures stepped out of the twilight and into view. One was a balding portly invididual with drooping moustaches that were finely waxed. The white garment that the man wore looked like a combination between a landed gentry outfit that was common with antebellum Southern Aristocrats, and a plain ministerial robe. The outfit was common enough, but generally on loyalist mages back during the War of American Succession over five decades ago. But the only person that wore that is…
“Augustus Broussard,” Norman snarled between clenched teeth.

“Son, you’d best be keeping your teeth together, lessen’ you want to be made an example of,” Augustus said.

“He’ll be made an example alright, sure as sure,” the other figure said.
His gait was that of young and cocky youth, probably no less than twenty years old. Prime meat for one of Norman’s reanimated save for the fact that he wasn’t dead. Yet. The youth shifted forward and the light caught his features. The haircut, the jaw, even the eyes gave it all away.

“To what do I owe the dismal pleasure of the aquatiance of meeting both the great Augustus Broussard, and Crown Prince of the American Empire, Quentin Roosevelt?” Marquis Zapporo interjected.

Quentin was said to be his father’s son in many aspects, and the way he held himself, the way he talked, everything about him, confirmed that to Norman. Two of the most powerful American mages stood in front of him, and all he had was a small cadre of Reanimated.

“Forge Mage and Tempest Mage. I had heard you were doing the Guild’s dirty work. I’d never figure the pair of you playing at inquisitors,” Norman said.

Augustus’s hands crackled, and what few hairs remained on his head stood erect as static electricity filled him. A single directed gesture sent a bolt of lightning into one of the reanimated. The massive discharge disrupted the once dead heart of the Reanimated and it fell to the ground in a convulsive mass.

“Boy, we’re not playin’. Less you got yourself a certificate stating that this… exchange is valid, then you’re in trouble today. ‘Sides, we got your number, Norman. Necromantic magics are banned by Guild Convention 7,” Augustus said.

“What I do is not magick,” Norman spat the last word out. “It is the future of medical science, and you’ll all be remembered as those who stood in the way of the future.”

“Enough. Do you have the certificate or not?” Quentin asked.

“Of course I do,” Norman said, reaching inside his coat. What came out was no piece of paper but a vast smoke bomb that he hurled between himself and the two mages. Within a flash and a puff of smoke, he was gone.

Quentin gave a smug smirk as he looked toward the great Marquis standing before him.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll deal with dear old Herbert when we’re done here,” Quentin said.

“Norbert,” Augustus corrected from off to the side.

“Norman,” Marquis Zapporo growled. His eyes narrowed towards Quentin as the demon tried to figure his game.

“Herbert, Norman. Who gives a rip? It’s the same thing,” Quentin said.

“Hardly, but the matter is not relevant at the time being. For the moment I have pests in my face, and a mole I need to dismember,” Marquis Zapporo said.

“A mole? How did you know?” Quentin asked.

“I didn’t, but you just confirmed it. This meeting was discreet. Confidential. And yet I find two Guild Inquisitors on my doorstep.

“Well then I’d hate to have to hold you up, suh,” Augustus said, walking out into the open. The Marquis looked towards him, and his eyes narrowed further. The rotund man didn’t look like a threat, but Zapporo evidently knew enough about Augustus to be wary. The two of them alone stood little chance in stopping Zapporo’s escape.

“You forget, that when I do business, I never come unaramed,” Marquis Zapporo said, taking a step back.

The Marquis snapped his fingers and several large shapes loomed out of the darkness. Quentin immediately identified several types of demons, as well as the more elite devils. The devils were dressed after the same manner as Zapporo, in wide coats and pin-striped outfits. All clutched Tommy guns in their big beefy hands. A half dozen lumbering gargants stood behind them. Their ebony skin disappeared into the darkness leaving just the crackling fiery veins that criss-crossed their skin and odd angles. Trails of fire followed their eyes as they shifted on their feet.

Below them, at first Quentin thought he saw a swarm of newsies off the street. But as he got a closer look, he saw the deeply red skin and malicious looking eyes on every single one. Igniters. And evidently they had infiltrated the Newsboys. That could cause problems down the line.

Marquis Zapporo’s mouth curled into a menacing grin. “Now, that I have you attention, it might surprise you to know that I have no intention of killing you all tonight. That would be a foolish effort on my part, and a great way to bring the Guild down on my head. So here is what the deal is. I’ll leave first. When I am away, the fellas around me will leave as well. Then you will be allowed to go.

As the Marquis finished speaking he pulled out a fine cigar, an Arturo Fuente if Quentin was any judge, and stuck it in his mouth. Without reaching for a lighter, or in fact any visible movement on the Marquis’s part, the end lit up red and smoke began whispered out from the tip. The Marquis took a long puff as he savored the flavor before he went on.

“Of course, if you want to fight now, who am I to stop you? Only understand there is only one inevitable conclusion,” Marquis Zapporo said.

Augustus snorted. “And what would that be, suh?”

Marquis Zapporo blew out a fine cloud of smoke as he looked from Augustus to Quentin. Finally he stuck the cigar back between his gleaming sharp teeth.

“Well, for starters, you could certainly take down a few of my boys, but you couldn’t stop them all. You’ve already spoiled the element of surprise, and given the fact that I remain in such close proximity, you haven’t blown my whole consortium apart. Now were I to kill you, I doubt I could touch even a secondary Colony planet without one of your watcher’s finding out fast enough to send a strike team. And unfortunately in my line of work, one finds that they need to go places. The end result being, I don’t want another job, and you don’t want to be dead,” Zappro said with the cigar still in his mouth.

Zapporo took a step back, and the Devils clustered close, with their Tommy Guns still raised. The Demons blocked the view between Quentin and the Marquis. He’s not getting away that easy. Time to show my hand, he thought.

“Unfortunatly, there is one thing you didn’t account for either,” Quentin spoke out loud.

“Only one thing?” Zapporo ‘s voice carried above his henchmen. “If it turns out I only did one thing wrong tonight, I’ll be greatly surprised. Good evening, sir.”

“Well, see the issue is, that us two aren’t the only ones here,” Quentin called back.

Zapporo must have stopped because the column of devils and demons fell still. That was the cue that Quentin was waiting for.

“Now!”

You win some, you lose some...

This is a submission for my Isaiah class. It is four and a quarter pages long. It was written in one sitting and was reviewed only once. I'm interested in hearing impressions about voice and how to develop character by situation, what they notice and think, as well as dialog. Tschuess!

God with us.
I was on the city wall when Rabshakeh the traitor spoke to the servants of the king. “What makes you think you can rebell against the king of Assyria? Do you think Egypt will save you? The pharaoh is a broken reed, and if you lean upon him you'll only cut yourselves on him. Or do you think you can depend on Jehovah, whose altars Hezekiah has torn down in favor of his temple in Jerusalem?” Rabshakeh turned up toward the wall and away from the king's servants and pointed right toward me and my fellows on the wall. “If there were even two thousand men in this city, we'd give you horses for them to ride just to make things more interesting! So how can you stand here and tell me that you intend to stand ten minutes against my master, mighty Sennacherib?” Then he and his entourage began laughing.

I shifted my spear back and forth uncomfortably. Everything he had said was true. I looked down the wall, noting that about one in every three spots lay empty. We wouldn't last even five minutes if the army which took Lachish marched on Jerusalem. Too many people had left the city for the countryside, hoping to escape the brunt of Assyrian anger. Why had the king thought to anger the Assyrians? Now we were doomed to their wrath. I spat angrily. The soldier to my left looked at me in surprise but all eyes were quickly back on Rabshakeh as he shouted again at the city walls.
“Besides, do you really think that Jehovah would have let us take every walled city in the country if we weren't sent by him? No, no, Jehovah sent a message by his prophets to Sennacherib, saying, 'Go up against Judah, and destroy it,' and we have faithfully fulfilled his command!”
The master of the king's house stepped closer to Rabshakeh and hissed something, but Rabshakeh interrupted him by shouting, “The better question is, why shouldn't I speak in Hebrew? My master has sent me to tell those men on the walls that they have a choice, either to eat and drink their own wastes with you while you rot inside your fortress, or to surrender and inherit a fertile land where every man can eat from his own vine.” He turned directly to us again and shouted, “It's entirely up to you to believe whether or not Hezekiah, who has taken away all the altars of Jehovah, can really suggest that now he has your god's approval against an army that so clearly has been successful. But if I were you, I wouldn't stick around to see what we do to this city.” And with that, he and his servants turned and left. The master of the king's house rent his robe and stalked off through the gate.
I took off my helmet and tossed it against the parapet and sat down with my knees holding up my chin. The soldier who noticed me before picked my helmet up, dusted it off, and set it on the wall above my head. He and I remained in silence for some time while murmuring went up and down the line of soldiers. Then all was quiet, deadeningly so. Finally, the soldier turned to me and said, “You don't have to worry, you know.”
I scrunched up my face and looked at him from under my eyebrows. “You must be an idiot,” I said. “The Assyrians destroyed Lachish and now they'll come up out of their camp and they will flay us alive on a moment's notice. It's all because that fool king of ours decided to play games with the enemies of the greatest kingdom on earth, and expected someone in Egypt to care about us. We've already given those beasts down there everything valuable in the whole city, and now you're telling me I've got nothing to worry about.” I spat again. “That's what I think about Hezekiah and his blasted temple.”
The soldier raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else for some time. I let him keep watch for the both of us. He nudged me with his foot when he saw the captain of the guard walking up. I jumped to my feet, spear in hand, but the captain was so preoccupied he looked as if he were going to be sick all over the wall that I doubt he would have noticed me if I had been sleeping all across the walkway. Now that I was up, though, I looked out at the huge army that waited a little less than a mile away, down the hill, for our only option: surrender.
My neighbor noticed where I was staring and the sour look on my face and stroked his silvering beard. I caught him looking at me from the corner of my eye and turned sharply to face him. “What do you want?” I snapped. He stopped pulling his beard and shook his head.
“Do you pray much?” he asked, seemingly not having heard me at all.
“I used to at home until some soldiers came and tore down our altar and cut down our grove. Oh yeah, I have the king to thank for that, too,” I snarled, and turned away, intending to ignore him.
“I just thought in absence of anything else constructive to do, we might try it,” he said calmly.
“Do whatever you want, just don't do it aloud or I'll break your jaw,” I mumbled through my arm as I rested my head on the parapet.
My neighbor said nothing. The only thing I could hear was the sound of insects basking in the heat of the valley below before the light faded completely. A boy, whom I also ignored, walked along the parapet distributing torches. My neighbor took one and jammed it into a crack in the wall and lit it with some flint. Then we both looked out at the Assyrians in the distance. Finally, just as the sun disappeared from view, he said, “You know, this isn't the first time Jerusalem's been besieged. We'll be all right, just like we always are when we're trusting in the Lord.”
I could tell this was one of Hezekiah's men, and a religious fanatic no less, so I just spat and tried to ignore him since he wasn't going to talk to me like a rational person. He went on as if he hadn't noticed. “You know, I once saw the prophet Isaiah ben Amoz deliver a message to King Ahaz about the Israelite and Syrian war years before it began.” Since I was ignoring him, I didn't try to stop him. He unfortunately took my silence for permission to continue, which he did at some length as he leaned on the parapet.
“Ahaz had been playing politics himself and had got the nation stuck in a position where he was depending on Assyria to come to his aid. It looked like the only option was going to be a war like this one against both Syria and the Israelites. But what Ahaz didn't remember was that Jehovah had for generations warned Israel that if it didn't shape up, it would be captured and taken away.”
“Thanks for that cheery thought,” I mumbled under my breath. My neighbor didn't seem to mind.
“Isaiah risked his life to go up to the palace and talk to Ahaz, but Ahaz listened to what he had to say. When Isaiah told him that Jehovah would destroy Israel and Syria and told Ahaz not to fear, Ahaz's eyebrows raised almost off of his face. He stroked his beard and said it was good, figuring it would be easier to unite the kingdom if he had the option of calling on a holy man of Jehovah to rally the people. But then Isaiah told him that Jehovah invited Ahaz to ask a sign to prove what he had said was true. Ahaz laughed and said, 'I'll do no such thing!' Isaiah told him that he was wasting both his and God's time, and then went on to prophesy that Israel and Syria would be utterly humbled before a newborn child named Immanuel would know good from evil. As it turns out, that was true, and before the child could grow up, Israel and Syria were gone.”
My impatience bubbled to the surface. “Again, buddy, thanks for the pleasant reminder about destroying countries. It warms me all over inside to think that Jehovah went ahead and explained to Ahaz how well Assyria was going to smash Syria and Israel, since that's what's going to happen to us in the morning. The best thing we could do now is give up before they grind us into bits under their feet.” The words were bitter in my mouth, and I regretted saying them. God had given my family's land to my us almost a dozen generations ago. My forefathers as far back as I could count were buried there, and here we were, probably going to be killed, at best sent to who knows where while someone else tills my land and walks all over the graves of my fathers. I moved a bit further down the wall from him.
My neighbor seemed unperturbed, which was perhaps more evidence of his mental instability. “Well,” he said, “as it turns out Jehovah has said that Judah will not be destroyed at this time. In fact, that same Isaiah prophesied about what's going on now at least fifteen years ago, but the Assyrians won't take Jerusalem. Here on top of these walls, we're pretty safe.”
“Listen, I don't have time for rumors about soothsayers. I've only got a few hours till morning when I've got to figure out how to say, 'I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill me,' in Assyrian. So if you don't mind, I'm going to enjoy my last twilight before I die a slow, agonizing death.”
I looked down the wall in the last rays of the day at the ground a few dozen feet below. Just a headlong jump was all it would take and then the Assyrians couldn't take me alive. If they came up to the walls, would I jump? I didn't hear my neighbor sneak up next to me, so when he spoke I was startled a bit and lost my balance. He grabbed the back of my robe so I wouldn't fall as he continued. “When Isaiah prophesied about that child, he wasn't just guessing. Israel and Syria are gone, just like he said, and Assyria will be to. Just watch.”
A whisper was moving down the wall in the dark. The soldier on my right, who was a full space away and somehow ignored everything the soldier on my left had been spouting, now turned to us and said, “The word of Isaiah ben Amoz, prophet of Jehovah, is this: 'Thus saith Jehovah: Be not afraid of the words that thou hast heard, wherewith the servants of the king of Assyria have blasphemed me. Behold, I will send a blast upon him, and he shall hear a rumor, and return to his own land; and I will cause him to fall by the sword in his own land.' Pass it down.” I ignored him, but my neighbor clapped his hands passed it on down, word for word.
The night began to drag on. The fires at the temple were still burning, and the word along the line was that the king himself was joining the people in sacrifices, singing psalms and announcing that the Ethiopian king was approaching from the south, and that Sennacherib's army would not stay to fight him. The implication was that they would also leave Jerusalem alone.
I didn't want to, but I began to hope a little that the prophet was right. My old grandfather used to worship only Jehovah and would tell stories about how once a year Israelites and Jews would go together to Jerusalem and offer sacrifices to Jehovah in peace. Of course then there was Moses and Joshua, and if the stories were true, Jehovah had protected them and given them all sorts of miracles. Then there were the judges, and David. And though my father and mother had never believed those stories, preferring the gods that Ahaz worshiped, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a God who could do all that, why shouldn't we always worship him?
We all sat in silence under the night sky. Over in the camp of the Assyrians, hundreds of fires were burning. There were probably more campfires than there were Jewish soldiers on the wall. I started shaking, more from cold than horror. The fear was what was keeping me awake, however. My neighbor came up beside me, looking up at the night sky. “It's funny,” he began, “one set of lights in front of us threatens destruction, but there are so many more above us that are singing in harmony about the power of Jehovah, who made them. You know, that prophecy about Immanuel didn't just refer to saving us from Syria and Samaria. Immanuel means, 'God with us,' and it refers to other anointed ones who will save us in our times of need. Jehovah will spare us because he loves us, each of us, and we are his covenant people. The king is in the temple praying right now. Isaiah has been right before, and I know he's right now. Jehovah will send Sennacherib back to Assyria, just as he's promised.” I nodded and leaning on the wall I rested my head on my hands. My neighbor left me alone with my thoughts.
After considering my family outside the city, hopefully still safe and hidden, I decided a little prayer to Jehovah might be worth it. What could it hurt, anyway? “I don't know thy name well,” I began, mumbling so that only I could hear, “and I don't really know what thou desirest of me. I'm about to die, though, and I thought that since I—I don't have any real reasons not to ask for thy help. So here it goes. We can't defeat this army, not now, not ever. But if thou art the one who parted the sea for Moses and knocked down the walls of Jericho for Joshua, hey, this is a piece of cake. So I'm begging thee, send the Assyrians home so that my family can live! I'll find out what thou desirest from me if thou wilt do this thing, and I promise that I will do whatever thou askest, and will worship no other. Just watch over my family, please!”
It was anything but an eloquent prayer, but I felt like it was at least accurate, and I was sincere. I immediately felt a kind of calm wash over me, and I smiled. I looked out at the Assyrian camp and thought of Isaiah's words. God would send a blast and a rumor. I didn't really know what that was supposed to mean, but maybe Sennacherib would just change his mind and take off. I tried to imagine that view of twinkling campfires gone, with just the night to replace it. Whispering on the wind, I heard a psalm that my grandfather used to sing when he was working, or when the insects had eaten the corn:
“Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. They that hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of my head! But God will save Zion, and will build the cities of Judah: that they may dwell there, and have it in possession. The seed also of his servants shall inherit it: and they that love his name shall dwell therein...”
I think I fell asleep there on the wall, because I don't remember much else that night. My neighbor watched out for me and made sure I didn't get in trouble with the captain. The next thing I remember was the sound of shouting in the valley. I woke up in the pre-dawn light to the song of birds. My neighbor, grim-faced, stood still, looking out at the Assyrian camp. The morning was calm and peaceful, as opposite to the oppressive and dark feeling of the night before. I marveled at the change. Suddenly, a whole lot of noise started coming from the Assyrian camp. Everyone on the wall got nervous, restrung their bows and adjusted their armor, until it became clear that the Assyrians weren't coming toward us. They were going north, back up the valley. Most of us couldn't believe our eyes, but my neighbor didn't seem to be surprised a bit. He just smiled and said nothing.
We later found out that more than one hundred thousand Assyrian soldiers had died during the night due to an unknown disease, and had retreated. We were dispatched from the city out to the south and had the unpleasant duty of burning the bodies. I did find a good few pieces of gold, though, and a pair of Assyrian steel swords, so I'd say it was definitely worth the awful smell. Within a few days, we were released to go back to our families. I finally asked him his name when I ran into him on the way back to Jerusalem. “Shear-jashub,” he said. “I know it's unusual, but my father insisted.”
I shrugged. “It could be worse. It could be even longer.” He nodded and smiled lopsidedly. “Listen, how did you know all those things about Immanuel?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, I was there. I saw the whole thing. It left a deep impression on me, and I wondered why it was that the Lord had wanted me to be there, so I've pondered it and I've prayed about it for years. I don't know if I've come to a very conclusive answer, but I do know that I've learned more about the Lord thinking about it that I would have just reading someone else's writings, though that's nice too.”
“You can read?” I asked.
He smiled. “Sure. And if you bring your family to visit some time, maybe I can teach you. Just ask for me, I'm the only Shear-jashub in the city.” I chuckled and embraced my new friend before heading out on the road home. My wife and our two young sons would be there, but we would have a lot of work to do. If by the will of God our crops were still alive, we might make it through this harvest. Then, during the winter, I would go to Jerusalem and offer up a lamb at the temple. Maybe I would send my youngest son to Shear-jashub to learn how to read and come back and tell me more about prophecies and Jehovah. There were prophets out where I lived, too. I would invite one to come and eat with us and teach us the law. But first things first: I would remember to thank Jehovah for saving my family and me each morning and each evening. And I would remember how it felt, up there on the wall in the dark night, when he comforted me.