The Reign is Over – Part 4

As most of you are aware of, we here at The Unsheathed Quill (that’s the royal ‘We’ because I’m still a one-man band) attempt to bring entertainment to others using a wide variety of formats and platforms.

Last night was a breakthrough evening on a platform that we have had our eye on for some time.  Namely, Twitch.  

For those not in the know, Twitch is a streaming platform for everything from artwork to writing to gaming.  Mostly gaming.  Like… 95% gaming.  We have been trying for some time to break into this particular market, as it contains an enormous amount of desirable payoffs.  Aside from the linking of the various platforms, Twitch allows The Quill an unparalleled access to the one commodity desired above all others: Community.  

You see, way back at the dawn of history in the Year of Our Lord 2016, one Justin Wallace began his authorship journey with a singular wish: to interact with readers.  To speak to them, to laugh with them, to share with them.  In a word, to build a new community.  One full of shared interests and enjoyments, one in which those of all kinds and types and shapes and varieties would be welcomed with open arms.  

So far, that has not panned out.  Whether that is from failures to launch a novel, or failure to post regularly, or even just simple lack of marketing, we know not.  Suffice to say a community hasn’t, as of yet, materialized.  

Pivot to Twitch.  While it is not free of its own issues, something that is without debate is the nearly instant sense of community one can create upn it.  Every stream is a chance to interact, to build rapport, to create a space where like-minded individuals can gather and commune with each other and with the streamer.  In short, it is exactly why The Quill was born. 

Last night, the first true steps along the dream-path were taken.  A viewer became an ally, became a friend.  The Quill’s presence was both welcome and more of my own brand of entertainment was requested.  More time to interact and share was desired by one who was not The Quill.  They wanted more chances to laugh, more opportunities to swap stories and share tragedies and triumphs.  

It only takes one spark to ignite a blaze, and we at The Quill have always been of the carrot-on-a-stick school of thought.  Tangible results are the most motivating factor for what we do, and last night was a welcoming balm on nerves frayed by the irritations of isolation.  

We are alone no longer.  Excelsior.  Let’s grow this spark into an inferno.

The Reign is Over – Part 4

For the first five minutes of their slow, steady drift towards the Reignover compound, Lieutenant McNamara thought each new second would be the one which ushered in swift, missile-shaped annihilation.  As the transport continued its lazy course without incident, she began to breathe more deeply and freely than she had done since the explosions began. 

The ISF Hidalgo had dropped all pretense of both surprise and stealth.  It sat just outside easy reach of anything that could be launched from the habitation ring, fat and gloating as any cat lording over its terrified soon-to-be-dinner.  Enormous bolts of brilliant azure energy pulsed from gun emplacements which dwarfed the assault transport with their bulk.  At their new distance, even the most inattentive gunner couldn’t help but hit each target as it came into view.

A few futile attempts later, Reignover wisely conceded the futility of further attempts to destroy or cripple the incoming assault crew.  He had lost the opening gambit, unable to upset the balance with Hidalgo’s thumb firmly on the scales.  For now, he would have to try and win the ground combat to come.  It was his home turf, and he was a ruthless player of this game.  If he did survive the day, and then managed to disappear himself to another ring or planet, he could start all this madness over again without too much fuss.

That thought made red flash across Lieutenant McNamara’s eyes.  The red of blood spattered across books that her parents had kept in their offices for her to read when she’d been allowed to stay with them.  The red of blood spattered across walls, floor, and ceiling.  The red of a bow set against the black of her funeral dress.  Time, and time, and time again, each new loss somehow more painful than the last.

A hand came to rest on her arm, the presence polite but impossibly strong and firm, as though a mountain had gently grasped her bicep.  Lieutenant McNamara looked up, and saw the craggy profile and mounded muscles of Lieutenant Armsworth.  With a start, she stilled her hands.  They had been going through the thoughtless motions of arming and loading her pulse rifle.  The cadets nearest her wore pale, alarmed faces, terrified of what she had been doing.  Until they made landfall, a live pulse rifle in the confines of a troop bay, with everyone bolted to their chair and unable to act, was more dangerous than any missile or energy blast.

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and began to will away the images of the dead and wall off the pain which refused to die with age.  After a few agonizing moments, she opened her eyes and nodded at Lieutenant Armsworth with the calm of a war-tested veteran.  He removed his hand, and began barking orders and remonstrances at the young cadets she had spooked, using the routines of command to soothe their frayed nerves.

She only wished her own anger and sadness could be calmed with such ease.  She didn’t know if standing over Reignover’s corpse would make the ghosts abandon their haunt, but she was still eager to try it and find out.

To be continued…

Armsworthfully,

The Unsheathed Quill