Finished Draft with Detailed Analysis, The Voice of a Virtuoso
This contest came at a critical point in the drafting process of a 200k word novel, specifically, the end. Despite my better judgement, I succumbed to my temptation for Jhin and figured that, in honor of him, I could postpone the project's completion to instead devote several intense days to the creation of his much shorter piece.
Khada Jhin struck a resonance in me from the moment I met him. I believe that he is one of League's most dynamic characters with the potential to drive several novels worth of writing. It would be a dream to pen these novels legally with Riot's permission. Wistfulness aside, let's dig into the inspiration and foundation for this story that is meant to get the reader into the inexorably endearing heart of Khada Jhin.
Months and months before I was aware of this contest, I wrote a poem, Concerto: Bishop, inspired by Jhin. (Sorry for the blog plug, it is the only location hosting the piece.) I even did the vocal recitation myself to the backdrop of Jhin's orchestral theme. If you're interested in listening, here is the link. Yikes. I didn't realize that I included the words 'deadly flourish' in the poem. Talk about love.
With that past creation in mind, I endeavored to create something personal. Jhin is too incredible to be experienced from afar, and his voice is too distinct to be missed, so first person was a natural decision for me to make.
-------------------------------------------------------------------- Manifesting Inspiration -------------------------------------------------------------
I began by refreshing my memory of Jhin's lore. Immediately, I found strings begging to be followed. No, not Zed, Shen, or even Kusho, silly. Don't be so obvious.
Subsequently, when I found out that Jhin's lore stops with him being an assassin for an Ionian Cabal (henceforth referred to as 'the Cabal'), I felt that the only natural step for this character's development was the next phase in his life: becoming independent from this authority. It can't feel comfortable to be pressured to work for them under the pretense that they freed him from incarceration. I would imagine this sense of obligation is a gnat in Jhin's ear. He's egomaniacal. There is no way that he will tolerate somebody picking the targets for his masterpieces for the rest of his life. His work is too personal for the foundations of it to be derived from an organization that has no artistic merit beyond the opportunity they first provided regarding his freedom.
Like any artist, he wants to get to a point of being self-sustaining.
The premise of this story is simple. A natural continuation. After a few years of work for the Cabal, Jhin has everything he could possibly need: wealth, freedom, technology, the discovery of an unmistakable style (the gun forged for him with the Kashuri armory), and thusly from the financial freedom, ripe opportunity to pursue grand expressions.
So that begs the question ... why does he need the Cabal? Or more realistically, when will the Cabal stop needing him?
I suspect that if the Cabal was willing to conspire to free Jhin, they aren't the type to leave loose ends should the time come in which they no longer require his services.
--------------------------------------------------------------------- Diagrams for Demonstration ----------------------------------------------------
Map of Events
Characters, Setting, and Plot
Themes, Character Development, and Future Possibilities
I have already explained far too much, but there you have it. The closer details concerning the scene's development will be shown in totality in the coming days before the deadline.
______________________________________________ First Draft after Cursory Edits __________________________________________
Night at the Erythrai Opera House
Kalera Tormin's voice ascended its pitch to the ceilings as I finished scaling the vaulted walls of the grand Erythrai Opera House. A dull ache in my left shoulder reminded me of her preferred way of informing me that my contract with the Cabal had been ended. It ended with a visit from one of my colleagues, who, after making a pitiable effort on my life, instead made a contribution to my collected works with his own. My days since then, you might say, have been a study in retaliation.
The head councilor of the Ionian Cabal possessed an ambitious timbre, if only just passable for the thousands gathered inside. Without the orchestra to accompany her solo in the third act of Mephisto's Fall, the vibrato in her voice was, sadly, not enough to hide the medioctrity of her attempt.
I could endure it, of course. Without Kalera's hidden passion for participating in Ionian theatre, we would never have found our threads tangled in this fateful knot. Our roles joining once more, this time for something greater.
A circular window beneath the eaves of the roof beckoned my entrance inside as I awaited my queue.
Humility was my mask almost too long. An uncomfortable guise, worn all too often by the misguided, the ashamed, the unappreciated. Or, in my instance, the patient.
Working in the shadows does have its perks, despite it being an insufferable role to play under the Cabal's heels. One of them is being underestimated. Overlooked. A trait which, although previously a sad necessity, was no longer mine to endure.
Not after tonight.
Her solo ended. Their duet began. With Mephisto now on stage for his final lines before his fall, their voices joined and, now accompanied by the oerchestra, boomed in staccato replies.
I waited for the next burst of the string and drum ensemble. When it rose, I crashed in through the window, rolling into the crawlspace overlooking. The glass shards were set afire in gold light cast by the chandelier above the audience, an adequate shroud for my introduction.
Previously entranced by the performance, a handful of lacquered guards keeping watch for any would-be audience members trying to climb their way to a free seat turned towards me. Although I hadn't anticipated their involvement, I always had a fondness for improvisation done well.
There were five of them.
Five.
I sighed and gave them a moment to prepare while I plucked off a splinter of glass from my shoulder.
There were fourteen measures exactly left in this piece, seven of which would provide sufficient volume. The music would have to make do as my silencer.
"On your mark, gentlemen," I greeted them with a bow and caressed Whisper's handle beneath my cloak.
With the pathway too thin for two of them to walk abreast, the guardsmen readied themselves to join me one by one.
The music swelled. I spun, unholstered Whisper, and joined the melody. An explosive note struck the first guard and quieted him in time for the beat between the next attacker. I caught the expelled cartridge in my right hand, rolled under an overhead strike from the second guard, and on my return up, graced his solar plexus with an exit round in rhythm with another orchestral burst.
"Wonderful timing," I chuckled.
Five more measures to compress the three dancers into their last moments. The third looked hesitant. I would need to instruct him. With a feigned reluctance, I goaded his participation into the fifth clasp of thunder from the orchestra and relinquished Whisper's exuberance, an eruption of light sparking his silhoeutte's shadow against the wall.
"Delightful!"
The fourth attacker came with a vengeance during a quiet measure. That simply wouldn't do.
"Not now," I growled at him, acquiring one of the fallen rapiers before lunging it through his heart.
"But you," I said to the remaining guard as the strings deafened the air, "have played your part. Perfectly!" And for an instant, light splintered the darkness. The last guard stumbled to his knees, Whisper's fourth round setting his heart to cinders.
I savored the exhileration of a successful introduction. Mounting excitement made trembles run through me as I clicked Whisper's second half together. And with a solemn kneel at the guardrails, I readied myself to deliver a momentous death into my infamy.
"And now," I murmured, "for your moment, Kalera. But this time our audience sings for you."
As the melody of the last piece sifted to the final song in act three, I observed the performance, the oblivious spectators. Mephisto's Fall has always been a classic, but only for tonight's rendition, would the piece transcend its banality. And only tonight, would it be Lenora, Kalera's character, who would play the role of falling.
A mixture of ballet dancers costumed as demons swarmed the stage to tempt Mephisto into his crowning moment. Their scarlet skirts and frills cavorted about him, their movements hastened to match the rising crescendo reverberating the air.
For the first time in years, nervousness dared my finger on the precipice of the trigger. Never had I performed for thousands at once.
People think that silence holds a certain divinity.
They are only half right.
It is what breaks it that is sacred.
Before the zenith of the crescendo that marks the finale of Mephisto's Fall, there is a short measure of silence. Four beats of silence.
Only now, this silence was not meant to be embraced.
Kalera and Mephisto's voice merged with the orchestra in beatific harmony. The audience steeled themselves. I stared down Whisper's edge.
At last, the measure arrived. A silence without dissonance.
A brief eternity before unparalleled beauty.
Whisper shattered the stillness. The bullet cracked the air like glass.
Kalera's extended arms collapsed together to embrace the shot as it wove tendrils of thorny vines to her flesh, crimson blooming petals about her feet.
Her expression, a beatific epiphany, a final sigh.
While the audience sang.
___________________________________________________________Update 1/30__________________________________________________
After heavy edits to the first draft, I realized how ambitious this piece was. In one thousand words, I endeavored to: introduce a new, pivotal character, evolve Jhin's lore, include a fast-paced fight sequence, as well as a momentous scene of Jhin's evolution.
Above all else, I wanted to give the reader an experience of Jhin. Sure, I could have observed him from third-person, but it simply wasn't ... fresh enough, not enough of a challenge. I was too enticed by the possibility of indulging in the more artistic side of writing, a style that only Jhin would be able to appropriately embody. Of course, Jhin sees beauty in tragedy, but rather than explaining this transfusion, I went with a more 'show-don't-tell' approach, providing direct metaphors which, in Jhin's eyes, aren't metaphors at all.
Within the confines of a thousand words, after surpassing the 500 word mark, I realized I would have to sacrifice a piece of symbolism. As you can see from my original journal outlines, I intended to include a set of characters called 'Jhin's actors'. These actors were intended to replace the original choir of the symphony, so that at the pivotal moment of Kalera's fall, they would continue the orchestra's melody. Thusly, the audience would be confused into thinking that what they just observed was, in actuality, not a brutal murder, but an intended part of the script. This would be the ultimate irony, and a next step, even for Jhin's wickedness, as he would savor the (albeit confused) applause of thousands as they were tricked into appreciating his art.
Of course, I was already facing some obstacles within the word limit confines. And although I endeavored for a more artistic piece rather than a stunning action sequence, I wanted to include a scene that showcased Jhin in a fast-paced environment to demonstrate my hand at prose that wasn't so poetic. This way, I would provide a bit of both worlds. Something more earthly, something more transcendent. Along this process, I realized the symbolism of the audience's irony provided by Jhin's actors would simply be too unwieldy; I would require another 200-500 words to portray this without utterly confusing the reader. Already with the environment in the crawlspace, I was asking some imagination from the reader to pull things along smoothly.
After cutting here, adding there, cutting again, shaping, remolding, I was proud of the finished product.
I just hope it does my favorite character justice. He provided endless inspiration for me.
________________________________________________________Final Draft_________________________________________________________
The Voice of a Virtuoso
by
Harlequin Grim
Kalera Tormin's voice ascended to the ceilings as I finished scaling the vaulted walls of the Erythrai Opera House. A dull ache in my left shoulder reminded me of her preferred way of ending my contract with the Cabal. The charming method was a midnight visit from one of my colleagues, who, after making a pitiable effort on my life, instead made a contribution to my collected works with his own.
Although ambitious, the head councilor’s timbre was just passable for the thousands gathered inside the most illustrious theatre in all of Ionia. Without the orchestra to accompany her solo in the fourth act of Mephisto's Fall, the vibrato in her voice was, sadly, not enough to hide the mediocrity of her attempt.
And yet, without Kalera's hidden passion for the arts, we would never have found our threads tangled in this fateful knot. Our roles joining once more at an unrivaled setting.
Humility was my mask for too long. An uncomfortable guise, worn often by the misguided, the ashamed, the unappreciated. Or, in my instance, the patient. Working in the shadows does have its perks, despite it being an insufferable role to play under the Cabal's heels. One of them is being underestimated. Overlooked. A trait which, although previously a sad necessity, needn't be endured any longer.
Not after tonight.
A window under the highest eaves of the opera house would grant access to a concealed walkway beneath the roof, distant and parallel to the stage. I waited for my queue.
Her solo ended. A duet began. After Mephisto's heralded entrance, their voices joined and, now accompanied by the orchestra, boomed in staccato replies.
I waited for the next burst from the string and drum ensemble. When it arrived, I crashed through the window and rolled into the darkened crawlspace.
Previously entranced by the performance, a handful of lacquered guards keeping watch for any would-be audience members trying to climb their way to a free seat turned towards me. Although I hadn't anticipated their involvement, I was grateful for the opportunity to improvise.
Sadly, I realized there were five of them. Five.
I sighed and gave them time to fumble for their rapiers while I plucked a splinter of glass from my cloak.
There were fourteen measures exactly left in this piece, seven of which would provide adequate volume. The music would have to make do as my silencer.
"On your mark, gentlemen," I greeted them with a bow and caressed Whisper's handle beneath my cloak.
With the space too cramped for two of them to walk abreast, the guardsmen would have to approach one by one.
The harmonics swelled. I spun, unholstered Whisper, and joined the melody. An explosive note struck the nearest guard and quieted him in time for the beat between the next attack. I caught the expelled cartridge in my right hand, rolled under an overhead strike from the second guard, and on my return up, graced his solar plexus with another round in rhythm with the orchestral burst.
“Wonderful!" I laughed.
Five more measures to compress the three dancers into their last moments. The third looked less than optimistic.
“Do you require instruction?" I asked. “The timing, I think you'll find, is most difficult.”
With a feigned reluctance, I goaded his participation into the fifth clasp of thunder from the orchestra and relinquished Whisper's exuberance once more, an eruption of light capturing his silhouette's shadow as it fell towards the wall.
"That's it!”
The fourth attacker came with a vengeance during a quiet measure. That simply wouldn't do.
"Not now," I growled at him, acquiring a fallen rapier before plunging it through his heart. Although not my style nowadays, that sensation of steel against flesh pierced with hushed nostalgia.
"But you," I said to the remaining guard as the strings deafened the air, "have played your part. Perfectly!"
"Please!"
The last guard surrendered his life to a radiance which ignited the dark, dusty space, Whisper's fourth round setting his heart to cinders.
I savored the exhilaration of a successful introduction despite his rather cliché plea. Mounting excitement quivered through me as I strode for the stairs that led to an empty balcony above.
After fastening Whisper to her second half, I knelt at the guardrails.
"And now," I murmured, "for our crowning moment, Kalera. This time ... the audience will sing for you."
As the melody of the last piece shifted to the final song in act four, I relished the performance, the oblivious spectators. Mephisto's Fall has always been a classic, but only for tonight's rendition would the piece transcend its banality; only for this showing, would it be Lenora, Kalera's character, who would be graced with the role of falling.
A mixture of ballet dancers costumed as demons swarmed the stage to tempt Mephisto into his climatic despair. Their scarlet skirts and frills cavorted about him, their movements hastening to match the rising crescendo strangling the atmosphere.
For the first time in years my finger trembled on the trigger. Never had I performed for thousands at once. Now, with so many spectators waiting, I could hardly contain my excitement.
People think that silence holds a certain divinity.
They are half right.
It is what breaks it that is sacred.
Before the zenith of the crescendo that ushers in the symphony’s finale, there is a measure of silence. Four beats of it. But for this particular production, it desired something greater.
Kalera and Mephisto's voices merged with the orchestra in beatific harmony. The audience steeled themselves. I stared down Whisper's edge.
At last, the measure arrived.
A silence without dissonance.
A brief eternity before unparalleled beauty.
I poured myself into the shot. Whisper sung into the stillness, a tearing rupture through the air.
Kalera's extended arms collapsed inward to embrace the shot as it wove tendrils of thorny vines around her flesh, crimson blooming petals about her feet. Transcendence incarnate.
Her expression—a clouded epiphany—earned a euphoric sigh.
While my audience sang.