It’s not quite as horrific a post as the title may suggest! I now have hard copies of Survivors (people who support me as Glass Herons over on Patreon now have books on their way in the post).
This video involves me waving pages at the camera, talking a little bit about what’s in the books and my involvement. I wrote the scripts for the graphic novels, and as the series progressed I became involved with the colouring side of things, as well as coming up with concepts for some of the images. The cover for this one was my idea, and it says a lot about Salamandra’s relationship with the island.
The storms often bring something strange. Giant sea monsters wash up on our beaches, dead and dying, to become food for the crows. Small, broken things litter the high tide mark, tiny glimpses into other worlds tangled through strands of seaweed. In the violence of nature there is bounty for the scavengers, human and other.
I have never seen her like before. I watched her twisting out of the sky, fighting the rage of a late afternoon that meant to slaughter what it could. Beauty comes this way so seldom, and I do not know how many times I have seen some lovely thing die here, cast onto these hard shores.
She fought the wind, this bird, even as she came careening down from the clouds. I could see her struggle, a wild fight for life that refused despair or defeat. My heart ached for her desperate plight. I did not want to watch her die, and yet I could not bring myself to look away.
As she came closer I realised how big she was, the span of her wings far wider than my open arms. She passed over me, beyond my reach, every feather visible to me. There was a lustre in her, a brightness that even this foul weather could not dampen.
While the wind toyed with her, she slowed her fall, and came down onto the clifftop, stumbling but not wounded. Her landing disturbed a horde of screaming geese, and I was half afraid they might take their ire out on me, but they calmed under the gaze of the newly arrived bird – a thing I would not have thought possible had I not seen it myself.
Then she sang. An inhuman voice, with something of the flute in it and something of the shore on a gentle day. I swear the waves softened at the sound of it, and the wind dropped away. Even the ferocious stormclouds above us seemed less menacing somehow. She sang, and I remembered moments of sweetness from the past, and times when I had almost been happy. I wept for lost companions and for my own loneliness, and I was not ashamed of the weeping.
When at last she left me, I felt strangely peaceful. The heavy clouds thinned above me, and the sea tossed with far less anger than before. Her flight was as lovely as her song, full of the delicacy of her wondrous feathers, and for a while she filled the sky.
Only as she left did I understand that she had chosen to come to this inhospitable place. She had not been falling out of control as I first believed. She had journeyed here to share a little of herself, and had then travelled on to some other place, or time or soul where her song was needed. I felt honoured, humbled by this idea. I do not know why she chose me, for I see nothing in myself that could be worthy of her. There is only one response I can therefore make, which is to become something more, something filled with those feathers and haunted by that song.
You can find out more about Mike’s art here – https://www.zawackiart.com/ His work is amazing and I heartily recommend checking him out.
I’ve been messing about a bit with self-portraits this week, and this is my Hopeless take on me.
9
Clearly I am some sort of eldritch abomination! Obviously, I have tentacles. I’m not sure why I’m a lamp stand from the waist down – It could be that I was a trial run for Mrs Beaten. I imagine that I have been left in a dark corner of a largely forgotten room, but if people approach me I will tell them terrible things.
What would you look like as an island resident? We’re always open to art, and to cosplay, so if you’re a resident with the time and inclination to send us something, we’d love to share it. If you don’t have direct contact with us already, just leave a comment and we’ll pluck your email address from wordpress and drop you a line.++++++++++++
Many years ago, when Nimue and I started this whole Hopeless, Maine thing, Nimue wrote two books that went along with the timeline of The Gathering. The first of these two books was New England Gothic, which takes place before book one and gives a lot of background on Annamarie and her earlier life (Yes. Those of you who have read Sinners will be having feels at this point) NEG is a bloody wonderful strange tale and we thought we’d bring it and the other prose book out along with the graphic novels, lavishly illustrated, of course. Well, this was before we learned a lot of things about the publishing industry (some of which we would rather not know, but that’s a long story for another time) We do plan to release both of these books in PDF form in the near future on the same Etsy site that the game is on. Then, hopefully, later there will be the fully illustrated print version. In the meantime, you can get New England Gothic in installments by pledging to Nimue’s Patreon!
Hoping, as always, this finds you well, inspired and thriving.
Sorry we’ve been a bit quiet. I’ve been working diligently on the page art for the next graphic novel volume and Nimue is doing roughly twelve thousand* things all at once.
*rough estimate, she is a blur, so it’s tricky to count.
Hopefully, this will make up for it, a bit. Here is the cover art for VICTIMS (Volume three of Hopeless, Maine) I gave a bit of background about the decision process on the subject matter when we posted the cover art at drawing stage, so I won’t get into that here. I *will* say, that this is the best, strangest, most touching, funniest script so far. You know when you are watching an anime series and the first season is all pretty straightforward and largely what you would expect and then the following seasons drops you into the deep end and play with all of your expectations and turn up the emotions and conflict? Yes, that. That’s pretty much what’s going on with the rest of the series.
Here is a thing wot I wrote to go to the distributor for the listing of Victims-
“Welcome back to the fog-shrouded island of Hopeless, Maine- an island cut off from the world and lost in time. It’s been busy here since you’ve been away! We all knew that werewolves would show up on the island eventually. I mean, there are vampires (that cough), ghosts and all manner of things that go bump in the night (and occasionally around noon, for no particular reason) well, they’re here now. Salamandra and Owen do their best to cope with this new danger to island residents while investigating a new rash of disappearances. Masked, cowled cultists have begun to make themselves known, and the vampires are about as much help as usual. Salamandra struggles with the disembodied presence that surrounds the island and continues to speak to her alone. Owen receives a new position (which he definitely does not want) and Drury the undead dog cavorts across the island. This is the most eventful volume yet, with greater insight into the main characters, and a generous helping of dark humor.”
Pretty good, huh?
So here, without further ado, is the cover art, hand coloured by Nimue. The text is a temporary version, our publisher will make the design all shiny and put the Sloth Logo on and such. Also-look closely and see if you can find the key in the image. That’s a thing that showed up in The Gathering, and we will have more to say about that soon… Hope you like!
Mrs Beaten has no belief whatsoever in spoonwalkers. Which is unfortunate, really, because the spoonwalkers most assuredly do believe in her, and in the contents of her cutlery drawer.
It has come to my attention that Mr Frampton Jones, of the Hopeless Vendetta, has immaculate shirts. I feel uncomfortably over-familiar in using his first name thusly (we are hardly on intimate terms!) but with so many islanders being properly ‘Mr Jones’ it becomes exceeding difficult to clarify to whom one is referring. While trying to find food for purchase last week, I was involved in a most confusing conversation in which at least three farmers called Mr Jones were involved, and as a consequence I entirely failed to find any meat for the table.
While I do not like to speak ill of others, I cannot help but feel that my neighbour, Miss Tenacity Jones was making mock of me. I have previously been compelled to discourage her familiar way of talking about people, and now she refers to all of her relations as Mr or Mrs Jones, with scant regard to their apparent gender, and it is most unhelpful of her.
Mr Frampton Jones, of The Hopeless Vendetta has beautiful shirts. His shoes are invariably shined, his bowler hat neatly brushed. It lifts my spirits to think that I may not be alone in seeking civilization on this vile island.
I do not think it is the proper business of women to criticise important men who are doing important things, importantly. Many times in the past I have had no choice but to silence foolish women who have thought it appropriate to air opinions of this nature. It is a woman’s place to applaud, to hold pens, to commiserate if appropriate, and not, I feel strongly, to make comment on the actions of the superior sex.
And yet, when the pillars of the community act badly, what is a woman to do? Should I remain silent, complicit in allowing dreadfulness to continue? What is the proper response to finding that the important men are not doing the important things? This is truly a conundrum.
The great men of the island have such appallingly low standards. Reverend Davies may often be seen in public wearing a shirt with no actual collar. Doctor Willoughby’s collars are limp and yellowing, and there are visible stains upon the front part. Durosimi O’Stoat, I am told, is the last male heir of one of the most important local families. I briefly made his acquaintance yesterday. We were not properly introduced, he smelled of common dirt, and the whole encounter has left me shocked.
What am I to do? It is unspeakably difficult for me.