Write-a-thon with Brandon Sanderson Pt 1

Join us for a live online writing event with Brandon Sanderson!  Waygate Foundation is proud to host a Write-a-thon featuring the creation of a new work of fiction by Brandon Sanderson.  The event will take place this Friday, January 17th, beginning at 4:00 PM Eastern Standard Time and will run for approximately five hours.  The Write-a-thon recognizes the successful start of the Worldbuilders annual campaign for Heifer International, and will help drive the final two weeks of this campaign to a new record donation.  75% of all funds raised during this event will be donated to Worldbuilders.

This public event will enable fans to watch as Mr. Sanderson writes in real-time, and participate in the process.  Check out a recording of the broadcast on YouTube.

Story so far:


Sanderson/Waygate Write-a-Thon 01-17-2014

Character 1
48 Female Epic Fantasy (Island World)
• Ship Captain (Murdered Parents-But doesn’t remember, and is hunting the murderer.)
• Orphan Ship
• Liar (Pathological)
• Curse Moons/Tides. Ghosts.

Character 4
15 Male Stone age
• Tattoo artist. (Blind)
• DINOS!

Characters
Character 2
81 Male Steampunk (Dark/Noir)
• Barber (Former Priest) Powerful enemies in the church.
• Afraid of blood.
• Barber for Aliens, where hair is sacred.
• Alien Hair cult.
• Spy Who listens as he cuts hair. Hair holds memories.
• Leader of church in danger, but Character is excommunicated. And to reveal what he knows, he has to reveal that he has been reading the hair.
• Living on steampunk tech.

Character 3
19 Female Steampunk – heist
• Taxidermist / Necromancer
• We’re only doing animals.
• Thief, with steampunk animal heist superfriends.
• Link with animals she reanimates. (Use own living energy.)
• First person to reanimate. (Normally they just build limbs and things.)
• She’s a “Magic hair” alien. Uses her own hair to reanimate. Hey Isaac, can you look this up for me.
• Can use hair to recapture memories of what they’ve seen.
• Animals gain a little sentience when reanimated.

Writing

Lucius the Hairatic

Lucius shoved his way into the restroom and slammed the door, clutching a fistful of gray and black hair clippings. With his other hand, he flipped on the bathroom fan, which rattled loudly. He had, maybe, two minutes.
Barely enough time.
He dumped the sweaty locks of hair–not his own–into a small dish and pulled out his blowtorch. The broken ceiling fan would mask the sound, and was powerful enough to mask the scent of what came next. .
Affixing his goggles, making certain his barber’s apron was tied tightly, he lit the torch knelt down in the cramped room. Then he started to burn the hair. Unlike human hair, when burned, it smelled sweet–faintly of citrus.
It released tendrils of smoke which coiled and writhed toward the ceiling, and in them–through the view lent him by his lenses–shadows played upon one another. They swirled and churned, forming the shapes of figures. He breathed in the smoke, and with it came impressions, sensations.
He remembered. Dinner the night before, with a calm older woman. Cups of wine. Music, like the sound of fingers on crystal.
A host of other memories. Days spent as a clerk, anguish over the lack of offspring despite years of marriage. Meals. Evenings spent reading. Two weeks of life given him in spurts and pieces. Lucius shivered.
These memories now belonged to him. He didn’t pause to worry about which memories they replaced. His experience, his past, was a patchwork of memories by now. He was more other than self, and had been for many years.
He had a much larger problem. The answer he needed wasn’t here.
He needed more hair.
He turned off the small vacuum, which had captured enough of the smoke to repeat this experience. The machine deposited for him a small vial, smoke swirling inside. He pocketed this, cracking the door. He left the powerful ceiling fan running. It wouldn’t do for Lucius’s patron to catch the scent of his own burning hair. Then, closing the door swiftly behind him, Lucius stepped out of the restroom and rubbed his hands, as if having just washed them following his use of the facilities.
The room beyond was intentionally, and distinctly, individual to him. Mementos ornamented the walls. A plate he’d purchased from a shop near the ocean. A small toy dragon captaining a ship. A picture he’d sketched of some mountains he’d now forgotten. His first shears. The cufflinks he’d been given on the day he’d been ordained to the ministry. He was no longer allowed to wear those.
All these things had once been important to him, but apparently not important enough to remember. He didn’t know how his subconscious chose which memories to discard in favor of the new intrusions. He didn’t forget who he was, for example, but often lost experiences from earlier decades. Memories he’d stolen would worm their way in to replace names of friends, trips he’d taken, or plans he’d been making for later in the week.
In a sense, this room was more him than Lucius himself was. He’d worked here for two decades. The room remembered a person he was not.
His patron was a man in his mid-thirties, with visible streaks of grey in his beard and hair. That hair was determinedly disheveled, kept wild by intention. Men and women sought holiness in individuality, and it was proper to display such with flair. Master Obollus came to Lucius twice a month to maintain his proper look. It required great attention to appear this unkempt, a calculated display to indicate a life lived without fear or shame.
Master Obollus was a minister of moderate import in the government. Lucius had been his locksman, his holy barber, for going on two years now. All carefully coordinated to uncover one secret.
“It’s looking well, brother locksman,” Obollus said. “I think I should like the beard styled now. A through combing should do; I’d like it to maintain that curl and scraggle that is so distinctive.”
“Very well,” Lucius said, stepping forward and calming his nerves. He had always thought, in moments of reflection, that he made a distinctly poor spy. Shouldn’t one such as him have iron nerves? He had trouble keeping his hands from shaking as he situated his barbering supplies.
This man was a friend, a client, and a confidant. Beyond that, heresy did not come easily to Lucius.
“Yes, your Exclusiveness,” Lucius said bringing up the comb. “I must say, your beard is majestic. You have inspired quite the wave of attention.”
“Mmmm,” Obollus said, leaning back, staring up at the holy mural painted above. A circular piece, to inspire contemplation during the time of holy shearing.
“Why, I had three young men come in last week, asking for their beards to be styled with the scraggly look, even going so far as to wish for streaks in them in the precise location of your own.”
Obollus shifted. “You did?”
“Yes, your Exclusiveness,” Obollus said, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm. He could do this. “Why, I can remember a time when not one man in ten had a beard? How times have changed!”
He hummed to himself as he continued, a nervous habit, but one he could not bring himself to stop. It took only another minute or so.
“Shave it off.”
“Your Exclusiveness!” Lucius said.
“All of it,” Obollus continued. “I will go clean-shaven now.”
“Are you…certain, your Exclusiveness?”
The minister fidgeted, pulling at the draping cloth around his neck. “I… You do see a lot of people with beards these days, do you not?”
“Many.”
Obollus sighed, then nodded.
Lucius wasted no further time. He attacked the beard with shears at first, getting off chunks. The older stuff would be useless to him–it was too ancient, the memories too old. He needed the freshly grown hair, from the last few weeks. Any hair on the head would do, but he needed it fresh. Burning it within minutes of the shearing was vital.
This gave him a little time to plan. He shortened the beard, careful to leave it looking ragged so that when Obollus glanced at the mirror, he didn’t suddenly decide that it struck his fancy short. Indeed, he winced as Lucius rinsed his shears, obviously wondering if he had made the correct decision.
Lucius knelt and cleaned up the beard clippings, using a blessed envelope. These would later be burned at a ceremony at the temple, the memories sent toward heaven, and not allowed to infect anyone nearby. That was a precaution that was mostly ceremonial. They would see scenes in the smoke, yes, but the memories would not linger. Most could not do as Lucius did, at least not without extraordinary aid.
Now the tricky part. He lathered up the minister, then took his straight razor. For this next part, trembling hands would not do.
Oddly, the thing that calmed him–even after all these years–were memories of the singing in the temple from his youth, the days of his training. Almost everything from those days was gone. But not those songs. Those sweet, blessed songs.
The four-part harmony of holy music rising in the back of his mind, he reached out and struck free the beard from his patron’s skin, pulling the razor in a long streak–filing the chamber with the sound of stubble scraping on steel and revealing pink skin beneath, naked for the first time in decades.
Then Lucius cut himself.
He cried out, dropping the razor and being certain to catch hold of some sudsy locks as he held out the cut hand, distracting Obollus. The minister sat up with surprise, eyes wide at the sight of red mixing with pristine white lather.
“Your Distinctiveness,” Lucius cried, “my greatest apologies. I’m sorry. I can’t believe–”
“By my memories!” Obollus exclaimed. “Go clean up, man!”
The wound–a gash across the back of Lucius’s wrist–was deeper than he’d intended. No time for that. He nodded and hurried to the bathroom.
He struggled with foam, hair, and blood as he tried to get beard clippings into their bowl. The process was not nearly so neat this time around. He pulled out his blowtorch, frantic. Would it burn? It was so wet. He tried to dry the hair off, but it stuck to the towel.
He stopped, breathed a prayer, and remembered the songs. Then, he blowtorched the sodden hair.
Smoke rose. It was not in pretty, dancing spirals this time, and it did not smell so sweet. The strands gave off an acrid puff of smoke, which was followed by limp, weak trails. He could see no full images, and he’d forgotten to turn on the machine to capture this smoke.
He leaned in, holding his hand over his cut wrist, and breathed in.
Memories. Lucius cutting his hair. A breakfast of fish and rice. Lying with Obollus’s wife. The funeral of Obollus’s uncle, with accompanying anguish. Lucius found himself weeping for a man he’d never known.
And there. A day in the offices. A special day.
Where he saw a ponytail, frozen in ice.
Lucius relaxed, letting out a deep breath. It was there, securely in his head. He knew where to find the hairs, the ones from before.
The ones who remembered.
Blood seeped between his fingers, but he closed his eyes, uncaring. Two years of work to get Obollus as a client. Then a wait, knowing that he had seen the inner rooms once, and hoping he would be invited again. Being ready to schedule a trim after it happened.
It had all been for this.
And it was glorious.
A fist pounded on the door. “Are you all right, Brother Locksman?”
“Fine. Fine. Yes, your Uniqueness. Please. Just a moment.” He hurriedly cleaned himself, making a bandage out of his handkerchief. Hoping that the man was not close enough to catch scent of what Lucius had done, he slipped out to find Obollus wiping his face. A patchy beard, now short, with one streak cut through it.
“I’ll be right with–” Lucius began.
“I like it.”
Lucius blinked. “Your…Uncommonness?”
“Nobody has a beard such as this,” Obollus said. “Distinctive. Original. Yes, I shall keep it.”
Nobody had a beard like that because it was wholly unflattering, an offense to Lucius sensibilities. It was in poor taste both aesthetically and theologically.
“I agree,” Lucius said anyway.
And was left with the image of one of the high ministers of the Jakari government strolling out with a face partially-shaven and a smile on his lips.

Names
Lucius
• Lots of déjà vu,’
• Sees hairstyles.
• Someone has some of lucius’s original hair? some not tainted by the memories of others?
• when he got excommunicated from the church they shaved his head

The Jakari
Obollus
• Daughter is a necromancer. (See above.)
Worldbuilding Guide
• The leader of the church never cuts his hair. When he dies, his hair is burnt and the memories go into the next leader.
• Wigs? (Family memories.)
• interesting potential conflict if what he’s doing is frowned upon – a friend comes in and he doesn’t recognize them because the memory is gone
• The memories replace older memories first. (Mental defense mechanism.)
• RELIGION
• Collect cool memories.
• Individuality is worshipped.
• HISTORY
• Nobody remembers what happened past a few generations ago. He’s trying to figure out why.
• the Grand Dominion of the Pakari’s spans the galaxy. there’s a secret project to look for new dimensions to conquer and new races to enslave. Lucius isn’t bitter, as the world has been this way for all of living memory. he dreams to fly through space, but humans are restricted to their planet. they’ve been left in ‘primitive’ steampunk technology, while the pakari’s have moved far into the future of technologies, to prevent rebellion.
• Your Uncommonness, Your Originality, Your Inventiveness, Your Creativity, Your Individuality.

For Next Revision
• Foreshadow that nobody has memories from the before time.
• OR: The pony tail is his own. And he has memories he should not, but they were erased. And if he gets it, he can restore himself.