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Sweetest of Exiles - One

Summary: When Oberyn Martell travels to Essos for exile, he found more than he anticipated when he first lays eyes on Pero Tovar, his brother-in-arms in the Second Sons mercenary company. While Pero is a bit resistant to his Oberyn’s overt charms at first, the Prince always gets what he wants. When the Second Sons are hired to rescue a wealthy merchant’s daughter, Oberyn learns there is much more to the grumpy sellsword. And Oberyn doesn’t mind sharing–especially when the merchant’s daughter smiles at him like that.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Pero Tovar, (past) Pero Tovar x F!Reader (No Y/N), future--it is a surprise.

Rating for this chapter: T for mentions of blood, guts and gore...magic. My overuse of italics.

Word Count: 5k

A/N: I wrote most of this drunk (or buzzed). I am still riding my red wine high so I almost apologize for the nonsense. If you have any questions about the ASOIAF lore/geography that I’m mentioning, please send me an ask or a DM! I’m always happy to ramble about this series.

(thank you to my love, @starlight-starwrites for the absolutely gorgeous banner. I love you.)

Or read on Ao3 here!

CHAPTER ONE: The Mercenary

Oberyn had always wondered what he looked like when fucking someone. He had looking glasses set up in one of his lover’s rooms so he could try to catch a glimpse himself. But his unrelenting need to keep his partners satisfied always won out over his curiosity.

But then the gods seemed to have a sense of humor when they sent him away from Dorne after he might-have-killed Edgar Yronwood. The Citadel and Oldtown had entertained him for a moment but it soon bored him and he set off across the Narrow Sea to Essos. While the Second Sons mercenary company welcomed him and his sword arm, his eyes were firmly trained on the man toward the back of the company with the scar down his face.

His face.

And well, his time away from Dorne just became much more interesting.

It had taken almost an entire year of not-at-all subtle flirting and propositions and nearly losing their lives time and time again before Pero found himself tumbling into the Prince of Dorne’s bed. The Prince was definitely persistent, Pero would never admit that his charms—his annoying charms—had worn him down instead of Pero’s selfish desire for release while the company was too far away from any sort of willing woman and his hand just wasn’t cutting it. But the Prince had been attentive—willing to let Pero wrap his scarred and rough hand around his throat when he was pressing him into the threadbare bedroll in the quiet corner of camp.

The prince felt good—and he knew how to make Pero feel good.

It was infuriating—he wanted to strangle he smug smirk right off the prince’s face but he knew that the Prince was only capable of enjoying when someone’s hand was around his throat. But he had to admit that he had finally found a true friend (and not just release) with the man who looked strangely like him.

It had been nearly two decades since he could speak with someone as openly as he did when he was alone with the prince in their tent.

But his mind still drifted—to years ago. To his life before finding coin in the service of the Second Sons.

“You make the moon shine brighter, Pero.”

It was childish of him, stupid, to still think of her all these years later. Surely she had forgotten him. They had just been children—he had just been a third-born son of a disgraced lord from Valysar and she had been… she had been everything.

“You are pensive, Tovar.” The prince’s voice cut through his reverie.

He had thought the prince asleep—spent from a long day’s ride and a quick, near-desperate fuck as soon as their shared tent was erected. “It is dark, princeling. You cannot see me.”

Oberyn chuckled. “I know your brooding silences from your angry quiet.”

“You think a great deal of yourself, don’t you?” He grumbled, rolling his eyes despite the dark.

“I believe you think a great deal of me, as well.”

Pero sighed.

“Tell me what weighs on your mind.”

“Nothing that concerns you. Go to sleep.”

Oberyn laughed. “I will find out what has you brooding.”

“Do not hold your breath, princeling.”

He only laughed.

Pero was not sure when they had both fallen asleep but they were both woken by a frantic yell outside their tent. The prince’s knife glinted in the dimming moonlight and Pero had never let his hand leave the hilt of one of his smaller swords as they charged outside. They expected an ambush—a retaliation from the Tyroshi they had just pushed back on behalf of Lys—but instead, they found a disheveled man, bloodied and bruised and desperately limping toward their camp, frantically waving his hands above his head, shouting something in the Myrish bastard Valyrian dialect.

Pero sheathed his blade as he finally started to realize what the man was babbling. “Calm yourself, man.” Pero said, stepping in front of Oberyn.

The man nearly collapsed as he reached them, big, brown eyes shining in the moonlight. “They took her. They took her—I barely escaped.” He continued to jabber and Pero mostly listened—having heard desperate pleas from hundreds of men and women over the years of his service in the mercenary company—the man’s story consisted of being surrounded on the road to Myr by a group of religious zealots. The story was not an unfamiliar one. The Free Cities were known to erupt with pockets of violence; the causes ranged from trade disputes, claims to land, religion, and everything in between.

Pero had heard it all.

But then the man opened his mouth, blood drying on his chin, and said, “but they took her—they wanted her.” And a name pushed by the man’s bruised lips—a name he hadn’t heard in years.

Before he could stop himself, Pero reached out and grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic and hauled him to his unsteady feet. “Tell me where.”

The captains deliberated for only a few short moments before refusing to take the charge.

The fact that the woman was Qohorik had negated the fact that the Myrish magistrate who had fought his way to their camp had promised a princess’ ransom and promised that her father, a prominent merchant, would double it for her safe return. The Second Sons had been humiliated generations ago at Qohor and had not taken any bounties or contracts from the city or its inhabitants since then.

The Second Sons gave the magistrate—Orestes, his name was—some water and a bit of feed for his exhausted horse and then told him to leave. They would not go.

And Pero was an angry man. He had wrath in his blood since he was a boy, tempered only with bouts of relief and quiet. But this had sent him into a near rage with how flippant they captains had been when they had delivered their decision. Of course, he had not mentioned that the woman Orestes had pleaded to be rescued had been…her. Or how he knew her. Attachments like that were frowned upon, even by mercenaries. Soft hearts made easy targets.

But as the sun set the next day, Pero knew what he had to do. Even if he was alone. He packed his bare essentials, mostly worried about his sack of coin and weapons, and then pushed out of the tent-

-only to be met with the smirking face of the princeling. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”

“I do not have time for this.”

“Yes, you do,” Oberyn said with a broadening smirk as he turned away, leading Pero further away from camp as the moon continued her climb up into the inky sky. And why was Pero following him? He had to leave. He had to find that stupid magistrate. He had to-

There were about two dozen Second Sons, including one of the company’s healers, waiting at the tree line with their packs and mounts. Oberyn’s smirk reached its peak as he winked over his shoulder at Pero who only scowled in return. The Magistrate—Orestes—was standing with them, looking more than a little out of place with his rumpled fine clothes, now stained with dirt and blood. But he offered a tentative tilt of his head when Pero stepped up to the group with Oberyn.

“What did you do?” Pero hissed.

“I formed my own mercenary company,” Oberyn replied with a roll of his shoulders. “I know you are brighter than this, Tovar.”

If possible, his lips formed an even thinner line.

“Do not pout. We are going to save the damsel and get paid.” There was a cheer from the small band of men—both Tovar and Orestes were the only ones who did not seem to enjoy it. But soon they were on their way, each step taking them further away from the strange safety of the Second Sons and into the wilds of Essos.

Orestes, Pero found, was fond of speaking to anyone who would listen. His voice was pleasing but Pero preferred the quiet in most instances. But, he supposed it was necessary to learn just how he had ended up fleeing to the Second Sons in a desperate plea for help.

Orestes and his companion had been traveling from Qohor to Myr—and Pero tried very hard to not grind his teeth every time Orestes referred to her as ‘my lady’—to allow her to see more of Essos and to return Orestes to Myr after his year-long residency to Qohor that had been in the name of strengthening trade routes and agreements.

(“But, of course, I found myself more entranced by the city and its people than my fellow magistrates’ mandates that I was told to quickly solidify.” He sighed, the sound only a lovelorn man could make and Pero could not stop the grinding of his teeth at that.)

But on the road between Volantis and Myr, a group of heavily armed, religious zealots had slaughtered their small band of traveling companions and guards and took her and Orestes captive in a plot to gain the knowledge her father was keeping secret.

Her father, Lord Ollo, had been one of the famed smiths in Qohor who still knew the secrets of re-forging Valyrian Steel. The famed metal had become a treasure since the Doom and those who could work with the fickle and strong metal were regarded as lords and wielded their power like nobility, too. Travelers from all across Essos sought him out for new weapons, armor, and the occasional piece of jewelry from bits of Valyrian Steel and he had gained a reputation for being excessively secretive but the best at his trade. His wife was a noble woman and had raised his status with their marriage while providing her with the lifestyle on par with princesses.

But Pero knew all of this. He had seen it firsthand. He had supped with him and felt his lady-wife’s fingers tug at his boyishly poorly cropped hair with a fond smile. He knew that their home, an imposing fortress deep in the Forest of Qohor, always smelled of fire and metal and drying flowers.

It smelled…like home.

Well, it had. For a time. A long time ago.

And Orestes never needed to know that—never needed to know that the only reason he had a small band of mercenaries at his call was because the Prince knew that the woman, whose name he could not even say aloud, meant something to Pero.

For all his pride and well-earned arrogance, Oberyn was a good man, Pero had to admit. (He would never actually say this to Oberyn, his ego was big enough without the extra fodder.) And he would have to find a way to repay the prince-who-had-everything in some fashion. Pero’s pride would not allow this kindness to be left unpaid.

Orestes went on to explain that the zealots thought attaining the knowledge of Valyrian Steel would allow them the proper way of sacrificing in order to satiate the supposed blood lust of some old, stupidly named god. They hoped to trade her for Lord Ollo’s knowledge.

“But you seem to know my lady,” Orestes said, turning in his saddle to look Pero straight in the face. “Do you?”

“Is she your lady?” Pero asked in return, ignoring Orestes’ question and how his stomach turned at the thought of her being alone with a group of men as delusional as the band of zealots. Thankfully, they were nearing where Orestes said he had been held captive—less than two days’ ride from their camp but they had set their horses upon the trail with haste, cutting time from their journey.

Orestes’ answering smile was small. “No. But I am blessed to know her and I will never forgive myself for leaving her behind.”

“But she told you to, didn’t she? Told you to run and not look back.” The words were out of his mouth before he could bite them back and his ever-present scowl deepened.

“You do know her. Indeed, she told me to run as soon as I was able. But not to Myr—she told me to run west.” He paused and shook his head and Pero barely caught the confusion coloring the Magistrate’s features. “I had thought the prince was jesting when he said you knew her. I am in your debt, it seems.”

“Just pay the fee you promised.”

“Of course! I would not dream of-”

“Good.” Pero dug his heels into his horse’s side and urged the animal into a faster trot. “You will keep your head, then.” Orestes said something else but Pero had already galloped away to Oberyn’s side at the front of the group. “What have you said to the magistrate?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“Do not lie to me, princeling.” Pero scarcely noticed the men behind them slow their horses’ pace to give them room. Their relationship—if it could even be called that—was an open secret to most in the Second Sons and some of those who followed Oberyn into this new company were also willing to indulge themselves in each other’s bedrolls if the time called for it.

Oberyn only laughed. “I did not know that your obvious reaction to a lady’s name was a secret needing to be kept.”

“What else have you told him?”

“Nothing. Just as you have told me nothing. But I have still called the men who were loyal to me and the promised coin to save this woman you have kept like a secret.” Oberyn arched an eyebrow, a look Pero knew meant Oberyn was daring him to argue. “She will be safe. The Magistrate will be on his way and our pockets will be filled.” Oberyn’s dark eyes sparkled in the growing sunlight. “And I shall meet this lady of yours. She must be a sight to behold to warrant such attention.”

“She…” The words died on his tongue. How would he even try to describe her? How childish would he sound to a prince for harboring such affections for his childhood love after all this time? “She warrants much more than any man could ever give. Including the Magistrate.”

Oberyn huffed but a smile tugged at his lips. “We are nearly there, Tovar. You can make the polite introductions.”

Night had just started to fall, painting the sky a violent shade of orange, when Orestes had announced that the ruined castle was just over the next hill.

Pero felt his chest tighten for a moment, a shot of adrenaline he had not felt as strongly since he was a new recruit to the Second Sons facing a small horde of Dothraki.

They crested the hill and Pero saw the broken remains of a once-grand castle. A single window was lit with the dim light of a candle just as the sun disappeared behind the stone, making it look like it had absorbed the red light and bathed in an inky black.

Defense of the castle was nearly impossible with its location and the small band of mercenaries quickly surrounded it, ready to drive inside when suddenly….the door, large and rusted, opened and a single man rushed out, screaming something in what Pero thought to be Old Ghiscari and covered in…blood.

Pero turned to look at Oberyn who seemed to be waffling between amusement and confusion at the sight. He waved a hand, silently commanding two men to secure the fleeing zealot—quietly, if possible.

“It is too quiet,” Pero said as he turned back to the castle after watching the screaming man be brought to his knees and a dirty rag shoved between his lips.

Oberyn agreed. “Surely a band of zealots would make more noise. I’ve been told they’re fond of chanting.” The prince slid closer to the ruined castle, staying hidden behind the rolling hill and scattered boulders for cover.

Pero watched him move, knowing the prince had an innate talent for hearing the smallest noises—whether it be from a rabbit or a sneaking assassin, and would trust whatever his judgement was.

“If anyone is left, they are not moving.”

Pero nodded, ignoring the umpteenth time his chest clenched, and signaled for the rest of their band of men to press forward. Step by step, they neared the castle and spread out to find different entrances. Orestes stumbled in the loose dirt to stay near Pero and Oberyn and Pero grimaced when Oberyn nudged him in the side, silently telling him to allow it—at least for the time being.

Closer and closer, they crept until they Pero was able to curl his hand around the edge of the door and peel it open just enough for him and Oberyn to slip inside. Orestes tripped over a loose stone as he followed.

And Oberyn had been right.

The castle was quiet. Unnaturally so.

The grip on his swords tightened as the small group pushed further into the dark ruins. Torches were scattered and burning out in their holds on the wall, casting even more shadows against the crumbling stone. He heard the soft footfalls of his fellow mercenaries coming in through the east and west entrances but it gave him little comfort. They were alone.

Alone.

His next step made a splash and he looked down to see the toe of his boot submerged in a dark puddle. He reached out and grabbed a torch from the wall and let the dying flames shine near the floor.

It was blood.

He raise the torch just enough to light the end of the hall and sighed.

“How interesting,” Oberyn said as he glanced over his shoulder.

Blood pooled between the broken stone and drip-drip-dripped from some unseen source to puddle in the corner. Bodies were crumpled along the path and Pero turned to pin Orestes with a look. “These men were the ones who slaughtered your guards and took you captive?”

Orestes looked down at a body and seemed to bite back a gulp. “Yes.”

“It looks like they put up quite a fight.”

“It looks like they were ripped open,” Pero corrected before pressing forward. “What did this? Did they do this to each other?”

“I’ve never seen a group more cohesive than them,” Orestes said. “They never contradicted each other or spoke out of turn. They had a singular mentality, it seemed. I would not believe they turned on each other.”

“Men turn on each other all the time,” Oberyn said. “Even without cause.”

They continued forward, Pero leading. He was not sure where they were going, but he knew—instinctively—that he needed to keep moving. If another person or creature had found the castle before they did, what hope did she have? Would he find her like this, too? Reduced to a bloody corpse? Would that be the last chance he would have to see her?

But they walked on, further into the dark, catching glimpses of the rising moon in the half-collapsed windows until they turned and saw the outline of a door, lit by a dim, orange light. Without a care, Pero pushed forward, hilt of his sword still in his hand as he pushed the door open and his grip faltered.

For the first time in nearly two decades, Pero let his swords fall from his grasp.

In the corner of the small room, huddled near a solitary candle, was a woman. Not just a woman—her.

Chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists and angry, deep cuts spanned the length of her legs and arms and her fine dress had been reduced to rags. He barely registered Oberyn calling for the healer as he stepped to her side and quickly knelt down. The locks on the chains were easily undone and his roughened hands carefully prodded at the broken skin.

“Pero,” she whispered, the name sliding by her chapped lips. Her head sagged and Pero moved just enough to let her forehead rest against his shoulder. “You’re here…” her voice was rough and raspy, like she had been screaming for hours. And perhaps she had.

“I’m here.”

The healer came in, arms filled with supplies, while more than a few of their company stuck their heads into the room to see their charge. Oberyn quickly moved them back and shut the door—Pero would thank him for it later.

“Look at me. Look at me, Petal,” Pero said as the healer tutted as he looked over her wounds before uncorking a bit of firewine.

Her unfocused eyes slid to him as the healer set to work. A cry broke her chapped lips as the firewine started to spill across her legs.

Pero reached out and kept her head still, gaze on him, as the healer continued. “Just me, Petal. I am here.”

“Pe-Pero.” The name was stilted on her tongue. “Please—it hurts-” a scream tore its way out of her throat but Pero held her steady even as his chest clenched.

“I know. But it will be over soon.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and slid down her dirty cheeks as her hands shot out to grab at his armor; he could feel the heat of her touch sliding and blooming warmth through his thick tunic. But he kept her focused on him even as the healer muttered about needing more wrappings.

“I’m here, Petal. I’m here.”

“This is my fault,” Orestes whispered.

The company had settled into the ruins as a camp for the night, finding the rooms (where there wasn’t blood or any bodies) more comfortable than the outside ground. Pero, Oberyn, and Orestes were the last three to retire from the roaring fire they had made in the remnants of the great hall.

Pero agreed but kept that to himself. “How?”

“We travelled by Myr weeks ago. But I could not bear to part from my lady’s side—I convinced her, selfishly, to let me take her to see Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh. She had marveled at everything Norvos and Braavos had offered—even Lorath had made her wonder like a child. I wanted to give her more of that, to show her all I could.”

“And then you were set upon by zealots. Probably followed you from Dagger Lake.”

Orestes shook his head. “Our party never neared that pirate hive. The closest we came to it was when she insisted on seeing Valysar. That little town of no consequence.”

Oberyn, only briefly, touched Pero’s back and he knew the prince meant it as a comfort at the mention of Pero’s former home. Orestes did not notice it.

“But she was adamant and refused to tell anyone why. But she all but disappeared for an entire day once we arrived and would not speak of her adventures—the little box she had procured never left her side and was never opened.”

Pero almost smiled at that. She had not changed—in that respect, at least.

Orestes yawned and stood from the rickety chair. “I must retire for the night. Please alert me if my lady calls for me.”

Oberyn hummed an agreement while Pero felt his face curl into a sneer as the magistrate left the hall.

“He certainly holds a candle for his lady, does he not?” Oberyn mused as soon as Orestes was out of earshot.

“She did not ask for him once,” Pero said before reaching forward to grab the jug of terrible wine left on the table and took a large gulp.

“But she’s asked for you? Hm?” Oberyn asked, snatching the jug from him. “And you’ve yet to introduce me. I am almost insulted.”

“She needs rest, princeling.” He had made sure she was comfortable in one of the largest rooms and was happy to find that her trunks, filled with her belongings, were still intact and made sure she received them before he had let her rest for the night, making sure to let the rest of the company know that she was not to be disturbed.

“I’m sure she does.” He took a drink. “But she has also been trapped, alone, with men who meant her harm for nearly a week. You were the first friendly face she saw—do not think that I misheard her. She called for you. Pero.”

“You could walk in there now and she would not be able to tell the difference.”

Oberyn tutted and Pero stole the jug back. “I believe she would.”

Pero nearly startled when Oberyn reached out and grasped his wrist, keeping him from draining the rest of the wine. His grip was firm but gentle and a hold Pero knew well. “I thought people in Essos were more willing to indulge themselves in matters of the heart and flesh. Do not be stupid.”

And somehow…that worked. Pero slipped into her room and found her sitting on the small bed, wrapped legs atop the thin blankets and a book on her lap. In the warm candlelight, she looked almost healthy. Like she was not covered in healing salve and he didn’t know there were long, angry cuts hidden by wrappings and her thin nightgown.

She looked…so much like the girl he had left behind decades ago.

Pero remembered Lady Daeryssa smiling down at her daughter, flowers twisted into her braids.

“You are special, my star. Like me.”

“Like you, Mama?”

Daeryssa nodded and grabbed the small, blue rose she had Pero fetch just that morning and pressed her thumb against one of its thorns until blood bloomed on her skin and started to trickle down her skin. Her face was serene and Pero could not look away. Her bloodied fingers pulled the petals from the rose and she carefully pressed them against her daughter’s forehead, sticking them to her skin with blood. Words he didn’t understand slipped by her lips as she pressed another petal and then another to her daughter’s face until she stripped the flower bare.

“You will be magnificent, my star. Your trials will be hard but you will always rise above.”

“Come in,” she said, setting her book aside.

Pero did as he was told and blindly set his hands in hers as she reached out for him, letting her tug him onto the edge of her bed. “How are you?”

“I will heal.” She smiled as if nothing had caused her pain and his chest hurt. “I brought you something.” She leaned back just enough to retrieve a small box from the mess of blankets.

The box was nothing spectacular, made from a polished dark wood with a simple latch and did not weigh more than his dagger. “How did you know we would see each other again?” He asked.

She only smiled and pressed the small box further into his grip. “Open it.”

And he could not tell her no. He unfastened the latch and felt his face crumple as he looked inside. His mother’s handwriting, still beautiful and tilted, drew his eye first. He grabbed the thin bit of parchment and unfurled it.

My dear boy- I love you more than words can say. You have saved us.

The rest of the letter was filled with anecdotes, telling Pero how the coin he had sent back home kept their family afloat and settled his father’s debts, allowing his mother and brothers to stay home and retain their titles and livelihoods. He had saved them. His mother had written it at least three times in her short letter.

But I still wish I witnessed you grow into the man you are today. Come home. You are always welcome.

He quickly let the letter curl in on itself again and shoved it back in the box, knowing she was watching him, face serene and almost unreadable. He reached into the box again and let his fingers brush against something cold and smooth. A shuddering breath pushed its way out of his lung as he pulled out a small, carved wooden wolf that fit in his palm. He raised it up to press the well-worn wood against his lips, just once, before placing it gently back into the box.

“You met my family.”

“I did,” she said. “They were very kind.” She paused. “And they smile so often. I almost didn’t believe you were related to them.”

He huffed. “You never let me have a moments’ peace, Petal.”

“You were the only peace I knew as a child,” she responded.

Pero sat with her for hours under their tree after her mother had disappeared and the petals remained on her face, only falling one by one after the sun had set, leaving little bloody thumbprints across her skin. He tried to press them back onto her skin without success, and she only giggled at his attempts, leaning into each of his touches and letting him try and try again.

She collected all the petals as they fell and Pero had given up on trying to re-stick them.

“What are you doing?”

“Practice.” He watched her reach out and scratch her palm against the broken bark of the tree, slicing open her palm in a single movement.

He squawked and moved to grab her hand but she curled her fingers into a fist, crushing the petals against her bloodied palm. She took a single, long breath through her nose and then unclenched her fist. The petals rose from her bloodied hand and floated up into the air as if pulled by invisible strings. They swirled around the pair before, with another long breath, she let them fly away, disappearing into the thick of the forest.

She laughed then, a light sound that had blood rushing to his cheeks for a reason he could not explain or pinpoint at that moment. All he could mutter as she looked at him, eyes twinkling and a giggle still on her lips was…”petal.”

“Why did you leave?” She asked as he tucked the small box away into his tunic.

Pero froze. “I had to.”

A/N: please let me know what you think! I hope you guys like this! there will be three chapters.

#oberyn martell x reader #pero tovar x reader #oberyn martell imagine #pero tovar imagine #game of thrones imagine #asoiaf #game of thrones #the great wall

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spookydoughnut · 5 years ago

Text

'Why I Made A Game' or 'How I Learned To Stop Sleeping And Love The Coroutine'

Preamble Ramble.

My love for computers and computer games started when my dad bought a BBC Micro B. Whilst the machine is ancient by today’s standards, at the time it opened a whole new world for me. Games such as Repton, Chucky Egg, Citadel and a weird kangaroo game that I can't remember the name of (if anyone does know, I would be eternally grateful) took up most of my time, but what really intrigued me, was a copy of the BBC Microcomputer System User Guide that came with the computer.

In the said user guide, were large sections explaining how to use the basic language, what could be achieved and how to save your programs to tape. A quick skim read later and I started to write my own text adventure games...short, badly written text adventure games, but MY short badly written text adventure games nonetheless.

Fast forward thirty-something years and a slew of computers and consoles later and I was still no closer to writing a full game. Now in my adult years, being a professional Composer, I work with others that have seen game projects through from concept to release. Although I love doing what I do, I was always a little jealous that I hadn't managed to do the same.

Coronavirus Has Entered The Chat.

My year so far has sucked, as I'm sure it has for most people. I lost my dad at the beginning of the year and shortly before that, my grandad. My family and I were stuck in a mould infested flat with no sign of ever escaping. I was depressed and felt quite hopeless. There was no light at the end of the tunnel.

One indistinguishable bleak day, I was going through some files on my desktop and stumbled upon an old unity project that I’d started, called ‘Don`t Die Dickhead’. The project was a basic rage platformer that I’d made as a kind of joke, to piss off any friends and family that were willing to play it. It had three levels, controls that sort-of worked and was completely unfair. My ADHD brain latched onto the idea and before I knew it, I was working on it again; my goal, make ten levels and put it on Steam. I didn't really believe that I'd do it, but I was utterly committed to at least trying to finish it this time. Even though, at that point, I didn't really know where the game was going.

Game Design By Osmosis.

My game design process went something like this ‘make the game tough but fun and if any ideas that you like come to you, implement them...if you can’, That was quite honestly the extent of it. I'd spend time coming up with level design ideas and then add extra problems or aesthetic choices as they came to me.

The game's core revolves around chaos, so that's how it should be created, I thought. That being said...Having a solid idea before you start is a fantastic idea and something I'll definitely do from now on. The more I added to the game, the more I realised that I had to make some sort of a plan.

I added a bunch of parody levels based on games that I like, but then had to figure out how I'd work them into the project. I settled on the idea of every level or collection of levels being different tv shows or stations. As the player progressed, the channels changed and the overall aesthetic changed with it. It was at this point that I actually had to sit down and design it a little more seriously.

When In Doubt Move To Malta.

During this time, my wife and I, disillusioned with the UK government, decided that we no longer wanted to live in the UK. We’ve always had a soft spot for Malta, so we decided to go for it, try living there for a couple of months and if it all works out, begin the process of becoming residents.

Luckily composing had been good to me during lockdown and my wife's blog had started to take off, so we found ourselves in a very unique position. Off we went. Taking the bare minimum with me, an external harddrive, a nanokeys keyboard, My Ollo Audio headphones and a laptop, my intention was to continue working (Scoring a fantastic film at the moment) and finish the game.

After acclimating myself to the new environment, lizards in the house, mosquitos, hornets the size of your fist and 38 degree weather in September, I got back to work. Please believe me when i say ENVIRONMENT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE! Psychologically, the change in environment for me was incredible. I felt far more creatively available and finishing ‘DDD’, for the first time, didn't seem impossible.

And So Here We Are.

Since arriving in Malta, I’ve worked my sexy ass off. When not composing I was coding, when not coding I was creating artwork, when not creating artwork, I was playing the same goddamn level for what seemed like the thousandth time. I changed the name to ‘Don't Die! Douche!’, I made a trailer, I paid for a Steam page (well if we’re honest, my wife did!!), I hassled people to bug test it. Before too long, it was finished. I’d done it!

I'm still in shock to be honest and i'm pretty sure it'll take quite some time to sink in. Its a dumb game, its annoyingly tough in places, more than a little bit surreal. But, it’s my dumb game and I love it.

Final Thoughts.

I guess this whole piece is just my stab at being motivational. Please believe me when I say that If I can do it, so can you! Start small, work consistently, but most importantly make something that you want to make. Ignore trends, do your own thing. I'm not saying that you need to do something revolutionary, just something that has your personality built into it. Having a personal connection to your project makes a big difference. I hope this has been, at the very least entertaining and potentially motivating. Either way, thanks for reading.

If you want to check out ‘Don't Die! Douche!’ I’ll pop the steam page link below.

Take care and try to be nice to one another.

Big Love

Matt

https://store.steampowered.com/app/1399990/Dont_Die_Douche/

#indie game #indie #games #video games #development #game developers #game dev blog

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cannibalisticshadows · 7 years ago

Text

Lookin’ Right Through Me (2/3)

ao3

Did I mention this story is in 2018?

When he can, he comes around at night.

She’s there, like always, sitting in the same seat on the 6th train, sometimes with her head on her shoulders, other times holding it out like it’s a leaky grocery bag.

She still wasn’t much of a talker, but—she understood him. There’s that, at least.

A week after meeting the odd headless girl, he discovered her name not through the internet or Metrocity’s death detabase, but by accident.

It was in the morning, and his car needed an oil change, and according to Minion (more like ordered by Minion) he should take another form of travel. His hover bike, however, was going through some fixes as well, so he was forced to walk or use the underground transit. So, wearing a cleverly evil disguise of a common thug with his watch, he awaited his train ride with hands stuffed in his pockets, working to be as unassuming as possible, when a curious site called his attention.

An older woman was standing by the walkway, a foot away from the tracks, as if waiting for a train. Though, he observed, she faced a iron column and laid out flowers along the floor.

He blinked owlishly. Naturally, he understood this human ritual to mourn the deceased with foliage, but to his amazement, the woman looked suspiciously familiar. Ah, he suddenly remembered. This must be the maternal figure of the dead girl. To be honest he had briefly forgotten about her, with the hustle and bustle in the past week.

At that moment, the very same ghost came up to her by sliding through the walls, fuzzy and fading into existence. The inner sense that said, “dead person!” went off inside of him, but he was used to the feeling. The girl had her head on her shoulders this time, literally, and approached the woman with a sad smile on her splattered face. He had forgotten how youthful she was. Such a shame. (Not like he cared, ha!)

He heard the woman breath in shakily as she laid white lilies on the ground.

Curious, he glanced around for anyone else. Just them, and some guy on his phone, but he was too far in his own world to notice. Smirking, he twisted the face of his watch to adopt the persona of a seemingly normal young man in a brown blazer.

Megamind approached the woman, sending a glance to her dead child, who hovered nearby, watching on.

“Excuse me,” he said with false kindness. “I couldn’t help but notice—did you lose someone here?”

“Yes,” the woman choked up, whipping her tears. She looked at the train-tracks. “My daughter, Roxanne. Roxanne Ritchi. Fell on the tracks before—“ She sobbed again, then seemed to pull herself together with a wobbly inhale.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“It’s not your fault, darling,” she said, shaking her head. “I should be stronger than this,” she laughed with no humor in her voice. “It’s been nearly sixteen years since today.”

He was about to let her continue, as she seemed to want to go on about her sorrows, but the his ride was coming up, clanking on the tracks. The woman flinched and walked away. “You’re very kind to talk to me,” she said, “but I—I have an appointment. I pray you have a good day, young man.”

She left. He turned to the girl—Roxanne Ritchi, she had a name now.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but as he stared at her long enough, she suddenly seemed to understand that he could see her. It made her squirm in her spot. But the train arrived, and he did have places to be, so he waved in her face—he laughed, seeing her back up with a look of shock. Laughing maliciously, he left her and got on his train. She didn’t follow.

~.~.~.~

Two days later, Megamind found himself unable to stop thinking about her. When curiosity got the best of him, he opened up a tap on his supercomputer and googled her name.

To his surprise, he got a few results.

Roxanne Ritchi, age 23, a minor reporter working for KMCP 8 News, was killed on December 3rd, 2003, when she fell on the tracks on Metro City’s… it went on, some reports being short and to the point, while one or two cared to mention it took them a whole two hours before they could identify the body because the head had rolled away with the train. Gruesome death, yes. To Megamind, it said she just hung around this life because she had nothing better to do.

Though he felt drawn to this, and Metro Man could wait another day before his next big ploy, he decided for a midnight train ride.

When the 6th train came up, the same train he’d “met” Roxanne on, he got on with a shake of his de-gun, sharing off the one middle-aged lady off. He huffed, sitting down in her spot because it was still warm.

Not to long after, he saw Roxanne materialize on the other side of the car. She had her head on.

“Ollo, Miss Ritchi,” he crooned, approaching her with his hands behind his back, hunched over to intimidate her. “What brings you here at such a late hour?”

She gave him the same comic expression of surprise. Seconds before he would give up on getting her to talk, she said, in a ghostly voice, “You know who—what I am?”

“Yes. It’s hard not to when you’re constantly loosing your head.”

Her eyebrows quirked upward, and he momentarily wondered if she was the type of ghost that was aware of her physical state. It appeared not to be so, as she continued to stare at him as if he was the one with a skull ready to drop any moment.

“Miss Ritchi,” he said, taking a seat beside her with all the dramatics he could muster, “why, may I ask, are you here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Her mouth twisted up. “I… I’m not sure. What day is it? And who are you exactly?”

And that, somehow, led to him proudly introducing himself. She should know who he was, he thought glumly. He was already causing quite the ruckus in 2002. But that was sixteen years ago, and his game had changed since then.

Still, thought, she wasn’t all that talkative. Typical for a ghost, and for her age (since she died). But, he kept coming back, by night, to see her. Most nights she sat beside him as he rambled on about random things, offering small insights or pleased smiles, thought those he didn’t understand. He did his best to upset her in someway, but nothing seemed to work.

She would have made an excellent kidnappee. Too bad she was already dead.

Though, months later, he had grown accustomed to her, and it seemed she was just as accustomed to him most times.

On occasion, though, she would enter what he liked to call “the ghost zone”. A state of being that he was (most of the time) unable to breach, or interfere with. That being said she would be unresponsive, behaving more like a TV ghost than his typically engrossing midnight companion.

It didn’t scare him, when she got into that “ghost zone”. She just tended to ignore him, not haunt him.

But one night things changed between them.

It was a Friday night, and he had just stepped onto the empty 6 car when it hit him.

She. She had hit him, not with a fist, but with her whole form.

Hissing, he grabbed onto a railing as images flashed before him. Oh, my, he thought briefly. She was definitely in the zone, as he put it, but now she was ready to show him what some ghosts like to show him often, or not at all.

Her death.

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