New beginning of fantasy story

The Lalaic host arrived in the great seaside Citadel of Hammon, set above a cliff, on a bright afternoon, preceded by trumpets and fanfare. Ladies tossed flower petals down upon the incoming army, sending a shower of white and pink from their balconies in the upper rooms of the many shops and dwellings that lined the winding cobbled street that climbed to the central keep’s courtyard. Crowds cheered at the sight of the armoured men that quickly formed ranks before the keep’s high walls. Hammon’s saviors had arrived at last. The threat that had loomed over Hammon for so long would at last be dispelled.

After the city’s lords gave great speeches and flattering words, they handed the keys of the keep to the captain of the Lalaic host and bade them defend Hammon well. The tavern lights burned well into the night with the merrymaking of the entire city. Many Lalaic soldiers made fools of themselves as they attempted to woo the giggling young ladies of Hammon with their confused smatterings of the Vulgar language; the girls turned the wheel on the soldiers when they demonstrated their mastery of the Lalaic tongue. Tall tales were told in both tongues, people danced in the streets, and the laughter and drinking of that night was not soon forgotten.

The next morning dawned cold, however, and its wind stirred the yellow and white banners that now fluttered above Hammon. A procession of Hammon’s former lords carried away the old heraldry that had hung from the towers and turrets of the cliffside city for centuries, and cast them into a great bonfire that had been set without the city walls, where a number of Lalaic soldiers, greatly tired from the night’s festivities, observed solemnly.

As one of the more aged lords, Alorn by name, came toward the fire, a young boy came forward from the city and tugged on his robes. Alorn turned to the boy, at first rather indignant at being so addressed, but then remembered that he was now little more than a wealthy man, common as any other—his lordship was ended. So he contented himself with an irritated harrumph.

“Yes, boy, what is it?” he asked.

“Sir, if I may, might I have the banner?” the boy asked.

“What do you want this old thing for?” cried Alorn, “We are no longer men of a cursed city, but members of the proud Empire of Lalaia!” Such were the words he had been repeating to himself all the night before whilst others took pleasure in this new state of affairs.

“Yes, sir, I know that, sir, but might I keep it to remember?”

“What’s there to remember, boy?” he asked, “Sleepless nights patrolling the walls with fewer and fewer men? Waking to find out who the creatures in the forest had carried away in the night? No, boy, there’s not a thing about the old way I’d like to remember.” Except, he thought to himself, his estate, his title, and the respect he had been given since he was a young man.

“If it’s all the same to you, sir,” the boy insisted.

“It’s all the same to me,” Alorn conceded, and gave the ratty brown banner to the boy, who carried it away to his home along the inside of the city walls.

Continuing the Story of the Valles Marineris

I leaned forward and inched the mask off my face. Surely the barmen were part of the nn like the rest of the staff. I lifted it just enough to reveal my features. I whispered,
“It’s me, Isaac Davis, wanted fugitive. I don’t want to be recognized.”
“You won’t be,” said the barman with a smile, “None of these people watch the news.”
“I watch the news,” came a young woman’s voice at my side. She drew herself near to where I sat, and took a seat in the recently vacated stool beside me. She wore a black gown made of some liquid-smooth fabric. Her blond hair hung in curls around her face, which was broad but very pretty, with dark brows arched almost in a phi curve, a button nose, and lips I might have called over-large before spending a year in divorce. Her eyes seemed somewhat glazed and did not quite meet mine when I turned to look at her, as if she were looking past me rather than at me, but I had pulled the mask back over my face, so meeting my eyes might have been too much to expect.
“Good on you,” I muttered.
“You’re no security man,” she told me with a knowing smile, though still not quite looking at me, “they never come in here.”
“I’m new.”
“We’re all new around here,” she countered, “We only set out yesterday. The day the police at the … whatever it is place, the Mountain colony, were all in a fuss over some escaped prisoner, yes?”
“You’re a veritable pillar of knowledge.”
“Oh, I’m good at connecting dots and then acting on what I figure out before most people do.”
“I’m sure.”
“You’d better be, Mr. Davis. I mean, you’d hate to get found out when we arrive in our new home, right? Freedom feels so good, doesn’t it?” I turned to the barman for a rescue, but he had already busied himself with pouring drinks for some other person.
“Go ahead and take that mask off, Mr. Davis. You’ll draw less attention to yourself. Let’s head over to one of the booths, shall we?” said the woman, “Somewhere more discrete.”
I really didn’t know what to say or do, but I did want to get out of the light of the bar, which seemed blinding all of the sudden.
“We’ll take a bottle of scotch, barman,” she said over her shoulder, and she accepted it when he placed it in her waiting hand. She led me across the carpet (with some difficulty as I sank in with every step) to one of the booths, an alcove etched out of the black with an elaborate pink neon archway. We sat opposite another, and she offered me the scotch, which I took a swig from. This wasn’t going as planned, but the scotch was good, and if nothing else, she was good-looking.
“So what’ll it be?” I asked, wearily, removing my mask. “Blackmail?”
“You’re the terrorist whose face was splashed all over the news, right?” She asked, her eyes sparkling, but still looking unfocused.
“So says the Ascraeus Mons Herald. I’m innocent of what they accused me of.”
“So you didn’t engineer a government takeover?”
“Don’t my soft eyes and earnest face speak volumes about my character?” I asked. My patience could only be tried so far. She had yet to make any demands for her silence. I thought she was toying with me.
“You actually look kind of haggard and unshaven,” she said, taking a drink straight from the bottle, “But I was actually hoping you could tell me what’s going on here, if you were behind it, or knew someone who is.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m the one bargaining for my life, aren’t I?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m probably one of the very few people who got on the ship from Earth to Mars whose brains aren’t sustained by heroin and alcohol. I got here because I’m good at connecting the dots, like I said. Found out my husband was going to take off to Mars without me. He was going to take his little woman instead.”
“Who’s your husband?” I ventured to ask.
“Who was he, would probably be more accurate,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. This was probably not her first bottle of scotch that night. “Ever heard of Ibrahim bin Wahid?”
“What, the dictator? Killer of thousands?”
“He didn’t think so. He didn’t notice it when people died. He didn’t bat an eye. One good thing, he brought me out of the slums to be his wife. But no, he was going to take off without me.”
“What happened?”
“I used my brains. Switched around a few of the flight arrangements. His sweetheart and I took off without him.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You killed him?” I asked.
“He killed himself, didn’t he?” she said, “He who is without brains, let him cast the first nuke.”
“But yo ukilled him!”
“Oh, come on, Isaac!” She said, ending in a shout, “He was a murderer! Eater of babies, or whatever you said he was. All true. I did what the beloved US government wanted to do for years. Probably saved a whole bunch of lives here on Mars, too. No, Isaac, I’m here because I’m not dumb. And I know that there’s more than meets the eye to all this. We hear there’s a plot to take over. Suddenly the plot is thwarted, heroically, flags waving and cannons soluting, the whole shebang. We take off victoriously to further the glory of the star spangled banner. The day we leave, your face is splashed all over the news, miraculous escape. We find ourselves on a vessel of amazing luxury, on our way to some kind of colonization mission—odd method of transport to such a labor-intensive, gritty life, right? And now I find the escaped terrorist mastermind, right here in Aphrodite’s Couch. Be honest with me, Isaac,” She paused to took another drink, “All of us on this vessel are in a lot of trouble, aren’t we?”
She was smart. I had to give it to her, she was brilliant.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” I said, “Nothing’s safe to tell you.”
“You just told me everything,” she said, then laughed— “aha! See, you’d have told me everything if this whole spooky luxury liner weren’t … something …” she seemed to be having trouble speaking, her lips moving for a while, trying to form words that wouldn’t come, “Something’s the matter around here. It’s the terrorist group, right? They’re inc harge of this thing. We’re all going to die, right?”
“No one’s going to die,” I said, “as far as I know, you’re right on everything but that point. I know the people in charge, yes, I’ll admit. You probably knew that anyway. But no one’s dying.”
“You think you know them,” she said, “the people in charge, I mean. You don’t really.”
We spoke like that for another few minutes, nothing getting anywhere. She was far too drunk. Finally I told her I was going to go back under the tunnels, when she grabbed my shirt from across the table and drew me closer.
“Isaac,” she said, “you’re the only person who hasn’t tried to lie to me yet, and I need to believe you’re trustworthy.”
“Sure,” I answered, “the trustworthy escaped terrorist.”
“Something about all this is really wrong,” she said, “I’m really good at connecting dots. Something here isn’t connecting. Be really careful. Isaac,” she looked around, and her voice dropped to a whisper, “someone’s following me around. I’m sure you’re being followed, too.”
“I probably know them,” I assured her. Her breath was rank. Even this close to me, her eyes were looking through me.
“No,” she said, “trust me, you don’t know what’s going on.”
She rambled like this for a minute longer, and then she begged me to come visit her apartment—under the guise of security guard duty. She swore she was being followed by someone, and her complaints to the quartermaster had gone ignored (no surprise—the quartermaster was an ornery old cranky woman who probably went nn because Ottenson promised to let her smoke on duty). I don’t know if it was the fact that I had nothing better to do or how incredibly terrified she sounded, or maybe just the fact that I missed having people trust me, but I agreed to check up on her later in the evening and make sure she was still alive.
I found the security/maintenance hatch and re-entered the tunnel, winding my way through the darkness to the shaft of the Mariner I, the science vessel. However, I couldn’t get what she said out of my head, about both of us being followed. I stopped a moment befor eI climbed down into the brightly lit science vessel—footsteps continued behind me somewhere, and then stopped suddenly. I whipped my head around—no one was there, or if there were, the issues of steam and gas obscured him.
I was about ready to die of a heart attack, but in retrospect, I was probably stupid to think that none of the other staff use the tunnels. It’s probably unwise to drink with paranoid women before walking through a dark corridor. I’ll bring a flashlight next time.

So....a good chunk of my story is about spirits. More specifically, spirits that are inspired by Asian mythology. And yes, while Avatar did provide a small amount of inspiration, I did my own reading and examining on this. Please tell me what you think works and doesn't work, and I will adjust accordingly. Maybe. Unless I think you're wrong. In which case....tough luck. :3

Arkhal, the Small Forest Spirit - he/she presides over the small forest area at the foot of Mount Tolir, and most commonly takes on the form of a doe and a stag, who appear to be made of wood and speak as one.

The Lhi'r, the Mountain Fire Spirits - they inhabit the tombs set within the foot of Mount Tolir, and are the vengeful spirits of dead warriors who died through particularly brutal means. They take on the form of armored warriors who seem to be on fire, constantly shrieking with pain and rage.

Khardihis, the Old Spirit - he inhabits a chamber near the catacombs, and is one of the guardians tasked by Tolir to guard the Way to the House. He takes on the form of the pool and stone itself - both transform and warp as the spirit wishes.

Milgram, the Trick Spirit - presides over a maze of caves, with only one path that leads back to the surface and allows the traveler to continue on the Way. Takes the form of lights and sounds, and at the end of the maze appears as a small man wearing a clay mask and fur cloak, carrying a lantern. He is also one of the spirits who was tasked by Tolir to guard the Way to the House.

Tirlol, the Speaking Spirit - presides over the Stone Bridge, a huge, man-made bridge that leads up to a steep stairway from the catacombs. Takes on the form of an old woman who seems to be made out of clouds, wearing heavy robes. She is also one of the spirits tasked by Tolir to guard the Way to the House.

Fastos, the Last Spirit - the last remaining vestige of the Stone General, it guards the Last Doorway, which leads directly into the House. The spirit takes on the General's physical form, albeit glorified with armor and robes (with the exception of his helmet). This is not the General himself, but rather an embodiment of his strong will and desire to protect his beloved sanctuary. He will only allow those who have fairly earned their way to the House to approach him.

First part of Valles Mariners section II: Noctis Labyrinthus

Section II—Noctis Labyrinthis
Isaac Davis’ LogIn the first few days of my freedom, I explored what would serve as our home for this expedition. It’s much larger and better-made than what we had even been allowed to use. I guess when there’s a whole lot of money and power involved, Ascraeus Mons doesn’t spare any expense.

I don’t know how I’m going to make it all the way through this, either. None of the passengers seem to know what happened. They’re happy as clams— disgusting, slimy clams. Ottenson managed to find me a security mask, so no one can recognize me.

I celebrated my first day of knowing I wasn’t going to die by going to the rec area for whatever sorts of diversions had been set up by Ottenson for these citizens, so newly-fallen to Mars’ surface.

The transport vessel, the Mariner, was a behemoth. The science vessel (apparently called the Mariner II—Ottenson’s right clever with names, I guess) I was smuggled onto docked into a strong, reinforced steel tunnel under the tall belly of the Mariner, allowing me my first free access to it. After donning the alien-eyed gas mask the few other security officers, Thompson and Mannis (both young, very angry men wtih no kinder attitudes to modern law and politics than myself), wore, I chose to climb up the ladder that led to the Mariner utility tunnels.

They were dusty, murky, and cramped. I had to crouch my  head to not bang it against the ceiling—which would have been awfully painful, as it was made of the same steel grating that made up the floor—and as I walked forward, I had to duck even further to avoid the all-too-infrequent steel-encased light fixtures in the ceiling. Clearly it had been constructed by teh same minds that went into the under-city, as it followed the same basic layout: tight, cramped corridors, pitch-dark were it not for the orange lights wanly illuminating small circles of walkway, made even more claustrophobic by extensive piping winding every which way. It was significantly less gritty, though, as there was no bare earth (or Mars?) or exposed wires. It was much more soundly-made, and of better materials. I wondered vaguely where the government had secured so many expensive-looking metals and plastics, considering how squalid the dwellings and turbines were at Ascraeus Mons. Then, recalling the sleek black steel of the prison and interrogation chambers deep underneath the mountain, I realized that they were probably holding a lot back from the average citizen. They likely had quite a bit of naturally occuring resources so as to be able to produce so much military and science material.

The sweet oxygen in my mask elimenated what would likely have been a musty, burning rubber smell, as here and there, black fumes issued from valves in the walls obscuring the path in front of me, but not making my journey any harder, since there were clearly marked directions on the left wall under every light.

I elected, for my first day of freedom, to head up to the nearest place I could get drunk. I had heard a rumor from the security guys that there was a bar somewhere on board the Mariner. I peered through the gloom [use word gloom too many times] to see that the map did not have a bar but a lounge—Le Canapé d’Aphrodite. Odd—as I understood it, Ottenson was one of three men (all nn agents, I learned) who had designed the Mariner. I wouldn’t expect him of all people to choose a fancy French name for a bar intended to be enjoyed for a two-day journey.

I followed the arrows in pink (the color code for the Canapé) down the corridor and around a bend which led inward toward the belly of the ship. This corridor was darker than the others, without lighting of any sort —pitch black and swelteringly hot [show, don’t tell; have him sweat or something]. The only illumation was a single orange lamp at the end of the corridor, some thirty feet down. I could see in its light a pink arrow pointing up, and the skeletal outline of a ladder, its shadow cast downwards and stretched on the black, concrete wall. I walked down this corridor very briskly—I don’t like dark spaces all that much, I admit.

When I approached the ladder, I found that the words Canapé d’Aphrodite were printed in swirly pink letters on the wall behind it, beside the upward arrow. I climbed upward to find that it led through a vertical shaft of darkness to a hatch which opened with the access code Ottenson had given me. The hatch hissed open on its hydraulic rail.

It was like a sunrise of neon pink and red. I had to blink a few times before I could clearly make out what I was looking at. It was every shade of pink and red, trimming the edges of a vast, black room. Ride-ribbed pillars hung lazily from the ceiling to the floor in twirly, organic patterns, like thin tree trunks that had been submerged for hundreds of years underwater and had gained barnacles and coral swirling all over them. Booths made of dark, rich wood curled out of the floor, lining the walls of the chamber, little alcoves of darkness lit only from pink neon lines skirting the outer edges and the lines where the floor met the walls. Through the murk of smoke, the tall, circular bar stood like a vivid vermillion carousel, art nouveau columns flanking an ornately carved wooden counter where patrons crowded around on stools, black silhouettes against the brilliant red of the lights behind the countless bottles that stood in beautiful tiers behind the three barmen. Surrounding the central bar were various half-couches and circular couches, which a few sat, smoking on fat cigars whose tips glowed like demons eyes in the darkness. The carpet was a deep wine red, and thick. I could barely feel my booted foot make contact with the ground. The ceiling was of vaulted wood, the same rich wood from which the booths and the bar were made, ribbed with neon lines and drooping down in the vaulted crosshatches with old, slowly rotating fans, which did little more than stir the smoke as coolly as the denizens of the lounge reclined, drank, and smoked. Over the bar was an image mad eof the pink and red lights of a woman draped in a greek robe perched atop an Arab sofa, and the words Le Canapé d’Aphrodite written in the same swirly letters as below, also bright pink, glaring out against the gloom of the room almost angrily. Haunting piano music wafted to my ears, a tune I knew— a jazz tune written back in the 1930s. [especially keep the swirling, the colors—on the theme of them all being drugged; explain how he knows that tune]

I had never seen such a place as this. This was luxury I had read about in books, perhaps seen in photographs, but never imagined I would ever see.

Where did they get the wood to make this? Who lived in this sort of leisure, in rooms like these? Since when did bars on Mars have boroque trappings and invoke ancient Greek goddesses?  [maybe one too many questions]

Since when did people on Mars dress in smoking jackets and long, sinuous red dresses, like a couple I passed, sipping out of one another’s glasses? I had been to many countries on Earth; I had migrated to Mars; I had been kicked out of my house and gone to live an unfamiliar life on a different planet; for the first time, I was truly in an alien environment. [need to make this part of his story explained earlier]
It's going in a new direction from here: this section will read like a "spooky hotel" type story, with lots of character development, internal nn politics, assassination plots, secrecy, Davis getting stalked by a Mysterious Figure, etc.