A Cheaterishly Easy Way To Start

Starting that First Scene

I rarely do this for my final passes with my books, but it's such a delight, when determining when or where to start, to begin with the protagonist opening his or her eyes.  Another great start is to open with the protagonist in the process of falling.  This little word doodle does both, and I think it's going to morph into a steamy romance.
Folks ask about that, actually.  In my main stories, I'll have a general idea of where I want the first draft to end, but I don't usually know even an eighth of all the details that must unfold. I like to think this makes a lot of my work feel more organic, and the method works because I'm very easy-going about changing things -- even big things, like reversing whether the protagonist is morally in the right or morally corrupt. So this reads to me like it might become a romance, but I genuinely don't know.  It's a doodle, a short doodle, and it's non-canonically linked to my main series, A Vow Unbroken, the first book of which is Borehole Bazaar.  Most of the major cities have underground (often quite literally) combat arenas, bankrolled by the Civilized races but ostensibly run by Hard races, which are often the only individuals to take a fall when the government decides a raid is in order. This basic backstory plays into this scene and helps to make it real.  There are doubtless typos, but sketches aren't meant to be masterpieces, just the foundation upon which great works are drawn.
Without further dithering, allow me to present Toriavai’elle.

Toriavai’elle

Toriea’ahaeisthvaielle Eilevehe’inetten felt the wind race past her face, consciousness prickling as instinct shrieked that falling was dangerous. His arms didn’t respond more than to twitch and tense, but her eyes flicked wide and her mouth opened to grasp air and suck it in, hoping to arrest her descent.

Impure, rough-hewn granite, dark-yellow light as from very inexpensive and low-quality torches, deep shadows behind him, and straw rushing up to kiss him. Toriavai’elle crumpled into the straw, feeling the dry material like splinters in her breasts, on her wrists, her shoulders, and her right cheek. The straw was a full four inches deep and thickly matted, the fresh layered atop the degraded, a heady mix of black mold spores, salt, and old blood wafting up in a seeming cloud. She breathed deeply, glad of this familiar aroma and the relative safety it represented.

A loss. She couldn’t afford many of those, and it was something of a miracle that she’d been healed enough to return to her little home. It had been almost six months since she’d last failed to see a battle through, and then she’d had to stitch her own wounds closed, to wrap the injury in pitch to keep it from going septic. Figuring out what the last sequence had been was always the roughest part, but it was an important exercise.  Replaying the latest battle in her head kept her sprawled long enough that the guards wouldn’t feel nervous.

Two kalutai, both young enough to be pups, and they’d been using live bronze axes, the blades irregularly curved but matched and about a foot wide. Her blade had snicked fast, and she’d been winning.  Then, her blade poised over one, waiting for the judges to whistle in acknowledgement of the first “kill,” the other had pulled some sort of rock or oversized bullet and, bereft of sling, had lobbed this at her.  There had been a cold sensation, as though icey fire burned through her veins, and then nothing. Falling and straw. She rolled onto her side and blinked at the wall a few times, studying the shadows that stood somewhat over her.  

Well, she’d replayed the fight in her head, and prone wasn’t doing her any favors. She sat up slowly and ran an arm sideways over her breasts as though stretching.  The brutes who ran this complex viewed all elves to be female, regardless of genitalia. Since the majority of the fighters down here were, to her point of view, male, her reticence while shirtless was seen as an amusing anomaly. She’d be granted a shirt in a little bit, once she’d “come down” from the violence, but in the meantime, the guards who kept an eye on things wanted to avoid the chance that she concealed shivs or the like.

“You docile, kit?”

A new turn of phrase. The war raged outside, leastwise as near as she could tell from what little rumors filtered through to the blocks, but the pieces fit together cleanly. Fox kit was preferable to elver or sliver or slipknot, though, so she nodded twice, slowly, and brought her other hand to her forehead, breathing through the rising nausea.  She was not doing well, and practice tonight would be terrible.

“Tre’eistrein nenienyewiaze tette noisievellenia.” She stopped, harting how slurred her native tongue was. Instead, she dropped to Vexra. “My fody achieas.”  Shaking her head to clear it, she tried again, hitting the harder, more guttural sounds with exaggerated care. “My body aches.”

“You went down hard.”  The largest guard between her and the torchlight squatted down, signalling by his body language that he had this situation handled.  The shadows moved a little to the side, their postures relaxing and a few backing into the open hallway. None left just yet, but she didn’t feel up to being the least bit difficult. Besides, Mogdun was a former champion down here, one that had bested her some twenty times before he’d retired from the rounds.

“I’m not… I, uh, my arm”  She looked at where her skin was mended. The fight was fuzzy, but she recalled an early blow. It should have been bruised much more heavily by now. Looking down at her chest, black lines spanned under her pale bluish white skin. Albinism had both saved and doomed, but at least infection and contusions were easy to track.

“Unregistered weaponry means your opponents were fined.” He tossed a leather and canvas collar with bright flowers embroidered into the side from his belt to the straw by her side. Toriavai’elle buckled this around her neck, clearly marking that she was bound to a lifetime circuit.  Theoretically, this piece of equipment was the only difference between her and everyone else on this block. Theoretically, racial tensions, grudges, and the difference in status between eternal contracts, like hers, and the more standard three year contracts made absolutely no difference to how folks were treated.  Theoretically.

“Fiannaed?”  The word caught in her throat, so Toriavai’elle switched to words that didn’t hurt her larynx.  “Bead into payment?”

He reached out a hand, his eyes both wary and friendly. “Beat, little fox. The Uxt is a bit lower, the terminal T hits on the mid-tongue, not the tip.” His fingertips and palm reached the top of Toriavai’elle’s head, the fingers sliding through her hair as he made a ruffling motion.  She tolerated this for all of six seconds before striking with the edge of her wrist. Despite calling on her innate arcana, the sharp edge of high-velocity, highly pressured water failed to properly manifest, instead splishing his arm wetly. He chuckled, holding his arm in place firmly, reinforcing that he had bested her so many times where her sole victory had been a matter of luck and reckless overreach. She let her wrist go slack for a moment, her hand slumping down around his forearm for a half-breath.

He withdrew before she could launch herself again, which was preferable for her. Here, rolling over and showing weakness in response to bullying was not acceptable, and these little teases and feints were always brief. The guards got in trouble if they injured the entertainment, which was part of why they went around in packs all the time, but their pins were gruff, humiliating affairs. She was glad he didn’t press.

“Yeah, they were broke, so it’s another match or two. Eager little pups.”

“Exotic.”

“Heh. We’ll you’re solo and theirs fight as a pack, so I guess they would ping exotic.”

“They’re common?”

“Half of Third Block here, two thirds at some of the other points on the circuit.” He motioned for her to lean forward and checked that her collar was snug but not constricting, moving his hand up as though to ruffle her hair again.  She jerked back and to the side, eliciting a smirk and a few chuckles from the watching crowd. Mogdun stood slowly and paced the perimeter of the cell, running his eyes over her scant few belongings and patting the spare trousers, tunics, undershirts, leathers, and foot-wraps as he passed.  At the doorway, he squatted to lift and shake each of her four pairs of boots and her two pairs of slippers out. Satisfied with this basic inspection, he offered what had to be a parody of a proper bow and stepped out, the pack of guards falling in around and behind him, the last pushing the door so it caught as he left.

That was something she’d found surprising when she’d first arrived all those years ago. Each cell door locked from the inside.  The guards could unlock the cells, sure, but other prisoners couldn’t. It was her safe place, leastwise so long as she didn’t go out of her way to irk any of the other contract fighters. She waited until the band had walked some distance off before laying back in her nest.  Accomodations for lifetime contracts like hers were sparse, grungy even, but they were something she could claim. Closing her eyes, she focussed on her breathing, meditating right up until she fell asleep.

Opening her eyes and stretching, Toriavai’elle stood up and stretched out her legs, doing a little jog in place, glad to feel her body respond quickly. From the bars near the door, a familiar voice hailed her from the bars at the front of her little alcove.

“Good morning to you, too!”

Startled, Toriavai’elle backed the farthest shadows of her home and covered her ches, turning to offer no more than her profile to this potential threat.  Tassept laughed and backed up a few paces, a hand up in mock surrender as the hobgoblin, with exaggerated gestures, covered his eyes with his creepily long fingers, the fine muscles holding his webbing down and out of the way making the gesture artful.  From the shadows, Toriavai’elle squeaked out at him in Vexra, not sure if he was alone enough for her to really lay into him about how creepy it was that he’d watched her sleep.

“Turn around, you big bully!”

Laughing with relaxed ease, he faced the far wall, though it was obvious he was going to sneak a peek.  Toriavai’elle didn’t mind overmuch -- they were lovers, after all -- but she wasn’t about to let him get away with this. When next they trained, he’d hit the sand and sawdust  hard. Crossing to where her undershirts hung, she slipped one over as quick as she could, screaming invectives when her head popped through the hole and, as expected, his neck was twisted to catch a better look.  He visually acosted her as she place her tunic over, too, and and sat down cross-legged to watch her every movement as she wrapped her feet and slid her toes and heels into a pair of slippers.

“By stars ablaze, it has been too long.”

“Keep it in your pants.”  Toriavai’elle pulled a shoelace from a boot and pleated her hair, tying this securely before settling the mass under her tunic.  “It’s been three days.” Turning back to her superpositioned layers of hay, she fished around for a six inch box and drew out a dental hygiene kit. Technically, it was contraband, but the guards didn’t much care. As long as she didn’t develop a reputation for causing trouble or starting fights without cause, having a few odds and ends around her haven was both expected and privately encouraged. Between brushing a thin under-gum stain remover and flossing, she continued. “And you’ve got, like, two other lovers.”  She crossed to a wide-mouthed urn and spat into the void, wondering for the hundredth time where the portal at the base transported her refuse. “So don’t even think of trying to guilt me about pressure buildups.”

He laughed hard at that and turned fully around, his bare abdominals raised prettily, his striking brilliant red and dark, almost black, midnight purple markings drawing her attention and keeping it. “Yeah, yeah.  Can’t blame a guy for trying, eh?” She ripped her eyes away and crossed to her front door, pushing it open. The door stayed wide and would remain wide until she returned. Anyone entering her quarters, for any reason, was grounds for removal from the block and a significant drop in the rankings.  

Tassept wasn’t particularly tall for a hobgoblin, standing at a steady six and a half feet -- seven when he stretched --  but the foot of difference between them was enough to mean no one questioned who would win in a contest of strength. He’d been here almost as long as she had, some eighteen years or so, and while he looked a little older, the fact that his race lived a bit longer than most Ferals made it easier for her to regard him as a friend and not a passing acquaintance.

“Swim?”  His eyes twinkled. The bath house for this block were usually empty, given that there were only a few hobgoblins in the mix. It was where they’d met, as she’d created a vortex to allow air to come down to her lips and nose while meditating near the bottom of the thirty-foot pool and he’d done laps overhead. When she’d thought the room empty, she’d surfaced and he’d freaked out, absolutely startled out of his gourd that she’d been down there.  When he’d calmed down a bit, he’d fake-bowed toward the water and dived in. That had been the first time anyone in the block had tried to communicate with her, and she’d felt compelled to dive in after.

Their friendship had blossomed on that moment.

“Yeah. I feel a little fraille, though.”

“Sound it, catzeye.”  He started walking down the hallway and she half-walked, half-loped after him. His place in the rankings was only marginally higher than hers, but those numerals mattered down here.  If she ran ahead of him, the social order demanded they spar and he pin her violently, make her cry out for the crowds. She made mistakes every now and again, and he was usually careful not to hurt her overmuch, but mussing about with relative ranks bore zero tolerance.

They walked down the fifteen by fifteen rectangular hallway, deliberately not looking into any of the cells. These were places where folks went to feel safe, to catch a moment alone or to heal from grievous injury.  To weep or show weakness, too. At the huge brass doors, a pack of guards operated the levers, ignoring Toriavai’elle and Tassept. To them, this was just a boring part of the job.

Out here, the first of three cozy thirty by sixty meal rooms, complete with a ten-foot-diameter central fire and a free-hanging chimney shoot with a set of crossbars some thirty feet up the flue, revealed some fifteen orcs and ogres milling about, snacking. Most were covered in sweat and dust, but that was common. Exercising, practicing techniques, training muscle memory, and sparring were constants down here. A few orcs made lewd suggestions, so she ducked her head and tried to look small.  These were friendly little exchanges, but her reputation was for being skittish right up until contact was made. Then she was a dirvish of arcana and violent contact. Only one orc was permitted to touch her, and that only because he was mentally unstable and didn’t understand that the core principle of sparring or establishing rank was to keep the opponent alive and relatively uninjured despite their defeat.

Tassept crossed to a few of his friends, leaving Toriavai’elle to wander close to the central fire to warm her hands. Familiar forms drew close, asked after her health, and suggested that Otagt, her unstable lover, was very worried. She gave non-committal replies to the effect that she wasn’t as frail as she looked and that Otagt didn’t have to fret so. A few mocked her accent, and two shared their meals with her, mentioning that she was so slender the breeze from a well-swung blow could drop her. Laughing at the absurdity of this, Toriavai’elle ate heartily all the same.

Finally, Tassept moved toward the next room down, spurring Toriavai’elle to jog after.  There, the top-ranked fighter, an orc with tannish purple skin and dark green hair down to his waist turned from his conversation to glare down at her.  Toriavai’elle startled and stumbled back against the wall, making herself look as small and non-threatening as she possibly could. The brute kept her pinned against the wall with his gaze for a full eight-count, the requisite for a physical pin pointing out an unacceptable behavior, then “let her up” via turning back to her conversation.  That orc had never approached her, never touched her, never verbally threatened her, but she knew terror whenever his attention alighted upon her form.

The only other elf in the block strode directly up to her and began matching the sound of his words to a braggart’s swagger and a deep, abiding sneer. His actual words didn’t match his tone and body language, though.

“Are you okay? They had to intubate you with one of those weird tube-like sugelancas, and your beau broke the wall to try and kill the fuzzbacks.”

Putting a haughty, insulting sneer into her own voice and mein, Toriavai’elle replied, hands on her hips and head canted, showing her utter contempt for the other elf’s martial prowess.  It was all an act, but things went downhill fast if for elves that seemed to be in cahoots.

“Yeah, I’m fine enough. Heading to the pools to recharge. What do you mean he broke the wall?”

“The bars weren’t giving, so he tried the mortar. Crowd went wild, so he’s just on cooldown, not iso.”

Ah, well that was good.  Her unstable lover was downright hazardous after a stint of isolation. “That’s useful information. Shove me so I can pin you?”

“Kay.  Coming in left side.”

The kick was high and she was ready, so the catch, pivot, lock, and joint manipulation looked smooth and seamless. Once he was floored, she twisted hard to the left until an audible pop filled the room.  A few figures tensed, but most gathered round with expressions of amusement writ plain. He flashed fire at her, making her release his foot, and rolled cleanly to his feet. She called out her next move in their shared Regal Elvish, throwing the sounds like she insulted him for relying on arcane flash to mask that she instructed him on the next sequence.

After some eighteen clashes, he pinned her and looked up for confirmation of victory.  The top-ranked gave the whistle and she was released to gasp for breath and massage her throat. She’d landed a few harder-hitting points that would sit with her fellow elf for a few days, but that was as it should be. Since this wasn’t a sanctioned bout, no change to the rankings occurred, but her reputation for fighting mean was maintained while the male suffered no injury from having lost to a recovering featherweight.

Tassept waited for her to fall in before berating her every flaw during the tussle.  This was common courtesy down here, and she offered polite questions, maintaining the ruse that she must subconsciously telegraph her moves to others of her kind. They crossed quickly down the corridor leading to the wooden and heavily padded weapon-practice courtyard and ducked, at long last, into the bathing rooms.

The room echoed with the slosh and flow of water. This was her safe place, her sanctuary, a place where she could get away from everyone, where she was master and all others bent to her design. Architecturally, it was a perfect cube, with the door near the ceiling and a floating platform allowing her to step out of her slippers, stretch, and dry off after sessions.  Forty feet across, the water was roughly thirty feet deep, and each wall was lined with a half-score torches, the sconces set just barely above the water-line. Darting about in the water swam a multitude of small detritivorous cave fish, most of which flashed bioluminescence as they swam and fed. A steady stream of water was fed in through deliberate-looking fissures in the ceiling above, and fissures had been carved into the floor below. The place felt magical. It was her haven, a place where the chronic stress and fear of her hour-to-hour life held no bearing.

After checking that no eyes pried, Tassapt shoved her playfully. Toriavai’elle turned the kinetic energy into a graceful dive and slid below the surface, luxuriating in her element, basking in the feel of current