What will the new year bring?
It’s been a while since the previous update. Some of you have kindly written in in the meantime with praise for The Marionette. Among you is one Richard Paul, a poet of talent, and I’d like to thank him for taking the time to pen a little poem based on the game. I thought it deserved to be read by a (slightly) wider audience, and so I’ve reproduced it below (scroll down to the end of the post).
As for Team Effigy’s current and future endeavours: As of writing we haven’t found that new member we need yet. To be fair, we haven’t been looking very hard, due to my own full-time work becoming overwhelming towards the end of last year and me needing a break, and Khyle struggling with some health problems. We hope to have a new addition to our team by June this year.
Out of Time is somewhat in limbo, although things have been happening on that front (just verrry slowly). Nikolas has composed two lovely pieces, and Khyle and I are working on the script and storyboard. I hope to be able to share the music with you very soon.
The voice work on The Marionette – well, I must say that is my fault. I had intended for it to be done by December, but I dawdled, and it’s not done. I hope to pick it up again soon – but sooner or later, it WILL be done. Martin’s and Eshana’s lines are all done, in fact, and only Giuseppe and the minor characters remain. You’d think there weren’t that many spoken lines in this game, but it’s still slow going each time.
That’s all for now. I hope to have some more good news soon, and in the meantime I will leave you with Richard’s poem.
Stone Soul, Stone Heart, Dark Fate, Dark Art
The first, he is a sculptor.
He sealed his life and dreams in stone,
Steeled his heart and stood alone
Amidst a silent, marble court.
Behind him lies a path of pain,
Before him it is laid again.
The second is a girl thrice-scorned.
Born to serve her mother’s dream
She grew up screaming silent screams
And with her heart in ruins died.
Now stewardess of strings is she
To take the first, and make him see.
The third, he is a craftsman.
Weaves his way between the rooms
And subtly tries to stall the doom
Of the first, the stumbling sculptor.
Mysterious and vague he’ll be
And must be thus, or doomed is he.
Her venue is a frightful place.
Forged from echoes, forged from shells
Against a cold and blackened hell
Wherein she traps her last failed hope;
And if redemption he can’t earn
She’ll have her vengeance, bind and turn