Matt FESQUET
Angélique
- Exercice d'écriture -
Le seul but de mon existence était de m’agenouiller à ses pieds. Je souhaitais ardemment qu’elle plonge sa main dans ma cage thoracique et caresse mes côtes avant de presser mon coeur pour le redémarrer manuellement. Véhicule à l’état d’épave abandonné sur le bas-côté d’une autoroute, mécanique défectueuse aux rouages rouillés et grinçants, je ne fonctionnais plus que pour elle, ma dévotion comme seule essence habitant mon corps pourvu qu’elle me fasse grâce de quelques grammes de la sienne. Je ne saurais dire comment ma déférence en est venue à faire partie de mon quotidien. Je ne saurais dire comment il m’est devenu naturel de me mettre à ses pieds, la tête reposée sur ses genoux pendant qu’elle m’offrait les miettes de son attention, banquet royal dont je me gorgeais jusqu’à épuisement, jusqu’à ce qu’elle tire doucement sur la corde d’or qui reliait son âme à la mienne. Je ne saurais dire pourquoi je continue de mentir. Je sais parfaitement à quel moment j’ai su que ma dévotion serait naturelle, que je lui donnerais tout ce qu’elle me demandait si en retour elle pouvait tourner sa tête vers moi, son sourire éternellement indulgent accroché à ses lèvres. Le vide. Le calme. La beauté indescriptible de l’abandon de mon corps aux mains d’une autre, le désistement total de mes responsabilités, la légèreté infinie lorsqu’elle fermait ses mains autour de ma gorge en un semblant de collier, mes lèvres closes pour me retenir de lui demander de serrer plus fort. Lorsque le premier soupir d’exaltation traverse mes lèvres je me rends compte que je mettrai mon existence entière à sa disposition. J’ai presque envie de la remercier d’avance, de me repaitre dans la félicité qu’elle me promet. Lorsque je n’étais pas avec elle, je pensais à la douceur de ses doigts sur ma nuque, ses ongles raclant ma peau, éteignant la myriade de pensées rebondissantes et résonnant dans ma boite crânienne, lorsqu’elle me parlait je me pendais à ses lèvres, rougissant et suffoquant sous le poids de ses paroles, ses litanies au milieu de la nuit comme choeur éternel n’ayant rien à envie à la chorale personnelle des dieux. Lorsqu’elle laissait son souffle glacé parcourir mon épiderme je me voyais déjà lui donner mon âme, accepter sans condition aucunes la liberté, enfin, la promesse de la liesse sans fin en étant accroché à ses côtes anguleuses. Je sais bien que ce n’est pas fait pour durer. À chaque fois que je passe le pas de ses grilles dorées reflétant la lumière mourante du jour, je tente d’estimer le temps qu’il leur faudra pour me retrouver et me réanimer, encore, toujours. Ma tragédie c’est qu’on ne me laisse pas rester avec elle, la sienne est que je tente de la rejoindre trop tôt. Elle me répète que ce n’est pas mon heure, que je vais trop vite, que je ne prends pas le temps de vivre. Lorsque mes genoux se brisent sous mon poids lorsque je la vois, j’en oublierai presque les douleurs qui séparent nos rencontres. À bientôt, mon ange, ma mort, mon amour.
(Pre)Historic
- Narrative exploration game -
Alix : Adrien ?
Adrien : Yes ?
Alix : Pops is dead too…
Adrien : Yes. He is.
Alix : Are you gonna die ?
Adrien : Everybody dies one day or another, but we remember them, don’t we ?
Alix : What if I forget ? What if I forget Pops ? I already can’t remember his face.
Adrien : It’s not that bad, I promise. We’ll look at some pictures together. In the meanwhile, you can remember him by things other than his face. Do you remember the tale he used to tell each Christmas ?
Morgane : The one with the seal ?
Lucas : Oh ! I think you told me about that one !
Alix : Yeah… I can remember a little bit.
Adrien : Come on. I think I saw one on the wall over there, let’s find it and I’ll tell the story.
Crystal Spire
- A transmedia project on fairytales and elitism -
Anura watched her sister pack her bags with a tender gaze. Similar to herself, she hadn't said a word since the ornate letter had been ceremoniously deposited by a tailcoat servant. In response to Agathe's giggles of joy, she hugged her, her lips pinched into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Anura sincerely wished for her sister to live a better life than the one destined for her. With a heart too pure to reject her, Agathe had asked her to live with her several centuries ago, disregarding the curious neighbours' gossip asking why a wicked one had settled in their peaceful life. Their arrival wasn't without a stir and Agathe had to use her gift many times for the fairy tale inhabitants to stop their complaints against her sister. In order to not complicate things, Anura had taken to speaking few words, as no situation was helped by an outpouring of reptiles and amphibians. Slowly, the two formed a language of their own, understanding each other without much exchange, a few ambiguous gestures and hand movements making sense only to them. Agathe, in order to avoid trouble with the castle by blindly distributing mountains of riches, and Anura to prevent the surrounding flora and fauna from suffering from her curse. Slowly, they got into the habit of communicating through the pages of their notebooks, their evenings punctuated by the constant scribbling of pencils during their most animated conversations or their possible arguments. Still without a word, Anura placed her sister's favourite comb in her bag and put her hand on her arm. Her frown meant everything, "be careful," "take care of yourself," "don't take unnecessary risks," "write to me often," "I don't know what I'll do without you." With Agathe's eyes firmly in hers, her sister gave her a radiant smile, showing her dimples and stretching her pink lips. "I'll miss you too, little sister." At these words, a ruby broke on the ground, the two sisters, long accustomed, didn't even lower their heads. "Be careful." The snake coming out of her mouth delicately curled around Agathe's arm who offered it a few distracted strokes. After a final hug, Agathe put her bag on her shoulder and stepped out the door, her determined step towards the crystal castle lighting up their village.
-- Twine branching for the first chapter of Crystal Spire --
- Dialogue exercice with "Option 1" developped to its ending point -
Non descript tavern - INT - DAY → Interaction is started with “name” NPC : “Greetings traveler, what can I do for you ?” CHARACTER : 1. “So, how’s business ?” 2. “You have a room to rent ?” 3. “No, nothing” → Option 1. is chosen NPC : “Business is bad. What would you expect ? Are you taunting me, boy ? If you’re not here to buy, be on your way. We need not new hardships.” CHARACTER : 1. “What do you have to sell then ?” 2. “I did not mean to offend. What hardships are you talking about ?” 3. “I’ll be off then.” → Option 2. is chosen NPC : “Have you not looked around you ? Go ask around if you’re not buying, I’d need the money. Now more than ever… (NPC looks down, shrugging) CHARACTER : 1. “What do you have to sell then ?” 2. “What hardships ? You still haven’t told me.” 3. Leave and ask someone else. (The player now has 3 options, if option 1 is chosen, the tavern keeper will soften after receiving money and open a new dialogue option at the end of the purchase → “Do you still want to know what happened ?”, giving the player option to gather more information or hold a grudge if option 2 is chosen, the tavern keeper will lose patience and ask the player to leave, putting an end to the dialogue if option 3 is chosen, the dialogue will end, letting the player ask around other patrons of the tavern and coming back to the tavern keeper with more information, which will make him more amenable to answer precise questions)
The Runalong
Fantasy novel extract - Work in Progress
When Ainsel was eight years old, he created creatures. Beings of shadow and grass-like fur, things with too many eyes and too many teeth. He ran with them when he turned off the lights in the corridor, racing with them up the stairs, counting on their protection from the things in the dark. He fought with them in the winter when they slept on his covers and took up all the space. They dried his tears when he felt their rumbling purr against his chest. Although they were his friends, he knew they were not there, he knew too well that in reality, he was alone. That is maybe why he was so surprised to see one he knew was real, running alongside his parents’ car, its path lit up only by the moon above on an early summer evening. [...] Ainsel had always known he was peculiar. Always dreaming, he often fantasised about an alternate life, a life where he would be the Chosen One, leaving his family’s farm to conquer lands, slay enemies and befriend dragons. He often tried, while roaming around in the forest, to feel an ancient power coming from his core, urging it to finally emerge and come save him from his life. Unfortunately, apart from nearly passing out from the concentration and lack of air, he never accomplished much and always left with an aching feeling in his chest, like he was missing something, a knowledge of some sort he didn’t yet perceive. At the end of the summer, he and his parents took the auto once again, half wondering if they would make it home in one piece.
When I am done
Horror Novella - Personal Project
We thought it normal at first. A door. What could possibly be more dull? Unassuming? Ordinary? When the voices started to grow louder, our mom didn’t understand them. And then, only darkness, and her voice. Only lighthouse in our expanding void, she was there, a mother’s kiss after a storm, a hot chocolate on a winter afternoon, as infinite as the void her comfort was our companion, a discreet thing, clutching to us, whispering her commands and words, orders we were happy to execute if it meant hearing that sweet melody when closing our eyes. We were all so happy. Before the storm. Before the house. Before the door. Before her voice. Unassuming. That was the word. The word on which my eyes glossed over, blissfully ignorant of the hardships they wouldn’t see anymore, blissfully ignorant of what hid in our basement. Because it’s always the basement, isn’t it? Always the creepy, ominous, musty and dark basement. Except our wasn’t. Ours was filled with joy, my mom had brought her various consoles in the room and we would play there, laughing when she lost, on purpose I know that now, crying when the music would touch our soul in a way only games can. I wish I could’ve let her know that she lost on purpose. I suppose I could still tell her. Although I can’t help but feel it makes no sense doing that now that her hand has grown cold. Flecks of her floating away, disrupted by my circular movement on her skin, particles of my mother sticking to my hair, drying my tears, coating my mouth. She wasn’t there anymore but she was still assuming her role, feeding me. I don’t remember what happened at first when my brother opened the door. I was doing something upstairs. Reading. Writing. Sleeping. Dying slowly, my body decaying while I was still commanding it, mushrooms growing on my arms, suffocating me, expanding in my lungs and releasing their spores, tendrils slowly flourishing from my mouth, engorging themselves on my pumping blood, pledging their eternal devotion to their task. His voice cut through whatever activity I was partaking in. I don’t remember. He had found a door hidden under the wallpaper. We were three when we looked at each other, all three of us thinking, ‘No, we can’t be that family, we can’t be that stupid.’ We were three when my mother set her hand on the knob. We were three when the door opened, the darkness engulfing us in its loving embrace. We were three and then we were none. No one exists in her realm, there is only her. She’s the one who asks and we give. My mother was the first. Giving her memories, her mind, her hair, her smile, her eyes, until in one last hope she bargained her voice for our freedom. I’m quite sad that her scream will be the last sound I have of her. Soon it will be my turn. I know the boy next to me is my brother. I should know it and still, he no longer means anything to me. All I know is that he will be alone soon. Will he dare eat me? If he does, I would like him to start by eating my heart, eating my still-beating organ, blood dripping down his round jaw, I hope he eats my heart, I hope he eats my courage. Each day I know we’re nearing towards her. My mother and I didn’t make it. I hope he does. We were three and then we were none. We were three and then he was alone. When we will be three again, I hope she is gone. I hope what stays of her is none. I hope I will still be of use when I am done.
Double edged sword of chaos
One handed sword, spell damage, -30PV for every hit
“Abandoned in a forest, this sentient sword grew mad from loneliness, left alone by its lord. Its story is whispered in corners of armory, between two hits on the training ground, a rumor that this sword speaks to its owner, thankful to have finally been found. Still vengeful of its first master, a cut will make allies into enemies and enemies into allies, turning them against their own for a few seconds before the madness dissolves and clarity is brought back.”
-- Drawing and writing exercice for a hack'n'slash in a fantasy setting --
Trouble et Personne
Dialogic Epistolary Exchange -- Personal Project
Personne, Qu’il est étrange de s’adresser à toi en ce nom si distant ! T’appeler Personne alors que j’ai déjà l’impression de te connaître. Tes maux résonnent en moi comme un chant de sirène trop entêtant pour y résister, une mélodie qui vient enserrer mon cœur avant de l’emporter dans des profondeurs que je me refuse à explorer depuis bien trop longtemps. Ta bouteille, loin de s’échouer sur une plage de sable noir, est venue gratter le fond de ma tête, se faisant sentir d’un crissement de verre sur ma mémoire fallacieuse. Le friselis de tes mots a percé la bulle d’ouate dans laquelle je suffoquais et en jetant tes espoirs à l’océan, mon souffle a percé les eaux, inhalant pour la première fois depuis des jours un air qui n’était pas celui, oppressant, qui ne me quitte plus. [...] Le sarcasme peinturluré d’absence et d’omnipotence ne peut exister que parce qu’on l’y autorise, en ce qui me concerne, j’ai depuis longtemps fait mon lit et taché mes draps dans son angoissante présence à l’arrière de mon crâne, symphonie vespérale incoercible, qui lancine et assassine les derniers relents d’une pensée logique et continue, ne m’offrant que des bribes de logique, me jetant des idées comme l’on offre une carcasse osseuse à un loup affamé. De ces dernières je produis des toiles, ramassis, amoncellements et collection informe de couleur et de teintes, posées sur un châssis craquelant formant une vision qui ne traduit que ma nescience artistique. [...] Quant à tes questions je crains qu’elles doivent attendre, car leur réponse m’échappe et je ne puis me souvenir que de temps anciens, des mémoires d’antan qui semblent allochtones et discordantes, mélopée désaccordée d’une autre vie dans laquelle mes troubles auraient été moins turbides.
Extract from Les labyrinthes d'Astérion
Twine Interactive Fiction - Finished Project
Tu ouvres lentement les yeux, cilles deux ou trois fois. Le réveil te semble étonnamment difficile et tes paupières ont du mal à s'ouvrir correctement. Ta tête te semble lourde et tu ne trouves plus tes repères. Peut-être as-tu trop dormi ? Il ne te semble pourtant pas t'être couché tard, hier. Tes derniers souvenirs ont du mal à revenir et tu penses reconnaître l'odeur de ton père brièvement avant de secouer la tête. Cela ne fait aucun sens, jamais ton père ne viendrait te voir dans ta chambre. Tu tâtonnes autour de toi, quêtant la chaleur de tes draps, mais tu ne trouves rien. La couette molletonnée qui occupe habituellement la moitié de ton lit n'est plus là, remplacée par ce qui semble être une couverture fine et rêche. Perplexe, tu te redresses et regardes autour de toi. La pièce dans laquelle tu te trouves est étonnement sombre et seule la silhouette vague de tes mains se découpe dans la faible lueur de la pièce. Habituellement, le soleil darde ses premiers rayons sur la mer Méditerranée et baigne ta chambre de sa lumière de miel, projetant sur tes murs les couleurs vives des vitraux ornant ta chambre, les motifs entrecoupés par les barreaux décorant ta fenêtre. Une magnifique prison au halo doré et des œuvres d'art inestimables, mais une prison quand même. La question reste cependant en suspens. Si tu n'es pas dans ta chambre, où es-tu ? Tu tournes la tête dans tous les sens pour essayer de distinguer plus loin que le bout de ton nez et à force de cligner des yeux, quelques bribes de lumière viennent t'indiquer que tu es dans une pièce sombre, séparée de la lumière par ce qui semble être une lourde porte fermée, une fine bande orangée éclairant le sol en pierre. L'atmosphère lourde et pesante de la pièce ne te dit rien qui vaille et l'odeur humide d'eau croupie ne t'aide pas à t'imaginer dans un endroit chaleureux. À cet instant, tu entends ce qui ressemble à de lourds bruits de pas qui résonnent à l’extérieur et semblent se rapprocher de la pièce où tu te trouves. [[Se lever pour aller vers l'origine du bruit et voir ce qu'il se passe.->photo couloir]] [[Rester dans la chambre et attendre.->retourner lit]]
-- Setting description for Crystal Spire --
Organisé en divers niveaux de terrasses, le village faussement idyllique dans lequel les personnages de contes vivaient était organisé selon des strates et rôles bien établis. Les méchants des contes dans les couches les plus basses, regardant la richesse opulente les écraser sans jamais les toucher, tenus à l’écart par une forêt dense, muraille physique et mentale entre les différentes strates. Au-dessus, les gentils, ceux ayant la bonne fortune de naître protagonistes de leur histoire, valeureux héros au cœur pur, vaillantes filles généreuses et bienveillantes. Si ces héros et héroïnes avaient été bien lotis, aucun d’eux ne pouvait rivaliser avec ceux du château. Sa façade en cristal permettait de voir et de rêver la vie des habitants en son sein, observant les occupations des plus populaires des contes, leur richesse et leur force grandissant au fur et à mesure de leurs adaptations dans le monde extérieur. Anura ne savait pas si cela était dû à sa condition de méchante dans son conte originel, mais, parfois, les faces lisses et brillantes du château semblaient trembler sur elle-même et lui brûler les rétines. Un château de silice dans une région continuellement ensoleillée. Quelle idée.