Inside the Zombie Studio: An Interview with Comrick and Daevan of the Curse of Troius
Thank you for joining us today on Inside the Zombie Studio, the highest-rated and only show on television after the rise of the walking dead. I am your host, William Tetley.
(audience moans, shuffles)
Joining me today are two of the primary… shall I call them movers? of the zombie fantasy novel, The Curse of Troius. I am honored and pleased to welcome first the Stranger of Daneswall, Daevan. I hope that it wasn’t too much trouble getting through the horde surrounding the building?
The Stranger: (shrugs)
Well, that’s, uh, good. Tell me, during the course of events chronicled in the aforementioned tome you give your name as Daevan, correct?
Well, I do so happen to know that you do indeed give that name, during a conversation with Comrick, the village Talebearer that you seem to warm to quickly. May I call you Daevan?
Yes. Hmm. I see that you’ve brought along what has come to be your signature item, sort of your Superman’s cape, if you will. That is a very striking shovel you carry. I understand that it something from your past, a marker of something significant. Perhaps you’d like to share the incident with the audience, since I think they will find it very inspirational.
TS: I used this shovel to bury the last two dozen of my closest friends and confidants as everyone save myself died of dehydration and malnutrition during a siege.
(audience moans, shuffles)
Compelling. I myself am a bit of a sentimentalist. I have a small snowglobe from Cancun, Mexico, given to me by my former intern Jackie. That’s her over there, with rotting hand and forearm clutched forgotten in her left hand. Would you like to see the snowglobe?
Yes, well, it’s not particularly important. I would be remiss if at this time I failed to introduce our other guest, Comrick, Talebearer and former wandering entertainer, Comrick. Welcome, and how are you?
Comrick: The pleasure is most certainly mine, good Master William. We are both taken aback by the kindness shown to we wandering travelers from the realms of literature by your highly competent and extremely well-disciplined staff, as well as the precision with which they helped clear a path through the ravening hordes that enabled us to make our way to these very comfortable seats and the tin cans of collected rainwater that you have generously bestowed upon the two of us.
(audience moans, shuffles)
Thank you, Comrick, that is –
C: It reminds me of the tale of Gorrick the Long-Calved, so named due to the relative shortness of the man but who was blessed with extraordinarily long shins. It is said that across all the realms he strode, hither and thither, he would always and forevermore have difficulty in securing breeches of sufficient length, and thus it was necessary that he find and don the longest boots that he could secure in all the vast and wild world of cobbling.
That’s uh, very interesting, good Comrick, but –
(audience moans, shuffles, knocks over makeshift barricade)
C: And it has been told, generation upon generation, from father to son, mother to daughter, sister to brother, cousin to uncle, niece to aunt…
Reynolds! Holdman! They’re storming the stage!
(audience moans, shuffles, storms stage)
C: …and when they spake of those particular soles, long after Gorrick had given measurements of both calf and foot, the villagers in that town would say that never had they seen such lavish adornments that that which dangled from the purse of the Mayor’s youngest daughter, whose golden hair was likened to the hair of the legendary Belinda of Scones, of whom ’tis said…
REYNOLDS! Help me! Clear these damned things away! AHHHH! It’s got my foot! Goddamnit, Holdman, do something –
(sound of shovel spanging against the pulpy head of week-old zombie)
Oh, thank you Daevan, I didn’t think – look out!
C: …of course, the arch of her foot was at once considered of import, for in that far-off land of mystery and wonder, belted by the Clouded Hills and girdled with the Rivers Twain, crowned by the Tri-Tipped Range and shod with the choking swamps of the Utter Fen, of which is said that…
They’re pushing through! OPEN FIRE! OPEN FIRE!
(audience moans, shuffles, is gunned down by high-powered explosive ammunition)
Oh thank heavens, I wasn’t sure we’d make that. It seems that we have run out of time for this episode, and I would like to give hearty thanks to my guests, Comrick and Daevan, and especially the latter for using the shovel to behead the grandmother that was clinging so tenaciously to my ankle.
Thank you, and good night.
(audience doesn’t move, drips rhythmically)
C: …for so it was from that day forward, whenever the sun crested the ridge, the folk of the downs would gather in praise, and lifting high their tin cups, would wait for any sun-blessed trickles of the finest heaven-sent rain to fall upon their upturned and most eager faces and gather, and though some would fall over, overcome and faint through their long vigil, especially during times of drought lasting more than a day or two, the rest would gather together the precious rainwater into their cherished vessels and drink gladly in the name of warmth and human friendship. And to answer your question, I am well.
[Update: I need to thank Jen Kirchner for helping shape this idea, which was half-formed until she suggested the title Inside the Zombie Studio and how it could be done. Check out her site at jenkirchner.com for more awesomeness.]