Author Archives: Kevin McFadyen

About Kevin McFadyen

Kevin McFadyen is a world traveller, a poor eater, a happy napper and occasional writer. When not typing frivolously on a keyboard, he is forcing Kait to jump endlessly on her bum knees or attempting to sabotage Derek in the latest boardgame. He prefers Earl Gray to English Breakfast but has been considering whether or not he should adopt a crippling addiction to coffee instead. Happy now, Derek?

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria Part 2

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Don’t worry fellow readers, I’m not about to post a whole world of built kingdoms and histories and places and peoples. The one nice thing about my D&D setting (and this now carries both campaign and short story relevancy) is that it’s created piecemeal. I can travel to different parts and locations freely and can make and develop whatever whimsy strikes me in that moment. Alas, such freedom isn’t truly allowed in a game setting, which means this little isolated kingdom is likely to be the most developed portion of the world.

And we know this because it got a map. A map gracefully charted by my personal cartographer since I hate coming up with land shapes and the geological features. But I love filling everything in and imagining how life would develop and shape the land it finds itself upon.

Anywho, on to the major sites of the Petty Kingdom of Calandria!

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Major Sites of the Petty Kingdom of Calandria

I lied, my personal cartographer made it, I just filled it in.

Because the beauty of this map can’t be posted enough.

Castrus

(village, ranches, dynastic fortifications ~21,000 population and 1,400 garrison)

The capital and home to the throne of the House Laranica is the heavily fortified city of Castrus. Castrus served as the focal point for the defensive ring of Calandria’s fort system and it shows. Massive parapets, soaring walls, crenellations, thick portcullis, majestic keep – Castrus has it all. From a dominating position upon a bluff overlooking Lake Aluar, Castrus boasts the prestigious reputation of having never been breached. Course, no attack has ever managed to siege her walls as all wars were ended before a force could march against her. That hasn’t stopped each successive Jarl from adding to the plethora of defensive structures protecting the stone home of the ruling House. As such, multi-tiered gates and inner walls tumble down the precipitous side of the bluff to the newly raised harbour towers commissioned by Jarl Brivis himself. All this serves to create an intimidating spectacle for visitors. Clever engineering has formed a snaking stair wall protecting every home and shanty beneath the Jarl’s gaze. They say not even the Ridgeback mountain goats could hope to leap over Castrus’ fortifications. Keep Laranica itself is an awe-inspiring collection of spires rising like bunched pikes to oversee the people beneath. Despite Castrus’ protections, however, it fails to be particularly populous. The lake, after years of massive fishing from both Calandria and her neighbours have rapidly reduced the schools within it. The cracked rock surrounding the city is an ill-fit for farming but has served well enough as the only other alternative for grazing sheep within the Jarl’s borders. A decent wool and mutton industry keeps some production within the walls as well as locating much of the metalworking and ship building in the petty kingdom. It is clear, however, that the kingdom’s wealth isn’t going to be found in the capital’s influence but after so many years of fortifying, there is no safer place in all the lands. Countess Arosa has decried the irrelevancy of the ancestral hold and demanded that a lavish apartment be constructed in Valencia so that she could be closer to the lifeblood of her nation. While the kingdom’s court still meets within the stoney cold walls of Castrus, much of its influence and politicking is done at the Cath Croya Estate in the bustling heart of Calandria – especially given how the people whisper that the Jarl bends his ear to every whisper of his ignominious daughter.

Valencia

(city, farms ~65,000 pop)

Ask any from outside Calandria where is its capital and nine times out of ten people will tell you it’s Valencia. Despite demonstrating that the vast majority of nations are rather ignorant of the petty kingdom, what most ever learn about it is the bustling city. It’s no wonder as the enormous settlement not only holds almost half of the kingdom’s entire population, but it is also the single most important trade hub in the region. Though it does not connect directly with the Crossroads, it does connect with subsidiary lines and any foreign merchant’s first point of entry is inevitably through its bronze gates. It’s also where the vast majority of foreigners end up. Supported by the only arable land and the enormous fortified estate which houses the kingdom’s military elite, Valencia rises up over Calandria’s single sea of wheat and oats – the grains hardy enough to grow even in its crisp temperate climates. Valencia’s beginnings, however, were far more humble than one would suspect. Originally, it was just one of the ring of fortifications protecting the inner Calandria proper. But due to its location, temperature and land, it quickly grew from a hearty fort into a sprawling settlement that quickly expanded beyond its meagre walls. It became the home of Calandria’s old warrior council – the Cath Croya – supported by the farmers in its fields and an ever expanding fort that most believe is a palace and not a military base. As such, it has sometimes been referred to as the Etreria of the North though it lacks the romantic raised, decrepit keep over a sprawling plains view as well as the grandiose, multicultural flair of the City of Roads. Few in Valencia belabour the point.

Valencia is home to the wealth and heart of Calandria and its markets are often the last point of contact for most enterprises within its borders. There is a bit of a problem with Valencia, however, in that its conversion into the most populous city in the petty kingdom has left the southern border woefully unprotected. With Valencia’s rise in prominence, the sitting Jarl moved the garrison from the city and has never returned it. The Cath Croya, once the Jarl’s advisory formed from his most elite and expert warriors, were seen as a potential threat to the stability of the kingdom. Their prestige was assured through hereditary inheritance and subsequent generations were less loyal to the crown while their city grew wealthy and prestigious. As such, Valencia has been forced to hire a mercenary militia whose skills and loyalty to their employers is tenuous at best. Their inability to properly police the city has made the citizenry criticize the Cath Croya’s right to govern and many people cry for the abolition of the council and for the Jarl to be granted full fealty of the city. The council, however, holds loftier ambitions. From the grandiose halls of the Croya Estate, they manage a network of scattered castrum scattered about the countryside. These old stone structures are unearthed fortifications from antiquity and provide an early warning and supply line dotting the rollings hills and farmsteads.

Major production in Valencia is focused on the land surrounding it. This is the only location one can find orchards and apples as well as raspberries and more temperate foods. As such, much of Valencia’s tribute to the Jarl is paid in harvests that are then spread amongst the rest of his peoples. And while Valencia is large, it isn’t considered the most picturesque. It almost squats between the hills, crawling and creeping constantly outwards and onwards from its focal about the military estate. Homes pile upon themselves and try to squeeze out the streets running between them. With so many people and so many regulations, it’s quite difficult for locals and foreigners alike to gain a business foothold in its crowded streets. Even its temples seem to struggle with accommodating all the worshippers and must often run double or triple services to attend their followers. The city is, however, known for its feasts and festivals where seemingly the entire settlement gives over to celebration and food practically grows up amongst the streets as the people forget the cramped and crowded quarters for the boisterous celebrations heard all over the hills.

Ancient stonework found around Muros. Most Calandria architecture focuses on the use of its sturdy lumber from the Caegulla Highlands

Muros

(city ~28,000 pop)

Muros is the proud old city of Calandria. One of the first settlements, there remain a few family lines who lay claim to remembrances of when booming Valencia was just another fort. Muros was originally founded on Calandria’s mainstay industry – lumber. It was the first point of production on the Ceagulla Highlands as well as being the legendary trade hub for the Northern Route. Unfortunately for Muros, the last generations have been hard. The legendary route has long since been abandoned, shifting the focus of international trade to southern Valencia. Untold years of lumber work has clear cut the area around Muros which led to a series of land slides and erosion preventing it from ever becoming arable for the city in any useful amount of time. Even its reliance for being the hub of the new lumber giant Ferrol has come under attack by the upstart Cea. But if there is one thing Muros has, and has it in droves, is history. The old streets are laid with ancient stone from the old times. The homes are a unique stone construct found nowhere else with the possible exception of Iliomar’s Folly. It’s temples are the most revered, being important points of study and worship for their seeming connection with the past as well as holding one of the original verses of the Poetic Saemundr. This reliance on history has kept foreign interests traditionally at bay, as many still look to the Muros scholars and priests as the moral and spiritual leaders of Calandria. Muros also has a proud tradition of being the birthplace of Calandrian architecture and many foreign students come to study the designs and techniques supposedly pioneered within its walls. There is a long and respectable history of engineers coming from Muros. Finally, despite the loss of farm or lumber industry, Muros has a robust animal husbandry and hunting production. They have the famed first caribou ranch as well as the largest hunting lodge in all of Calandria which claims and protects its monopoly on the Ceagulla Highlands viciously.

Cea

(city ~15,000)

Cea is considered Calandria’s rising star. A rather unremarkable town, Cea was a forgettable settlement on the Leyme Woods primarily serving as a stockpile and provider for the more distant Ares, Mens and Val Meyra. All this changed with the discovery of copper above Ares which brought enterprising merchants like ravens to a rotting corpse. Cea has been growing rapidly since, seeking to further expand their profits by being the kingdom’s sole point of export for Ares’ production. They have even gone so far as to enter a buyer’s race with Muros over the famous Ferrol lumber. Needless to say, this has stirred a lot of animosity in the older settlement. The merchants of Cea have also reinvigorated Mantrove’s Crossing, though the banditry has certainly cut into their hopes of great profit. But Cea’s rapid development and prosperity has brought many to its walls and it is the hottest place to be currently. This was made even more prominent with the recent establishment of both a ceilidh hall and an academy tower, giving a foothold for the bards and wizards that received chilly reception when attempting to make headway into Calandria previously.

Andrade

(dynastic hold, village, fishing quays, berry farms and distilleries ~5,000 pop)

Calandria’s northern most settlement, Andrade is built along and protects the legendary Northern Route. They’re one of the few to still refer to it by its old name – Nemento’s Pass – and maintain that it holds the oldest passage over the Ridgeback Mountains. No one makes the journey now, though, so verification of this claim and even confirmation where it leads is unprovided. However, it’s not Andrade’s long, proud history of independence or their own developing culture which they maintain is separate from the greater Calandria whole that the region is most famous. The thing that keeps the name of Andrade on people’s lips is its export of rich rowan wine and ale. Though the alcohol is wildly sought and appreciated, it is not the region’s number one production. The Andrade people are the largest producers of Calandria’s stockfish, caught and pulled form the ocean and dried with the frigid mountain winds along its rocky coastline. Andrade itself, however, isn’t built on the coast. The city proper is huddled around the ancestral Andrade Keep: hold and ancient focus of the dominion of the Andrade line. The Viscount is the last of his kind in the petty kingdom, holding out against the Jarls of Calandria far longer than any other rival. When he was finally brought to swear fealty it was under the solemn promise he would still be able to lord over his lands. Course, none now know exactly what these ancestral borders were so they just refer to the whole mess along the Eume and Allons rivers as Andrade and are done with it. The vast majority of its people are focused in the old walls of Andrade Keep or the village at the ocean’s mouth.

Mens

(village, ranches ~800 pop)

The only settlement that strikes out a living on the ice lake Iadra, Mens greatest importance is as the transition point on the lumber exchange between Ferrol and Cea. As the merchants of Cea continue their attempts to undermine their counterparts in Muros, much money has been directed to Mens in order to make it a more viable trade route for the Ferrol wood. Before its curious rise in recent prominence, Mens was a rather unremarkable fishing and shepherding village. Though they claim the fresh water fish is far tastier than what’s pulled from the marsh or ocean, the more temperate and protected Lake Iadra makes it impossible to preserve the fish through cold drying and instead the village relies on an import of expensive salt. Mens is also the only other place with any amount of wool/mutton production outside of Castrus which is focused in the southern hills between Mens and the sprawling farmlands outside Valencia.

Bares

(village ~2,400 pop)

Built on the edge of the marsh delta Iliomar’s Folly and the only ancient access point to the northern ocean for Calandria before the fealty of Andrade was sworn, Bares has carved a rather prominent niche in the colder northern climes. From their floating homes, the townsfolk can still plainly see the old stone walls of the failed ancient settlement that gave the marsh its name. The primary industry of the town is the prominent stockfish production, second only to Andrade itself. Unlike Andrade, Bares pulls its product from the waters of the marsh and not the ocean. The people make use of a wide variety of the marine life found in the delta. While fish is their primary export, the people are known for even eating salamander (and the infamous salamander brandy – known for its hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac properties – which is considered illegal in… well… pretty much everywhere). The abundant plants and herbs provide a unique flavouring to Bares’ often questionable cuisine but even more importantly, it is the home of some unique plants valuable for alchemical work and a lucrative export for the town. Finally, Bares has a very prominent hunting lodge and community. The members make the trek out through the Broken Spine Uplands to the wild coastline to catch deer and caribou.

Ferrol

(lumber village ~1,100 pop)

Many hold that this town is the fourth fort of Calandria. A rather impressive lumber trade has developed in Ferrol and the town itself impresses first time visitors expecting some rustic, northern backwater instead of a well structured and fortified settlement. The people of Ferrol pride themselves on their craft and are capable of creating many remarkable structures and monuments from the wood they harvest in the thick Ceagulla Highlands. The palisade isn’t just an impressive show of their talents, however, as it is an important barrier against the beasts that stalk the highlands. At the height of production, one of the most impressive displays is to watch the log jammers make the voyage down the Ice River Mino on the massive rolling stacks of harvested trees. Many liken it to a portable bridge spanning the entire length of the deep river and their navigation is so expert as to be almost graceful. Outside of the massive amount of wood, Ferrol also makes use of the other treasures of the Ceagulla Highlands. Medicine and alcohol is produced from the components of the trees. Leaves and branches are used to brew a mighty spruce beer and the fresh shoots are a natural and staple source of vitamin C for the townsfolk. The leaves also maintain much of the plant’s water and bundles are carried as a portable water source. The people of Ferrol have certainly earned their nickname of Tree-Eaters.

Typical view of the Ridgeback Mountains. Photo taken by Dag Endre Opedal of the Trolltunga.

Ares

(mining town ~300 pop)

Calandria’s most eastern settlement, Ares is nestled between the thick Leyme Woods and the Ridgeback. Ares has seen recent growth with the discovery of the copper veins in the nearby mountainside. Prior it had been a less productive lumber town with production focused on the softer deciduous woods than what’s found in the hardy highlands. The woods themselves are primarily elm (Leyme is the old tongue for elm) as well as aspen, birch and willow. Outside the elm, the other woods aren’t seen nearly as valuable though the aspen is used for a number of medicinal remedies throughout the petty kingdom.

Noya

(village, distillery, berry farms ~200 pop)

Noya would be just another unremarkable village unworthy of mention in any almanac if it weren’t for but one thing: cranberries. All along the river Cabron, travellers can find a sea of the floating red berries being harvested. A series of natural streams snaking off the Cabron create an irrigation network that allows the villagers to easily plant and grow the vines. Then, during harvest, the villagers dam the Cabron at key locations to flood the upland stretches and make gathering the floating berries easier. Then, the winter chill comes and freezes the flooded land, locking the moisture for next year’s harvest as the Cabron dams are torn down to allow the river passage once more. The recorded residents of Noya include the village proper and the berry farmers stretching up its rivers. When not harvesting the berries, most turn to illegal hunting of wild game in the highlands or trekking to Mens for fishing. Of particular note to travellers is a small brewery in Noya which is said to make an absolutely divine cranberry liqueur.

The Cells

(historic site)

Situated at the foot of Bandua’s Pike is an ancient site. The old ruins are from a time and people long forgotten and most of the structure has crumbled beyond recognition. It has seen a brief revival in recent times as villagers whisper morbid tales of the Countess sending ‘undesirables’ into its darkened depths to be forgotten.

Forts

These settlements represent the fortified corners of Calandria. They protect the old entrances to the petty kingdom. Val Meyra guards Mantrove’s Crossing, Val Vaiera the old Sarria river entrance and Val Minor the old northern route. Valencia protected the southern portion of Castrus but grew far beyond being useful as a fortification.

Val Minor

(garrison ~500 pop)

The smallest of Calandria’s fortification network, Val Minor would be the weak point in the armour if the natural landscape didn’t offer its own great protection. Across the rivers lie the soaring Ridgeback Mountains; a long chain far too arduous and difficult for an army to march. While many disused paths run up its side, the locals maintain that only two passages fully cross the range. Mantrove’s Crossing to the south, guarded by Val Meyra and the traditional entry into Calandria and the legendary Northern Route which has seen no use in memory and is held to be merely legend on its own. Val Minor’s most prominent service is to guard the logging route between Ferrol and Muros/Mens from wild beasts and creatures. It’s current standing force is twice as large as necessary but after the difficulties building Arosa’s Retreat, a greater show of force has been dispatched to the region.

Val Vaiera

(garrison ~2,000 pop)

Not typically considered important until tensions across the lake started to rise again. The neighbouring petty kingdoms have decided to test Calandria’s age old claim to the Uplands, moving people and warriors along Aluar’s coast in defiant claim of the previously ignored land. Fearing an invasion along historical lines, Jarl Brivis has been fortifying and expanding Val Vaiera and beneath the scaffolding it is turning into the region’s most impressive fortification, second only to massive Castrus itself. A sizable dock and small fleet is also being erected in the hopes to sail patrols along the Sarria and the ocean coast as an early warning to potential invasion from sea.

Val Meyra

(garrison ~1,200 pop)

Second most important fort as it guards the oldest road leading into Calandria. Course, with the southern connection to the Crossroads running up to Valencia, the pass sort of idled to mediocrity but laziness and tradition had kept it the grandest and most staffed fortification until the recent necessity of fortifying and expanding Val Vaiera. Mantrove’s Crossing was the traditional route which brought the most trade in and out of Calandria as it passed through the much more manageable foothills of the Ridgebacks. However, the development of the southern kingdom’s connection to the Crossroads and increase in banditry beyond Calandria’s reach has reduced the trade passing along old Mantrove.

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria

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So, I’ve taken on the stupid task of running my own D&D campaign. Which probably means I’ll spend the next few months doing tons of work and then all my players will quite after three sessions. But whatever, it does give me an excuse to flesh out the world of my D&D stories (yes, it takes place in that ludicrous world) as well as give me something new and exciting to post. Now, Derek’s done such a good job with his organization and set up that I’m just going to copy his format and pass it off as my own. Don’t tell him!

I present to you, the Petty Kingdom of Calandria!

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Prototypical image of Calandria’s marriage between ocean and soaring mountains.

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria

Capital: Castrus

Population: ~ 150,000

Government: Petty Kingdom

Lord: Jarl Brivis Laranica and Countesses Arosa and Isorna Laranica

Exports: lumber, lumber and more lumber, alcohol, berries, stockfish, copper, meat, alchemical herbs

Imports: salt, silver, grains, iron, spices

Mention of the petty kingdom of Calandria is likely to stir images of rugged landscape, bitter and tart berries as well as a hardy people capable of weathering war and harsh winters with equal ease. Though it is but one of many petty kingdoms making up the northern shores, Calandria has stood out in its success at remaining independent as well as developing a fairly lucrative trade destination despite its northern climes. House Laranica has ruled for near four hundred years with an unbroken line that they claim dates back to the first voyages of the Lochlanach. The petty kingdom has a proud history that has seen kingdoms rise and fall around her. At times, they have proved to be key allies in securing victory.

Not that Calandria has only been passive in military excursions. The throne at Castrus was forged with blood and bone and even the most recent northern expansion saw the ancient house Andrade forced to submit to the Jarl’s will. And while Calandria may lack the army of grander kingdoms, the greatest defence for the land is the harsh ground itself. Its north is composed almost entirely of impenetrable forest and land that has proven difficult for even native Calandrians to inhabit. A ring of great forts have long kept the temperate heartland of the kingdom protected and high grade metamorphic rock forms a natural shield around the arable farms.

Despite its burgeoning economy, Calandrian lacks a direct connection to the Crossroads. It’s most travelled path to the south passes through several kingdoms before reaching the great trade network and its most ancient artery goes through the foothills of the Ridgeback Mountains to the east instead of south. This isolation has been a blessing and curse. It does retard the development of the kingdom, slowing natural growth due to the length and cost of transporting goods in and out. However, it does provide its own protection as many see the land unworthy of the risk and cost of a full invasion to force fealty from the stubborn line. This has created a relatively lengthy peace for Calandrians who focus more on surviving their cruel climate than questions of subjugation to greater crowns. As such, their isolation has allowed a certain Calandrian culture to start flowering. Some of their old ballads and songs are still kept in the old tongue, intriguing scholars and bards alike who come north to see these ancient holdovers. The mossy and low scrub grounds seems to hold even older secrets as its citizens continuously find ancient ruins half covered in the slow hand of greedy nature. Furthermore, the Calandrians are quite keen on the value of the natural resources within their borders. The endless trees are a constant source of quality wood for local use and export. The whitewood of Caegulla Highlands is considered some of the best for performance and many bards whisper that a magical energy runs through the chords to enhance their shows. And honest scholars attest to the rare plants and flowers that can be found in the grand marsh delta that feeds into the ocean – home to many unique flora with quite a few alchemical applications.

Making recent history is the Jarl’s throne itself. While the fortified walls of Castrus have been famous for being impenetrable, the capital historically has seen less prominence other than being a pivotal port on the great Lake Aluar. However, much intrigue has surrounded the current Jarl Brivis and his beautiful but terrible daughter Arosa. For the outside world, the stories are many and varied. But what seems clear enough is a mounting discontent towards a house historically quite popular with its citizens. Whispers of rebellion are carried on travellers’ lips and more than one crown has kept an attentive ear to the developments in that incredibly defensible land.

A map of Calandria. You can tell I made it because it’s so awful.

Geographical Features

Great Lake Aluar: Aluar dominates Calandria’s western borders. In fact, the traditional delineation runs along the broad Sirria river that feeds into the ocean. But few have hold on the northern coast of the lake and the Calandrian throne has assumed ownership through proximity. Given Aluar’s expansiveness, it has long been a large source of trade and travel well before the major roads were laid in Calandria’s interior. Most scholars theorize that the Calandrians themselves came from across the western waters, despite the people’s claims of kinship to seafaring Lochlanach. Aluar holds a thriving marine ecology and many kingdoms dip into its waters to fetch the fish and weeds which thrive beneath its surface. More than one tale tells of sunken ships, brought down by mysterious creatures in the lake, and holding untold riches in their watery hulls that have yet to be reclaimed.

Lake Iadra: Considered the jewel of Calandria, Lake Iadra is a frigid lake fed by the waters of the Ridgeback Mountains. During the coming or departing of winter, it is not unheard of to discover great bergs of ice floating down the river Mino. It’s primary function is to serve as transportation for the spruce logs from Ferrol and there are many log jammers who will make the long journey to Mens upon the rolling backs of an entire fleet of downed trees. Fresh water fish inhabit the deep blue lake, providing Mens with a robust fishing industry of its own. However, Iadra is better protected than the northern villages and Mens requires the importation of salt o preserve their stock, hampering profits and output. But the rugged beauty of the lake is not to be underestimated. So picturesque is it that Countess Arosa demanded a summer estate be built so she can enjoy the only place in the petty kingdom to rival her own majesty. However, after some conflict, the construction on the estate has halted and it sits like a bleached skeleton overlooking the tranquil waters.

The Frozen Lake of Meros: The Frozen Lake is a prominent symbol in Calandrian legend, despite the isolated body having only a recent history of discovery. For most the year, the elevated lake is near frozen over, with only a brief period at the height of the summer solstice providing enough heat to break portions of its skin to send adrift down from its mountain hideout. For the longest time, the Calandrian’s believed the ice was from the mountainsides themselves and once the lake was discovered, rumours and tales of evil sorcery and the touch of the fickle gods abound. But because of it’s near continuous cover, there seems to be little production made from its icy waters so it mostly serves as a curiosity to travellers, bards and scholars alike who are drawn by its various stories and scenic location.

Freya and Heimdall by Nils Blommer (1853-1919)

Artistic rendition of the return of a sacred necklace by Heimdallr’s hand and demonstrating Calandrian culture isn’t all bearskin and mud.

Bandua’s Pike: Once thought to be the headwaters of the Ice River Mino, Bandua’s Pike is the largest mountain in the Ridgeback. Its tip is perpetually white capped and is said to be the spear to have pierced the side of the great Aenir Heimdallr the White God and thusly forever stained with his precious blood. Course, no one is entirely sure who Bandua is suppose to be. General consensus is that he must be some mythological Vanir figure though the temples attest he is not mentioned in any of the poetics or prose. Some scholars speculate he was an ancient god of a forgotten pantheon whose only remembrance is the soaring mountain. Others claim he was a mighty local hero. The actual headwaters of the Mino turned out to be the less impressive Little Brothers which feed the Frozen Lake of Meros.

Ice River Mino: An incredibly frigid river and often featuring in the ever amusing Calandrian initiation ritual of dunking hapless travellers nude in its icy embrace, the river Mino. While neither the deepest or longest river, Mino does chart a stunning course along the edge of the Ceagulla Highlands and the Ridgeback Mountains. It serves as the lifeblood for the lumber town Ferrol which floats practically all of its lumber down its length. Many travellers attest to the spectacle of the Ferrol log jammers navigating their long charges through the rather turbulent rapids as both a testament to Calandrian fearlessness and almost peculiar grace while performing the most ridiculous tasks.

Iliomar’s Folly: Named after the legendary ruins found within, Iliomar’s Folly (often referred to as simply The Folly) is a large marsh delta that feeds into the ocean. It marks the point of connection between the ocean and Lake Aluar and the Calandrians maintain that their ancestors navigated its twisting paths when they first arrived. Home to an ancient ruin of an unknown people, the marsh is perhaps more famous for the people who occupy its border along the river Sarria. The peoples of Bares carve out a fairly lucrative living with the many plants and animals that live within as well as producing the grossly infamous Salamander Brandy.

Ceagulla Highlands: An enormous expanse of valuable pine and spruce that stretches right across the north of Calandria and the source of its valuable lumber economy. The whitewood is especially sought after for use in musical instruments as well as lavish interior panelling. The pulp is then used in paper production. But the Calandrian’s do not rely solely on the trees, finding riches in just about every aspect of the expansive highlands. Fireweed Honey made from the nectar of the fireweed plant has a distinct, spiced flavour. The traditional Coporye tea is created with the leaves of the trees. Cranberry and Cloudberry are large harvests but as they’re considered sour and tart respectively, the connotations have carried over to the world’s consideration of its people. In the more northern sections, bilberries are a major fruit harvest with their near black/purple colour and deep red, flesh staining pulp that makes it look as if it were meat. Lingonberry are bright red and have a distinct tart taste while blackberries and raspberries provide some much needed sweetness to their medleys. Juniper trees offer spice for flavouring both the numerous wild game (quail, pheasant, veal, rabbit, venison etc) hunted within as well as the basis for a robust distillery tradition. Many of these berries spoil easily, however, and remain a staple of the northern settlements with little export beyond the borders. Spoil easily and hard to keep so are mostly a staple of the northern settlements and see almost no export beyond the borders.

Broken Spine Uplands: The hunters of Bares say it’s named after the fact that they break their backs going through the rugged land to hunt the caribou in the wild north beyond but the name comes from a failed invasion along the western border of Calandria. Her enemies thinking they could launch a surprise attack upon the northern shores of Castrus found the terrain far too rugged and formidable to navigate easily. Even worse, the ruling Jarl heard word of the approaching army and set an ambush. The battle was grisly and the outcome “broke the spine” of the invader’s army and they were forced to flee, seeing House Laracina’s sovereignty for generations to come. The Broken Spine has traditionally seen little use in the lives of Calandrians who consider it traditionally part of their lands. Some hunters will stalk its interior but for the most part it is ignored for the more dense Ceagulla Highlands and serves mostly as a nuisance for the hunting parties that have to constantly trek through it.

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 3

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I had other plans for posting today but it’s late and now I need to put something else. I promise Friday won’t be a brush off short story post though! At the very least, I think the Bannock short is interested.

Taken from wikipedia so it's creative commons, baby!

Interior of a Moundville, Alabama general store, 1936.

The General Store was a single story building with a large sign propped over its porch. The paint had begun to peel, flaking off in large chunks that tumbled to the stoop before being picked up by the wind and carried off. Felicity counted three rusting mining carts, some leaning against the sides and another upturned at the front, all turning a brilliant shade of orange. The dim evening light transformed the rust into vibrant spatters of blood. Only one bulb had been extended to the store. The exposed light was cracked, forming little teeth that seemed to grow from the thin metal plate suspending it.

“Surely we get a good price here. We ain’t got many options left,” Laure whispered. One of the windows was half-boarded, revealing a pile of pots stacked awkwardly on the other side. The second window had its curtains drawn closed but couldn’t hide the glow of the lantern within.

Felicity looked down at the promissory note.

“Desperation could inflate prices.”

“It’s curious. The town be prosperous with its mining and investments from the magnate and yet this ain’t the only building to look worse for wear.”

“From out meeting, I ain’t gathered he’s generous of spirit. So, try and keep things civil,” Felicity cautioned. “I betting they ain’t going to appreciate you pointing out the fact.”

Laure nodded, twisting the cap on her head and consulting her list. The engineer had dressed herself in a plain brown jacket and simple baggy kneed trousers tucked into a coal stained pair of socks. She often wore the part of a youthful male who had done little than steal away on the ship of a passing captain and was pressed into feeding the fires. She rarely said much and was quite happy with tending her own within the sweltering engine.

A bell rung at their entrance, the clerk bowing his head slowly as they pushed past the barrels, axles and linens crowding the front. Felicity took to the counter.

“Evening mist… pardon me, madame. You’ve made good time. I was just preparing to close shop for the eve. But I’ve always got time for a lovely customer such as yourself. How might I assist?”

The clerk gave a wary look to the seemingly young man piling mounds of supplies into his thin arms before reaching over and adjusting the nozzle on his gas lamp and bathing the counter with its orange glow. The flames hissed with the anger of a startled snake and for a moment Felicity felt the familiar wave of heat from gunfire wash over her face before fading into the recesses of her memories.

“My colleague and I desire to stock our ship whilst we’re moored. We’re hoping you can provide.”

“Ship you say? We ain’t have many of those come through recently. Afraid it’s affected my stock some but you’re welcome to whatever I got displayed.”

“Trouble on the rails?” Felicity asked.

The clerk sighed. “Truthful, we’re too far out to draw any serious attention.”

“Then what’s keeping your lines clear?”

“We’re a small community. Don’t like stirring the pot. We rather keep our troubles to ourselves.” The clerk removed his hat, running his hand over his scraggly hair and looking towards the window as if he expected to find someone peering between the boards.

Laure stepped to the counter, depositing the pile of sheets and cloths, metal cogs and wheels, bags of dry oats and wheat, bottles of alcohol and other food stuffs before the clerk. She laid the remainder of the list before him and he held the paper close to the lamp.

“I think I can get some of this. If you’re the ship in port, I can have the bigger things delivered to you by the morrow. Is that all?”

Felicity looked to Laure who nodded. She turned back to the clerk.

“There is one thing I’ve got personal interested in. Had a spot of trouble recently myself and I’ve misplaced my gun. Would reckon a fine store as yours would carry some.”

“We’re a peaceful mining town…” He looked her over, perhaps weighing the likelihood of a hold up from this rough looking woman and her thin fellow.

“I understand but even miners got family to watch.”

The clerk seemed to weigh the situation further. And while his poor streak would no doubt make the haggling difficult, it also opened doors that may have otherwise remained closed.

“Very well.”

He motioned towards the back, casting one last glance towards the window before snatching his lantern. Felicity and Laure followed him to a padlocked door, and the clerk fumbled in search of the key in his pocket.

“We don’t got a proper selection like any fancy city or nothing,” he warned. “But if it’s just the basics, you’re welcome to peruse.”

He pushed the door open to a small supply room. He led Felicity to a counter, removing a cloth over a pile of boxes.

“Can I interest you in something small? I’ve got a couple of pistols and perhaps a six shooter.”

“Where are your rifles?”

“That’s an awful mighty weapon for a little lady,” the clerk shrugged, pulling more cloth to the floor. Dust clouded the air. Clearly there weren’t many passing through but if the shipping was on hard times it seemed reasonable for the townsfolk to try and stock up on protection. Unless whatever plagued the lines was also affecting the miners.

“Got some simple pull levers. They got a bit of a kick though. Got to watch yourself else you could throw your whole shoulder.”

“Let me see the Colt revolver.”

“That? I wouldn’t recommend…”

Felicity held out her hand and the clerk obediently fetched it from the pile. She tested the weight, holding it up and looking down its sights. She fingered the firing mechanism, feeling its resistance. She then flipped the chambers, listening to the smoothness of their revolution.

“Thing about them is they got a nasty tendency to spray.”

“Yes and chain fire in inferior models. It’s an issue with all revolving chambers. Ain’t much a problem with pistols since your arm ain’t in front for balancing,” Felicity said. “But there be times when a faster shot is worth the risk.”

“You could seriously harm yourself, little lady,” the clerk warned.

“Only because manufacturers are limited in their creativity,” Laure spoke. Though her voice was barely a whisper, it drew the attention of both merchant and buyer. Slowly, the shy engineer took the weapon from Felicity’s fingers. Much like her captain, she turned the weapon in her hands. But she wasn’t checking to see if it was in good maintenance. She was checking the parts themselves.

Laure cracked open the barrel as if she were snapping the neck of a chicken. The clerk gave a quick shout but she turned her shoulder, blocking her actions from his view. Immediately flicking a few of the retaining clasps, she popped the chamber effortlessly free. She refitted part of the loading mechanism into the vacated hold, fishing from her pockets some tools to assist with the transformation. The clerk’s shock at her disassembling quieted into fascination as both he and the captain watched her attach a support cleft to balance the chamber allowing it to stick up from the top instead of hang below by the trigger hand.

“Eh, what are you on about there?”

“It’s such a simple design oversight,” Laure said. “You got your chamber set too low in the butt. Raise the firing mechanism and you won’t have your arm in danger. Like so.”

She held it up for the clerk.

“It work?”

“Not currently. It will once I have proper time to rejig with the new elevation. Ain’t nothing fancy and obstructs the vision if you ain’t used to it but hardly worth abandoning the principle. You can keep her faster fire and not burn your fingers.”

“Well, saddle me up to a may waggon and drive me about the pole,” the clerk said, looking over the device. “I don’t believe I ever seen such a thing.”

“No doubt,” Laure said. “Though it ain’t the first I’ve fashioned. How much you charging?”

“That runs about twenty I think.”

Laure shook her head.

“For a faulty design I got to fix before its got any use? I ain’t buying. You get her down to twelve and I may reconsider.”

“Twelve!” The clerk shook his head. “Excuse me but that’s nowhere near reasonable!”

“Very well.”

It happened too fast for the clerk or Felicity to follow. Laure’s fingers flashed over the makeshift fastener and the whole top portion of the gun seemed to fall into its constituent components. She rained the pieces upon the small table in a confounding pile and began to make her way towards the supplies left on the front counter.

Felicity watched the clerk stoop over the parts, tentatively taking one of the pieces and pressing it against the barrel as if the Lord’s will alone would fuse them together. He poked and prodded, trying to separate them into some sort of recognizable mess. After a few moments, it was clear he had no idea how to refashion the weapon into its original state.

And Felicity smiled.

“Wait!” the clerk called. Laure paused, the supplies piled in her arms. The clerk looked between the two woman who watched him expectantly. “You raise an excellent point. Quite unfair of me to not consider the value of your time in working with these fine pieces. Surely it worth… about sixteen? In its current state?”

“Awfully steep price for a gun that don’t fire,” Felicity said. She paused, her eyes roaming over the small pile of weapons. “I tell you what, you throw in that fine looking knife you got there and I think I could do about fourteen.”

The clerk ground his teeth and Felicity waited while he mulled over his options. With reluctance, he snatched the dagger, scooped the mechanical parts into his hand and carried the gun to the front.

“Shall I bundle it for you?”

“She’s as fine as the day she were born,” Felicity smiled. “I’ll pay for this now and the rest of my order once it’s delivered. I believe this should do nicely for the moment.”

She produced the promissory note and slid it across the counter. The clerk picked it up and held it to the lantern. His eyes widened.

“It is true then?”

“Pardon me?”

The clerk lowered the note, looking over the two women.

“You got the bandit? That Hopkins fellow? I hardly dared hope… what even with sir Nicolai coming to town and all…”

“I gather Mr. Nicolai ain’t one for parting with money easily,” Felicity said. “But yes, we got him.”

“Oh Lord’s blessings upon you!” the clerk sighed. An unexpected change washed over him and his face slid into a look of adoration. “Bless the both of you. I assure you, I will make sure to have your supplies to you by the morrow. I’ll even give you a discount for the service you’ve done this community!”

Felicity looked at Laure who simply shrugged.

“Not that I ain’t appreciative of your hospitality,” Felicity said, “but what exactly we done for your fair town?”

The clerk shook his head.

“That Hopkins… a right old villain he was. For months now, our shipments from port have been getting knocked just days from here. Old Bartholomew was saying that there’s been skimming from the mines but none of us took him seriously until every single one of the trains got hit. Seemed clear someone’s been cutting into our work. And it was doing wonders against our prosperity.”

The clerk turned to the window, walking over this time to draw open the curtain and hold his lantern aloft. He looked up and down the street before being satisfied enough to draw the curtains closed again and return to the waiting women. He leaned in close, his voice dropping low.

“Many been whispering it was an inside job, see. Lots of gossip in the streets that the Hopkins fellow was paying off some members to learn about them shipments and to make sure a blind eye was turned. But those trains weren’t just for taking our ore. When they returned, they brought the supplies we needed to support ourselves. That line’s the foundation of our town and Magnate Nicolai’s got full command of it. He makes sure none else come through. Without ore, we got nothing. With each shipment threatened, the magnate stopped ordering them altogether. No shipments means no goods for me and no pay for the miners. We’re broken.”

“Who’s been tipping off Hopkins then?” Felicity asked.

The clerk twisted his lips but shook his head.

“Can’t rightly say. Don’t know who would throw in with the untamed. All I know is the sheriff and his boys don’t appreciate too much talk on the matter.”

“Why is that?” Laure asked.

“Well, there are some who’ve never liked Plummer. Came in when the town was still struggling with its savages. Rode in bright as the day with that gang of his. They were suppose to be some steady shots. Ended up getting quite a few of the skinner’s heads for the magnate. Got appointment to office but he’s a hard man to follow. Order of the law ain’t his speciality if you catch my drift. Lots have been talking about his penchant for fancy suits, especially the newer ones he manages while the rest of the town’s been blanching beneath the drought. But then, from what I’ve been hearing, the magnate’s been sending him more to see that Hopkins gets caught right quick. I can’t rightly say I’ve seen the sheriff’s gang getting bigger so that money’s going somewhere.”

“Guessing he’s not one to take criticism lightly,” Felicity asked.

“You met him then?”

“Briefly. I ain’t saying he left a good impression.”

“Well, now that the ore’s been found, I’m sure things’ll pick up again,” the clerk smiled. “Like I said, you’ve done us a service, ma’am. One ain’t none of us can pay you proper for.”

“It was my pleasure,” Felicity smiled.

She gave a tip of her brim before motioning Laure out the door, clutching the core of her new rifle and carrying the rest of the pieces in her hand.

“I don’t recall you returning with any ore after catching Hopkins,” Laure said.

“We ain’t,” Felicity replied. “But more importantly, I ain’t reckoning I’ve ever seen this trick you’ve done with the rifle!”

And for the first time, the engineer blushed, turning her face to look across the street.

“It was nothing.”

“Was a damn fine play,” Felicity laughed. “I should get you to do more of my haggling. I’ll see to it that your next pay reflects it.”

“As I said, it was really nothing.”

“Well, don’t get none too excited. I ain’t picked it up yet. Unless the promissory will do you?”

“Honestly, I could use a new primer for the ignition more than any thing else.”

“You get this beauty fixed up,” Felicity said, patting her new gun, “and I’ll get you a whole stock of primers you can build a new bed from.”

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 2

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Well, the plan was to do a small rant on people and design as well as make off-handed mention to Felicia. Then I spent several hours going through and doing organizational work on the photos we upload to this site and suddenly I lost all time to make a real post. So here is part two of the Bannock short.

Old Citizens State Bank building 1907.

The man waved his white glove. Once each had entered, the dreadful squeal began again and Felicity turned to see a dark complexioned man in a very plain suit working feverishly at a large metal wheel. Sweat beaded his forehead as he cranked the device running up the side of the wall to the heavy hinges upon the door.

“Necessary precaution,” their host explained. “Come, we speak in my office.”

“Likely ensorcelled,” Schroeder whispered. Felicity examined the parts carefully as she passed but saw neither glyph nor mystic adornment attached to the cold steel.

Their host led them through polished doors and along expensive carpets. Gas lanterns hissed on the walls within copper braziers. Spaced between them were exquisite paintings the likes of which had no business being on the frontier. Expensive old world furniture was imported along with Jader porcelain placed on marble pedestals or polished mahogany tables. Brass handles finally opened into an impressive study. A green velvet high back chair faced a small semi-circle of plain wood chairs carved by less experienced hands. The desk was grand, incorporating old designs of the Lord’s resplendent aspects standing triumphantly over twisted untamed with anguished, bestial faces. Thick curtains framed the large window letting in what light still crept over the grand mound outside and casting the stained wood walls in a soft, reddish glow.

A few potted ferns filled the corners but what drew the greatest attention were the two men seated patiently before the desk.

They stood immediately at the older man’s entrance. The first was the sheriff. A large man with a grandiose belly barely contained within his tucked shirt. His pants were pulled well above his burgeoning gut held by a thick belt and bright gleaming clasp that shimmered in the dim sun. He wore uncharacteristically fancy pin stripped pants, a rubbed leather jacket, a gleaming gold star badge and magnificently polished boots. A silver pistol shimmered at his side.

“About time you got here,” he started, his voice heavy with anxiety. But he drew short of further protestations as Schroeder pulled the bound man into the office.

“That is him then?”

The third member hardly spoke above a whisper. No greater contrast could he make compared to Sheriff Plummer. The man wore a simple boiled stripped shirt tucked into riding pants flecked with dirt from the trail. He was a tall man but thin. His face was half concealed in a grand moustache that curled down to his jawline. A pair of gauntlet gloves covered his hands, the fingers worn from use and the wide cuffs stained with sweat. A fearsome rifle was slung over his back and a simple silver pin on his lapel identified him as a Ranger.

“Hide and hair,” Felicity said. She gestured and Schroeder held the cord out to the Ranger.

Their escort rounded on the large chair, pulling it aside and easing into it. He reached for a pipe resting upon the top, lifting it to his teeth as he produced a small match to reignite the cold herbs. He puffed a few breaths before expelling a soft cloud from his lips that encircled his head.

“Please, draw a seat,” their host said, waving at the chairs. “I wish to gather the measure of my heroes before concluding our business.”

Bernhard Nicolai conducted himself with the grandiose airs one would expect from a magnate. His suit was of impeccable quality, and one certainly worthy of Schroeder’s envy. All imported silk from the western colonies but designed and fitted with the precision of eastern craftsmen. Lavish breast kerchiefs stuck from his pocket, a small rainbow of complimentary colours in rich blue, purple and yellow. He wore a brightly patterned ascot running beneath the lapels of his coat. His sideburns covered the length of his chin, tapering to two separate points on either side of his jaw. They were slightly curly and dusted white from his ascending years. But the moustache poised and greased between was as brown and lively as a man nearly half the magnate’s age.

And his dark brown eyes held an energy and fire hardly seen in even the wildest outlaws. This was no aged gentleman used to cozy meetings and deals forged by pen instead of a gun. This was a man who made and created his empire on the frontier and the signs of slothfulness were more badges of his success than hints at a deteriorating state.

Beneath those brows burned a fury that never crept to his lips.

“Please, Henry Plummer, Ranger Hayes, have a seat.”

The Ranger pulled the outlaw to his side. Hopkins simply stood with head lowered as no chair remained for him. In the shadow of the mound, he appeared as little more than a misbehaving slave brought before his master for reprimand.

“It is a pity it come to this,” Nicolai said. “This situation never needed escalation. I invested too much into this enterprise to let such… disturbance ruin it.”

He paused, letting his genteel disgust weigh upon the gathered.

It was, of course, the sheriff who broke first.

“I told you, sir, if I only had-”

“Yes, I am well aware of your requests,” Nicolai interrupted. So quick had his earlier joviality disappeared. “But for all my money I sent in tracking this villain, your progress never made any headway.”

“Sir, the wasteland is a large expanse and…”

“Silence!”

He needn’t say anymore and the sheriff took his peace. A few more puffs of smoke encircled the older man’s head.

“If it would please you, Mr. Nicolai, I’d like to see this ruffian down to the jails,” Hayes drawled. “Must have him prepared for the trial.”

Nicolai turned slowly to the Ranger.

“And then there is you, Mr. Hayes. When I requested assistance of the Rangers, I expected results. Your band is suppose to be the best on the plains. And yet, the first of your order seemed to vanish in so much smoke and…”

“Yes, I am well aware. I continue to invest-”

“Please do not interrupt me again.”

Chilly was his response that even the hardened Hayes grew still. He gave a deferential bow of his head to the magnate.

“You turned up nicht. Nothing! I do not pay the Rangers to post wanted posters. I have many people who can. I expected results and I get but middle men.”

Ranger Hayes cleared his throat.

“The Rangers see that results get done,” he grumbled. “Even if that requires the aid of outsiders.”

“Come, take a look from my window,” Nicolai said, motioning with his pipe. The Ranger raised a brow but obliged. The pair looked at the grand mound lit with the dark red of the retreating sun slinking behind its edge.

“You see this. This town I forged with blood and steel. Before, this was nothing more than a small outpost supplying troops on the furthest lines.”

The pipe encircled the furthest edges of the township and the separate wooden compound half decaying into ruin. What had once housed soldiers, horses and supplies had long been purchased and turned into warehouses supporting the nearby town.

“But then a soldier stumble upon a magnificent discovery when climbing the Mound. You know what he thought, Mr. Hayes?”

“Why they ain’t build their fort on top?”

“Yes, precisely,” Nicolai smiled. “Why set an outpost at the base when you can’t see around. Half the day you are covered in shadow. Well, climbing its top, he found silver rock sticking from the ground as if dropped by flying birds. The soldier reckons he found a silver seam. He thinks he will be rich. But a soldier can’t afford to mine and he requests money and supplies. And do you know who gave those to him?”

“I be guessing it’s you, sir.”

“That’s right. I give the soldier his supplies so he could dig before the one who requested the outpost here. But yet neither sit in this office.

“You see, he found not silver in the earth. He found tin. But tin is not as valuable. Not as easy to find buyers. So, I find them for him. And you know what they say to me? That this not tin. This is wolframite. Do you know what wolframite is, Ranger?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Neither does the soldier. So, I tell him tin not as valuable but I will buy rights from him for more than it is worth. I assure him that I can turn decent profit if I build my own line but that it is not profit if I must split it. Which is true. He accepts and is happy with my price. He gets money and I get mine. And with mine, I get wolframite.

“For rocks are not good as they are. Rocks have more to them. You can look at a stone and see only so much on its surface. But those with keen eyes can find value where others can not. From wolframite you can get what mechanists call tungsten. And they are very happy with it. I have built this town from it. Those lights burn with it. This building is reinforced with it. It has many uses. And that is what makes it valuable. Even more valuable than silver. Now you know why this city built on steel.

“But there is another reason the soldiers build not on the Mound. And that is because the savages revere it. They think nonsense that it houses one of their great spirits. They grow angry that I come and take its wealth; wealth that belongs to their god. They attack my workers as they build my line and my mine.

“And now you know why this city is built on blood. They would not sell their Mound. So I am left with no other recourse than the sword.

“You see, not once did I pass on my responsibility. When the tin needed selling, I sold it. When the ore needed mining, I mined it. When the town needed defending, I defended it. Do you get my point?”

Ranger Hayes gave the magnate a bored look and nodded his head placating. Nicolai smiled, patted the man on the back, then walked to his desk. He picked up a letter opener, his smile never changing. Then he circled the desk and jammed the object square into Hopkin’s wounded shoulder.

The outlaw gave a great cry, falling to his knees and the Ranger shouted as he hurried to his side.

Nicolai simply tightened his grip around the letter opener, twisting it for one final scream from the outlaw and retracting it while wiping its edge with one of his kerchiefs.

“I do not appreciate those who steal from me,” he said. “You can tell your boss that I only pay half price for a half job. I will not be cheated by thieves or louts. Now go, and do your half job.”

Ranger Hayes stood with a terrible rage in his eyes. But he said nothing as he pulled the outlaw to his feet. They excused themselves and Nicolai rounded on the sheriff, his letter opener still in his hand.

“We are done.”

The sheriff stammered an apology and acknowledgement, getting to his feet and hurrying after the Ranger. Nicolai watched him with darkened eyes, never turning away until his study door closed behind them.

Then he finally regarded Felicity, his warm smile returning like a dawning sun.

“Now, to our business.”

“We just aim to be paid,” Felicity said.

“Yes, I know your kind well.”

He searched his bureau, pulling out a sheet of paper and dipping his quill into a sleek ink pot. As the tip scratched across the surface, he spoke though his eyes never left the note, “There is much to be learned in business, and not just the value of stone. Quality never depreciates in value. And one can always find a use for something of value even if others fail to recognize it themselves.”

Nicolai looked up, holding the slip for Felicity. She crossed the plush carpet to pick the note from his fingers. Written in impeccable script was a promissory for her services to be exchanged at the constabulary and through trade goods produced in the town. Nicolai’s signature drew elegantly across the bottom, framing the seal that made the document official.

“Much appreciated, sir.” Felicity added the last after a moment’s hesitation.

Nicolai leaned back, clutching his pipe and puffing a few clouds into the air.

“I do not begrudge you, fair hunter,” he said. “You perform your duty. Unlike the others, that money is well spent. It gets results and I care not how they achieved.”

He sighed, looking out the window for a moment.

“Competition breeds strength. While others may not notice, many tracks come to Bannock. Not all of them finished. Not all of them mine. Many have seen value in the Mound. It takes dirty hands to reap a harvest.”

He thrummed his fingers against the desk as if he were weighing some deeper consideration.

“By your leave, sir, I’d appreciate the chance to bear witness to Hopkin’s trial,” Felicity said.

Nicolai looked at her, his expression blank.

“You two have history?”

“Ain’t more than what it took to get him,” Felicity said. “Came at much a price I ain’t enjoy paying. And your generosity don’t cover some losses. I like to see my work to the end, sir, and there’s some satisfaction in seeing justice run its course. In my profession, it often to my benefit to know a job’s right and done.”

Nicolai nodded slowly.

“Very good. I will arrange your ship to harbour.”

“Thank you, sir.”

We Made It After All

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So, the more observant amongst us may have noticed some changes happening to somewherepostculture.com, and I don’t mean that Derek has finally crawled from his cave to scribble on some wall for us. That is a change, however, and I would like to take a moment to properly celebrate it.

No, what I mean to draw attention to is that some of our older posts have been undergoing revisions. Now, before you get too excited, these aren’t a byproduct of us editing our work and bringing it up to an actually decent level of standards. They’re still silly nonsense that spawned from our heads. No, the images which we supplement our work have been receiving an overhaul and that’s because of one important reason.

Someone out there is watching and reading our content!

In plain English, we’ve received a Cease and Desist from some unnamed entity which exists in some nebulous place in the real world and isn’t a fan of us using their content despite our best efforts to source it. Which now makes me wonder if poor Mary Tyler above is violating some archaic sense of copyright. Course, she’s still alive so she doesn’t exist in the bizarro realm which the likes of Mickey Mouse now inhabit. Thus, we now endeavour to use only creative common images wherever we can. Copyright is, however, a tricky sort of business and thus mistakes are likely to happen. For that, we apologize and if we have any outstanding issues it’s not through willful disobedience or rebellion and more likely our failure to spot it.

The take away message here is that someone has read our site. Even if it was briefly to see where their image was being accessed. Out there, someone cares and they care enough to send us a semi-official looking legal document.

In its stead, I know I’m going to try and expose you, cherished reader, to the ocean of classic art and painting that has formulated and directed the development of visual arts. I don’t do this because I have any deeper knowledge of what I shall link and am mostly doing it because I know no one owns anything pre-1930. That said, I have a new appreciation for the development of art after my brief sojourns abroad and hopefully some things of value can be discovered and enjoyed instead of being locked behind some stuffy museum or art gallery that few of us would ever attend.

Course, since I mostly produce speculative fiction, some of the work I supplement my own with may not have relevance that is immediately understandable. I just want you to know, dedicated reader, that I put as much time and effort into finding just the right portrait or painting to match the care and effort I put into my work.

So keep coming back to enjoy the musings, writings and visual treats of such greats as Derek Gingrich, Kait McFadyen and Horace Vernet.

Ranting Ranters Rant

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So, Derek informed me that I haven’t made a rant on the blog for over two months. Two months! The poor rant tag is likely wallowing in self-pity and neglect. This was an injustice I could not ignore so vowed today I would rant about something… anything! Nothing would be safe from my disgruntled attitudes and opinionated opinions.

Ripped from planetminecraft.com which makes me think this is either clip-art or pulled from some anonymous source on the Internet. Sorry to the original artist.

Except there was one problem – I didn’t particularly have anything to rant about. I haven’t really seen anything disappointing or worth evaluating, much like my colleague (with the sole exception of the new Archer episode but I don’t feel I could get a full blog post from that). What little media I’ve consumed has been passable. Some of it has even been acceptable. Community started it’s fifth season and they came up with both a reasonable explanation to bring the gang back to college but also introduced enough changes to make the series seem fresh again. They also pointed out a number of the issues I had with the series and hopefully they will address them in future episodes. We also got the return of Starburns which suggests that some of the problems plaguing development have been smoothed over.

Sherlock (the BBC one) has come back. They had that messy Moriarty issue to deal with and did it fine. The episode was rather mediocre by the end but they were trying to both address Conan Doyle’s clumsy attempt to kill the protagonist and bring him back in one of the most famous instances of writer’s guilt and retconning. On top of that they had their own bungling of the source material and asinine modern introductions to try and sweep through as well. All in all, the episode seemed to convey “We screwed up and this is us sorting house.” Though the ending did seem to tease another super villain which, if true, will probably ruin the show. Sherlock is, much like his regular incarnation, best suited when he’s dealing with one off adventures than any silly contrived super plot from mega-villains.

I haven’t seen Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit yet and that might not happen for another week so my blood hasn’t boiled over that inevitable coalescence of Hollywood subsidized stupidity. On the gaming side, I’ve been playing mostly Dota 2 and Civilization V both of which are in a good point developmentally speaking. Civilization released a second expansion I finally got my hands on which seems to have added some much needed complexity and depth to its mechanics with the introduction of trade routes and a new World Congress. More importantly, they fixed whatever coding issues made the damnable game take upwards of ten or fifteen minutes to load which is what murdered what interest I had in the title.

Needless to say I was having a bit of a quandary. Then, as I was taking a shower (I do my best thinking there, don’t you know), I realized I could probably ramble on a good long while about television and its narrative structures and how they could potentially be influencing other media. I had a really good argument that would focus on the required nebulous concepts and maintenance of status quo in television series in order to maintain an indefinite development cycle to keep its production employed. I wanted to then extend how these techniques have been bleeding into other mediums like novels with their focus on long, convoluted epics that don’t seem to really go anywhere as well as film and their need for trilogies. I would then elegantly tie it up with franchising in video games, possibly using the always apt and applicable trainwreck of BioWare’s Dragon Age series which is always a great example of everything that’s wrong with narratives and the industry.

I was going to begin that discussion on the foundation that, of all the new media available to the modern consumer, television is the worst cognitively speaking because of its passive consumption with its audience. Due to my scientific and psychological background, I was going to draw on brain activations and mental health as a quick way to demonstrate televisions deleterious effects.

And then I couldn’t find my sources.

You see, we at somewherepostculture try to maintain an air of professionalism. We often fail, bumble or come up short but the effort is put forward. I didn’t want to just blindly throw out the statement that “television consumption is a cognitively lazy leisure activity that encourages its viewer to sit and vegetate instead of engage with its product” without having some fancy dude in a lab coat to have crunched some numbers to support that statement. Now, this statement is practically common knowledge at this point and I figured it would be a quick search through the old Google search bar.

Three hours later and the best I had were a handful of articles on sedentary living and its effects on the development of children’s Theory of Mind.

So, instead of a rant on television, you’re now getting a rant on the commodification of knowledge.

Seriously, I can’t think of a greater sin we can commit in the modern age than to lock away knowledge and theory behind pay walls. The development of the Internet is perhaps the greatest invention of our time capable of revolutionizing the way we view and deal with in information. We have seen its sporadic and unpredictable effects through our lives. There’s the growing focus on the personal lives of the average individual – Facebook and Twitter practically replacing much regular socialization amongst peers as well as becoming its own entertainment. Nations are finding the free flow of information incredibly difficult to dam. The riots and rebellions in the Middle East often take to social networks to organize and spread their message. Australia has tried to control the access of certain irreputable material with about as much success as they have from preventing foreign flora and fauna getting introduced to their backwards country. Edward Snowden revealed the global monitoring and surveillance of the American Government on such a scale that would make even George Orwell blush.

And our universities – states of higher education and progressive thought – first order of business is to try and hide their studies and research behind strong armed publishing arms looking to try and make a buck off the advancement of knowledge. Because, apparently, we as a society still haven’t learned the value in education and must insure only the wealthiest or the most willing to be indebted for the rest of their lives like some rejuvenated medieval serf system are worthy of said knowledge.

This is in the face of rampant misinformation and lies. When an agency like Fox News can boldly throw up outright fabrications and avoid any persecution because they self stylize themselves as an entertainment outlet and not a news agency then we know something is wrong. American right-wing politics is practically composed of a body engaged in a competition amongst themselves to look the most ignorant and out of touch with reality.

Sorry – I generally don’t try and bring any big political elements into this blog.

The fact of the matter is, after the invention of the Internet no one knew what the hell to do with it. The common person takes it grossly for granted. I know, because I was one of those people. Course, being in Canada gives me and my colleagues a unique perspective in that our Internet providers practically run a monopoly on their service and offer such ludicrous deals to the average customer that you can find better service in airplanes than you can in Canadian homes. But, I’m not going to make a grand call of action and demand we storm parliament hill for change. I mean, if you want to then go right ahead. But it’s cold outside and the cost of gas is so high right now.

No, instead I’ll probably write a story about it. A story inspired by how stupidly difficult it is to find a source to demonstrate that television makes us really lazy.

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 1

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I’ve been teasing pieces of my second novel, the Clockwork Caterpillar, and recently wrote a short story set in its world and ostensibly with some of its characters. It was for a competition which, sadly, I didn’t win but that just means you fine folk get to visit Bannock earlier than expect. So there’s a silver lining there.

Over the Broken Bones of Bannock

The whistle gave its forlorn cry. It was the shriek of a bullet right before it tears through flesh and finds mortal rest deep in the bosom of a mighty warrior. The metal wailed as brakes ground against wheels; a morose dirge for the fallen accompanied the sparks hissing into the air as a final rifle salute. It was a cry for the end of a journey. The abrupt stop, though expected, always came too early. It caught its passengers off guard no matter what preparations they took. And no matter how often Felicity went through it, each time still stung as harshly as the first.

A cloud of steam puffed from the vents creating a shrouding fog that rose from the ground about the warm steel. But heavy was the itching smell of burnt coal that carried in the wind to sting eyes and rasp throats. The metal groaned as the great sectioned leviathan came clanking down the track. With a final, resolute shudder the steel beast drew to its rest. The feet of its passengers went to work about her but they were like ghosts drifting in and out of her memory. Faces blended together and echoing voices took on different names. She could see people that no longer worked the line. Some of them were faded and indistinct, just wisps of fleeing memories. One was a young soldier, his hair tinged with the first greys and clinging to a sweaty face struggling against the consuming flames. The next was a missionary, the wide brim of his cappello romano dotted with holes that cast soft beams on a pallid face.

She then felt a hand on her shoulder, its size and warmth causing her to jump in her seat. But when she turned, it wasn’t a golden face that looked down upon her. Instead, it was the blue eyes of her engineer looking concerned from a coal smeared and sweaty face.

“We’ve arrived, captain.”

“Thanks, Laure. Best tell Schroeder to get him then. Should look to replenish our supplies while we’re here too.”

She grabbed for a gun no longer there, cursing her absent mind. She settled on her wide black hat and threw on a long duster stained with the dirt and blood of the trails. It was a wild frontier beyond the steps of the tracks and very little of it could ever be scrubbed off those that wandered it. She looked at the indistinct shades while adjusting her collar. Some of those stains were her own. Many were not. Those were left from the holes she dug and only the darkening off the cuffs remained of their passage.

She shook the door open.

The station master stepped forward. He was clad in the faded black and white stripped shirt common for his profession. A worn cap pulled over wiry white hair and a spotted forehead. Dulling eyes followed the soft ticking hands of the pocket watch, waiting for the final whistle cry before dried lips shouted the announcement.

“Fourteen and two to the hour and nay a second more!”

He clapped the watch closed, tucking it into the breast pocket as he clasped his aged hands behind his jacket. The formality of his posture tickled the back of Felicity’s mind and it was easy in the clinging steam to see another person in the fog. The long shadows looked like thick feathers drained of their once vivid colour. Curls of smoke filled a frame until it created the outline of a giant man bound with thick muscles and adorned in faded jade of the southern tribes.

Then the steam disappeared and the aged station master turned to the door. His polished shoes tapped the smooth wood of the station’s deck while an anxious finger picked at the tail of his short jacket. He smiled at the sight of his first visitor.

“Greetings and welcome to the grand shores of Bannock.”

Felicity still held the door half in its frame. With the last wisps of smoke clearing from her long black hair, the master looked at the woman’s expressionless face.

“You… are the party Metticia?”

“S.J.!” she called, turning her thin neck towards the machine’s innards.

“Aye, captain?”

“Care to deal?”

The navigator appeared behind her shoulder, adjusting the thick spectacles upon his nose.

“Mr. Metticia?”

“Oh!” S.J. cried fumbling the papers in his hand. “Lord’s Graces, forgiveness I plead. Forgiveness!”

Felicity pressed to the side as the navigator stumbled down the steps.

“That’s right, we’re the scheduled ship. But, see, Metticia isn’t my name. We’re on the sheriff’s business. Fulfilling a request of his, we are. I’ve got the papers!”

The final declaration was committed after but a moment’s pause. He shuffled through the clutched stack, offering one but quickly rescinding as the station master’s hands began to settle.

“Sorry, forgiveness Graces, that’s for the Expanse. Bannock, right? You’re a Schroeder, nay, Nicolai line?”

He turned to the station for an answer. While the name of the town was displayed prominently in bold letters above the main double doors, a number of names and lists were posted on its wood exterior.

“We’re Nicolai,” the station master confirmed as he craned his neck to look over the papers in the other man’s hands.

But S.J. kept them from sight. The master’s shoes tapped an impatient beat, one that echoed in Felicity’s ears like the last shudders of a dying heart. The tap flooded her hands with the warmth of memory, the touch of blood covering her fingers while she cried vainly into haunting winds.

S.J.’s sheets fluttered between his fingers until he produced the permit. The station master took it, clearing his throat as he held the paper to the light of the afternoon sun. He scanned the document, eyes drifting over the letters themselves but paying closer attention to the seals and signatures for signs of duplicity or forgery.

Felicity shook her head of the clinging thoughts and stepped from the engine. She gave her navigator a pat on the back.

“Make sure this is properly sorted. And take care to see we lay in port for a good while. We wouldn’t want to rush the magnate.”

“The magnate?” the master asked. “You’re here to see him?”

“I would hope,” Felicity said. She snapped her fingers and gave a quick whistle. To the master’s surprise, a young man appeared as ridiculous as he was stylish. His hair was slicked and immaculately placed. A crisp suit with full breast pockets, polished shoes and high banded collar clasped his slender frame. His guise was professionally cut and more befitting the busy streets of the Old World than the dusty steps of a frontier station. But it wasn’t the allusion to wealth that stayed the master’s tongue but the long barrelled rifle slung over the sharpshooter’s back and the thick cord in his hands. With a tug, he produced the other end which bound an unsettling man in bloodied skins and a great bandage about his shoulder.

The station master looked questioning.

“We assist with deliveries,” Felicity explained.

The man was yanked unceremoniously from the train and the woman led their small party across the station’s deck. The master couldn’t help but stare.

“Is that him, then? Dirty Hopkins?”

The station master didn’t even wait for a proper response before spitting upon the man’s filthy clothes.

“If you had any decency, you’d have thrown yourself off the Glorious Belt and into the Lord’s arms!” the master shouted. The bound man snapped against his restraints. Felicity simply whistled and S.J. quietly lead the master inside to work out their details. She gave a sharp tug on the rope to bring her captive to heel.

“You best behaving. Caused enough commotion at the bridge and I don’t need to hand you over to the magnate. It ain’t too late to grab some rope, turn around and drag you behind on the way out.”

Hopkins ceased squirming and Felicity turned to the town. A great mound towered intimidatingly, casting a long shadow over the frontier shops and homes. Most were simple, squat structures with false fronts and single stories. Between them snaked thin lines leading to small metal plates with dangling glass bulbs. The crackle of electricity filled the air and the lights flickered with the timely beat of the currents. Uneven pools winked in the dark, overbearing shadow of the soaring earth.

One building loomed over the others, a veritable bastion of tarnished steel rising in defiance of the great bulge opposite it. Its metal façade dominated the neighbouring wood, like a steel plant had grown up from the rail running through the centre of town as if the connection with the extensive network snaking the plains was a great iron root. Steady white bulbs washed the bold name of Bernhard Nicolai L.P. printed in golden letters. Thick columns of steel imitated the Doric style of antiquity. Their trunks supported a wrought balcony fringed in gold leaf and wreathed with simple ivy. The front entrance itself was a great piece constructed of bright swirls with heavy iron handles. It was like approaching the entrance of a great fortified keep rather than a place of business.

Felicity waved the slicker and captive on and the three stepped carefully over the rail and to the front steps. Their boots struck against dried wood and she looked with surprise to her companion.

“Expected it to be steel too.”

“These men love their false finish,” Schroeder said. “Almost better than the real thing. At least if it’s cheap.”

She raised a hesitant hand to the iron front and pounded a loud greeting.

Her knuckles stung from the iron and she idly rubbed the bone as they waited. After a few minutes, they could hear movement on the other side. The footsteps proceeded a great screech of metal against metal as the door opened like the thick front of a vault. Felicity stepped out of the way as the interior was revealed before them.

Standing in the centre of the foyer was a man wearing a fine suit and a congenial smile.

“Ah, you must be honoured Felicity,” he said, stretching out his arms. His voice was thick with a heavy but unidentifiable Ilian accent. It was a curious blend of central eastern influences.

“Mr. Nicolai?” Felicity asked.

“Come, come.”

Call Forth Consistency – Summoner Wars Rant

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So, it appears even with my post on resolutions, neither of my co-contributors managed to put something up despite their promises to the contrary. I am shocked – shocked I tell you! But mostly I’m just happy they demonstrated my point about New Year’s resolutions. Never fear, though, I will never leave you dear reader. I am enduring just as are my misguided rants. Today’s is going to be on Summoner Wars.

For some background – I was introduced to Summoner Wars first by Derek who raved online to me about how great the game was. Then, when Jeremy picked it up and I got to play it, Derek had nothing but harsh criticism for it. Go figure. However, that didn’t dissuade me from the little past time. It’s cute and quaint in its own way but it isn’t Netrunner for all the positives and negatives that entails.

But that doesn’t really tell you anything about the game.

All cards and therefore art belong to Plaid Hat Games and whatnot.

Summoner Wars features a slightly asymmetrical confrontation between two players on a custom but simple board. Each player chooses a faction represented by a pre-fabricated deck of cards containing one Summoner, three walls, three different types of commons and three unique champions along with a handful of summoner specific events. I would probably liken the game as a mixture between Chess and Magic: The Gathering but with a focus on simplicity and accessibility. It offers some synergy between the cards, most of it focused on proper timing with events. The factions offer their own unique abilities, however, whether it be from the Swamp Orcs and their spreading walls that cover the field or the Deep Dwarves who all feature special abilities that each cost magic but have powerful timing events that make all of those abilities free for one round.

Most interesting is the economy of the game is focused around magic. Well, that in of itself isn’t interesting, but magic is built either through conscious discards from your hand or by landing the final blow on a monster or wall. A player is forced to make tough decisions about whether they want to play their little common minions or discard them for magic to build up a large enough pile to bring forth a champion (all of whom cost far more than the commons). Positioning becomes important as players try to control the board and ultimately the flow of dead bodies by their movement and placement of walls. More importantly, my sister and I have found that it is almost as valuable to kill your own guys as it is to kill the enemies. You only have the opportunity to attack with three cards per turn, however, so it becomes yet another balancing act of choosing whether to go for a full out assault or making quick strike forces which you then murder before the enemy has the opportunity.

The unique and inspiring Tundra Orc Smasher.

It’s quick to pick up, taking a game or two to grasp the basics fairly easy. And the fact that it’s a deck based game with very simple deck building rules as well as pre-constructed armies means introducing new players is a breeze. While I applaud Netrunner for its complexity, it does have the issue of forcing players to keep up with new releases in order to stay competitively viable. But almost a third of a Summoner Wars deck is locked; you can’t mix and match events between summoners, can only have three champions and you must stay within faction when building (or include mercenaries). There’s a very limited pool that doesn’t grow nearly as fast as Netrunner. Especially when new releases for Summoner Wars are often new factions.

So the simplicity is Summoner Wars greatest strength. You can sit down and play it right out of the box without having to construct a deck and when you’re done you can just shelve it knowing it’s ready to go next time you want to battle your opponent.

This isn’t to say the game doesn’t have its flaws. What I want to focus on today, however, is less on the game systems on more on its “fluff.” Specifically, one of the biggest issues I have with Summoner Wars is its art and its themes.

The artist apparently hates feet.

Each faction follows the same formula: stereotypical Tolkein fantasy race preceded by a generic adjective. You have the likes of Swamp Orcs, Sand Goblins, Tundra Orcs and Guild Dwarves squaring off against one another. Elves are on display in the delightful Phoenix (fire), Shadow and Jungle varieties. The closest we get to a unique offering are the Mountain Vargath which are goatmen… from the mountains. So, bonus points for representing goatmen which don’t see ubiquitous fantasy representation but it’s not like we really ran off with the idea here.

Even worse is that the themes of these factions is absolutely lazy and thoughtless. My biggest gripe with the game is that I detest the art. And I don’t mean this just from a style perspective. Though, style is one of my biggest issues. The direction they went with is a very simple, painterly direction. There’s few details and each card is over dominated by the three primary colours used to distinguish each faction. The event cards for the summoners show a zoomed in section of their face which just further highlights the basic design. You could argue that this helps to place the emphasis on the text but Summoner Wars, as mentioned, isn’t a particularly complex system and if Netrunner and Magic: the Gathering can afford to have some rather beautiful art than so can this game.

Best part about the jungle guard is that they’re supposedly reclusive hermits on the fringes of their society, eschewing the rest of their people’s ways and luxuries… while looking the exact same as their kin.

But outside of the direction, I think the biggest problem with this approach is that it makes all the cards from one faction blend together. Distinguishing between an Jungle Elf Archer and elite Jungle Guard is based more on posture than unique silhouette or form. Summoners and champions lack visual punch to really make them stand out amongst the crowd as well. And this isn’t even broaching the ridiculous use of high heeled battle boots on the few females that show up either.

This bland art flows directly from the rudimentary theming of the factions. I almost can’t blame the artists for providing little visual interest in their designs when they are given something to work with like Glurp the champion of the Swamp Orcs. Course, this isn’t an excuse, for a talent artist would be able to design something from practically nothing. If the art is uninspire, however, the theming is just downright apathetic. The Swamp Orcs main feature is that they grow vine walls across the battle field. Let me throw some emphasis on that last sentence: the Swamp Orcs grow vine walls.

I don’t know if the designers at Plaid Hat Games have seen a swamp so let me link some pictures to demonstrate:

I’m even being generous with this one. It’s a mangrove swamp and could have worked with their design theme if they’d just chosen to go with Root Walls instead.

Not a vine in sight. I’m not sure why the Swamp Orcs are focused on vines but the Jungle Elves are not. In fact, the Jungle Elves are equally contentious with the majority of their faction filled with elephants, hyenas, rhinoceroses and lions. For those not fluent in basic ecology, all these creatures are to be found in African Savannahs, not the tangled undergrowths that are typically associated with jungles. To top it all off, their second summoner about to be released is wrapped in a white wolf pelt because apparently the artists can’t even be bothered being remotely close to the faction’s theme (yes, I know it’s to keep with the white primary of their faction but they didn’t even need to choose white as one of the three distinguishing colours of the Jungle Elves in the first place).

This gets back to my earlier complaint about how fantasy seems to be drowning beneath the cliches of its genre. On one hand, Summoner Wars attempts to subvert the tropes of typical fantasy by giving some of their races uncharacteristic ecological backgrounds. But then, when I look at the Tundra Orcs, there’s nothing that really makes them unique from a standard orc other than they have blue skin. They’re still barbaric savages decorated in bone and scraps of cloth. Why aren’t the Tundra Orcs wrapped in hides and furs to keep them warm? It seems like such a logical conclusion from their name.

To finish, I just want to include a picture of a dwarf from the upcoming Obsidian game Pillars of Eternity. Little has been revealed about the setting but I think the image will do most of the talking for me.

Concept art for Pillars of Eternity copyright to Obsidian.

At the end of the day, Summoner Wars isn’t ruined by it’s poor art and horrific faction themes. But it’s not made better by them either. Other games are celebrated for their different factions and spend the appropriate time developing them and distinguishing them. The Corporations in Netrunner are all very well realized and I think it makes the game as a whole a lot better for it.

New Year’s Resolutions

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It’s a new year and with it comes new expectations and hopes. Having posted the rather lengthy Kinslayer Chronicle, I felt that perhaps it was time for a bit more of my random musings. And what better to fill this blog with than my thoughts on an age old western tradition.

The first thing I was asked by friends after the clock struck twelve on January 1^st (once we actually started talking since we’re all approaching that point in life where we don’t see any value in staying up abnormally late anymore) was what I had resolved to do this year. My response was short and rote. I’m upholding my resolution years ago to not make New Year’s resolutions. It’s a cop-out, I know but bear with me as I explain myself.

Talk to most people and they all have similar goals. Fitness and dieting are high amongst them as is the utter devotion to their goals for a good solid two to three weeks. And then, inevitably, the resolutions fall to the wayside. I had my fair share of “get healthy” promises each year. It wasn’t until university that I began to approach health and fitness a bit more seriously. And I didn’t leave it to little early morning resolution either.

I am focused on self-improvement. Perhaps not the most evident quality I exhibit but one that shouldn’t be a surprising confession. I’m an introvert and for years in school kept wanting to be more popular and liked. But worry about making a fool of myself kept me reclusive and withdrawn. It wasn’t until after numerous self-berating sessions in the shower that I realized there was nothing standing in my way than myself. Course, my solution in the wisdom of youth was to stop caring what others thought of myself and though perhaps not the most accurate attitude to correct it did accomplish the goal I set. I joined Drama Club, got more involved in activities and found myself forming more friendships than I have since. My desire to achieve greater self confidence was won and without having to make a routine promise at the flipping of a calendar.

Thus, in university, my decision to get healthy was a similar random decision. I set a time I would go to the gym, I began borrowing weights from friends and I made a conscious decision every week to meet a minimum exercise goal. I wasn’t successful at first. I made many mistakes. I had several injuries. I did things in the most arduous manner possible. But sheer stubborn will saw me through and I formed the habit I wanted. I also weened myself off sugar.

So, accomplishing the goals of a new year’s resolution were done outside of the social convention. There is just something about the ritual itself that I don’t want to tie to my success. There’s almost an expectation that these resolutions are meant to be broken. I saw it all the time in the gym. The first three weeks of the new year were always the worst. There were all these new faces clogging up the machines and forming lines for the weights. And you just knew, as you tried to grow accustomed to these queues, that these people’s time was numbered. I grew almost resentful of the fact that I had to wait on them – these individuals that had no real desire to be there but just came out because of some silly tradition.

Which, of course, was unfair but I was much younger back in those golden years.

And sometimes these rituals have merit. My first novel was essentially accomplished under the requirements of a new year’s resolution. When I was in Japan, I spent New Years with one of my student’s family. They took me to the nearby shrine to enjoy the festival and encouraged me to purchase a Daruma doll. These little bearded Buddhas are sold without pupils. When you obtain one, you make a wish to accomplish something that year and you draw in one of the eyes. Then you set the little devil on the table so he stares at you unblinking with that one eye. Only once you’ve completed your wish are you able to finish his sight. My wish that year was to write a novel and the guilt that guy instilled kept me motivated on that milestone task.

Course, you’re also suppose to return him to his home shrine and throw him on an enormous pyre at the end of the year but I wasn’t going to fly back to Japan to complete the full exercise. Instead, I keep him on my dresser as a reminder of my success.

So, the long and the short of this is I do make yearly resolutions. This year I’m trying to revamp my schedule in such a way to increase productivity while re-aligning my time to sync up better with friends and family. I have a poor tendency to grow somewhat insular, especially when I’m working, so hopefully this will make me a little less of a troglodyte.

Course, if anyone asks, I’m still holding to my resolution to not make any.

Happy Holidays and Prosperous New Year

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Just a quick announcement that we at somewherepostculture will be taking the week off from our duties to enjoy harkening in the New Year and various celebratory holidays. See you all next week!

Graciously found on the Internet.