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?

A Treatise On Magick Part 4

These are the last of my notes on my magic system for my Thyre universe. While this gives a good, general view of the current thoughts on how magic works in this world, it doesn’t truly capture all the elements and how I worked them in. For instance, the previous section mentioned Alchemy briefly and how it relied almost one hundred percent on following precise formula to perform. It didn’t, however, explain the ramifications of this detail.

One thing I didn’t want was to have magic to feel separate and disconnect from the rest of the world. I feel there’s often a tendency for fantasy to have its world and the wizards as two distinct classes. Like Harry Potter, those that wield magic only have an impact whenever the author wants something grandiose to occur. But the face of the world is rarely so affected by the existence of magic for it to permeate any other aspect of its society or culture.

It strikes me as odd that in a world where people are capable of turning a man into a newt that the entire fabric of society is pretty indistinguishable from Medieval Europe. Why is it that so rarely rulers are people that mastered the arcane? Would not ambitious individuals learn the magical arts and then turn to conquering with their new found powers? So beholden are we to late Arthurian Legends and Tolkien imaginings that wizards are little more than the mysterious mentor who flutters in and out of the narrative at the author’s convenience but rarely ever leaving a footprint on the world during his trespasses.

For me, that would not do. To circle back to my mention of alchemy, the natural outcome of its elements was that while it took a typical magical background to learn its components one didn’t have to truly be a great practitioner to derive its benefits. This translated into the field of medicine. So much of alchemy is about changing the body that it seemed quite natural that its study and application would eventually create doctors, surgeons and apothecaries. Every single doctor in my world is a classically trained sorcerer. Each of them is capable of some degree of magic. Many who seek education from the marble halls aren’t pursuing some romanticized vision of reshaping the cosmos at the bend of their fingers but simply to learn the alchemical trade so they can help the sick and the needy. And because alchemy isn’t so reliant on the deep, esoteric knowledge of most sorcery, you could have your most daft pupil still learn something helpful and applicable to the rest of the world.

A humorous outcome from this, however, is that many sorcerers often look  disparagingly upon their medicinal kin. It’s a common belief amongst the scholars that doctors are just “failed sorcerers.” However, to the common man, the doctor is the epitome of applicable magick. Few are able to afford a household sorcerer for protection and prestige so most encounter sorcerers when needing attendance for the infirm and sickly. The common man sees the typical scholar as a cloistered recluse out of touch with society and a useless member to the Empire.

In many ways, the modern sorcerer is a tragic figure. So desperate are they to cling to their ancient ways even when those ways fail them. They seek a glory long lost and forgotten all the while under siege by the progress of time and technology. Theirs is a dying world and instead of seeking a true solution to their problem, they just raise their walls and cut themselves further and further off. They are like a small animal, crawling into the dark beneath a porch in order to die alone and out of sight.

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Scholar Reading by Rembrandt van Rijn

Notes from Professor Jonas Kaine’s Injunction

Concerning University Curricula

The power of a sorcerer is limited only by his imagination.

This quote by the renown practitioner Malchior the Grey, has been the idealism of the arcane practices for centuries. Throughout history, the tales of powerful sorcerers have been retold. Everyone recalls the power of the ancient Pharoic’s court and their awe-inspiring priests capable of raining locusts and blood down upon their enemies.

Almost every culture has its own sorcerers of lore; the great men capable of harnessing the elements to their whim. Even the dread witches of childhood fables and villains of the legends of old were capable of tremendous feats of arcane channelling.

It may seem oddly disconnecting for the modern practitioner beginning to learn the secrets of the aether. Where are the terrific storms? Why does the earth not groan at the passage of the sorcerer, his will causing even the Lord to shudder in fear?

Partly, legends have exaggerated the abilities of the sorcerers. People, especially the layman in the dark times, did not understand how the magickal truly worked. Their fears and suspicions twisted the reports of their sorcerers into terrifying men who would dare challenge the heavens.

That is not to suggest that the enlightened man is incapable of feats beyond the simple glamours and charms taught to the initiates. Controlling the aetheric winds is a challenging but greatly awarding practice. There is tremendous power to be tapped in the world around us, more than even the Academics and the sceptics care to admit.

The truth of the matter is that invocations are limited. There is just so much energy that man is capable of channelling on his own. However, ancient man made a rather terrific discovery: the process of invoking can be delayed with the correct use of retention wards and actions.

An invocation is like digging a dike beside a rapidly flowing river. The sorcerer creates a channel they wish to redirect some of that energy, but the process is never truly completed until the shoreline is breached. However, the dike itself can last for quite some time – it need not be filled immediately.

Thus, the first rituals were cast by combining certain key invocations and timing their completion at the simultaneous moment. This allowed a sorcerer to produce a single effect far greater than any individual cast. Suddenly, terrific powers were unlocked to the resourceful mind. But with all things, there were limitations. Not all invocations would work together and many would have to be adjusted to ritual use.

03300However, unlike invocations, it was discovered that universal actions would produce the same results. Assuming the practitioner could isolate themselves from contaminating the ritual, just about any sorcerer could channel the same effect as their peer if they followed the same processes. This was like alchemy but at a greater level.

Even more astounding, multiple sorcerers could combine their might. This could reduce the amount of time it took to prepare a ritual and also opened up even greater and greater effects for the arcane. With precise co-ordination, effects eerily similar to the legends could suddenly be performed.

The danger ran with the inclusion of each practitioner. The more sorcerers involved, the greater the chance of contamination. While the greatest abilities required the most practitioners, the more men channelling also entailed more risk. This is why the most powerful rituals never really developed very far. Only the most experienced could produce the effects with any sort of reliability. And one wrong step could produce the most disastrous results.

Few are aware of the dangers of channelling the arcane. The layman mistakenly assumes that a sorcerer is a master of his art – that the arcane is a well of power which they can siphon freely. This is incredibly misleading. The arcane is highly energetic and reactive. If a sorcerer missteps, the best they can hope for is a harmless atmospheric discharge of the energies often misconstrued as an unimpressive glamour. There are, however, far worst consequences for the sorcerer.

One phenomenon called aetheric flashback is a chief concern amongst those drawing on lots of the arcane. Should a sorcerer incorrectly channel the great deal of energy, they could find that the currents of the aether blow back upon him. This energy burst is most commonly released in a tremendous amount of heat and light. To the untrained, it may look like a sudden conjuration of fire sweeping over the bewildered sorcerer. The least severe can just leave the sorcerer disfigured and burned.

More likely, however, if an aetheric flashback is produced the sorcerer will be consumed by the very unrestrained energy that they have released.

Current knowledge of the aether is sparse, but it is widely believed that the aether is not a passive medium through which energy flows. Many practitioners believe there are natural currents which energy travels willingly through. Learning to navigate these streams can greatly increase a sorcerer’s skill in channelling the arcane.

However, known currents are not eternal. They are more like winds, apt to sudden change in direction one day rendering any attempts to harness them rendered useless.

Aetheric currents are not of typical concern in invocations because of such a short and focused release of energy. However, rituals almost always require the use of these ever changing channels. Many scholars argue that this explains why ancient rituals are not longer effective. There is a common theory that ancient magickal practices have been lost as the great currents that ancient practitioners tapped have all but vanished.

023Most rituals can be changed and adapted to the fickle nature of the aether. However, the oldest rituals are nothing but intriguing studies for the modern sorcerer who can only guess what the effects of many of these arts were capable of producing. And the stories of small cabals of sorcerers being lost in terrific explosions warn against foolishly attempting to “brute force” a ritual through a no longer existent stream.

There is one other major concern for rituals that should be mentioned. While every practice of the arcane requires some amount of cost (typically the ingredients required for the invocation), the cost of rituals is far greater than any other practice. While many will scoff at the idea of cost impinging the great study of the arcane – only those that work closely with rituals can truly begin to appreciate the expense. Some rituals turn relatively cheap invocations into a practice requiring almost a princely sum to perform. Coupled with the danger of a misfired ritual which will often destroy all the components, it is no wonder that rituals have mostly fallen out of favour with the common practitioner.

The study of rituals is still an important one. It is something that this University should not abandon in its research. While there are many difficulties involved, it is still a valuable tradition to keep alive. For one, it maintains a connection with the practices of the ancient sorcerers. It also gives further insight into the matter which sorcerers tangle with daily. Never is our ignorance of the arcane made so clear than when we attempt to understand the workings of rituals. They bring the importance of procedure and time to the forefront of a practice so wholly focused on the wills of the individuals.

Outlawing rituals would thus be detrimental to all this institute’s principles. Instead, I propose that the study of rituals is strictly limited to those capable of its investigation and who are willing to accept the risks involved.

If we weren’t prepared to take risks, then we would be nothing more than those lowly mechanists digging about in the ground.

A Treatise on Magick Part 3

My earlier breakdown in a treatise on magick created three classifications for sorcery: the ward, glamour and charm. However, as I pondered the role and use of magick in my world, I felt that having just these three options could be too limiting to my writing. Magic, afterall, is meant to be the strongest fantastical element of my story. These wondrous components are the hallmarks of the fantasy genre. I feel readers read fantasy precisely for the mysterious and mystifying elements and I didn’t want things too actually be dry and boring. I just wanted to give the feel that most people in my world found magic to be boring.

I was, essentially, pursuing that pre-Einstein field of thought. Physicists felt they had covered just about all the field had to offer with Newton’s laws and only the smallest of details remained. We know now that such a perspective couldn’t be further from the truth. But I wanted that sense that magic was on the decline. And without resorting to some sort of mystical explanation that the “magic” of the world was “vanishing” I instead opted to just have the mystery for its people dispelled.

But to make sure I didn’t ultimately leave myself written into a corner, I decided I would leave a small loophole. Thus, invocations and rituals were born. They would be the explanation, the metaphorical hand wave, that I could use whenever my sorcerers did something beyond the expected. What he did may not have been a glamour, ward or charm. It could be an invocation – the catchall for everything that I hadn’t the foresight to have penned down before my system had been completed.

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Portrait of a Scholar by Domenico Fetti

Invocations, Rituals and Alchemy: Cornerstones of the Magickal Trade

Excerpts from the lecture by Emmanuel Dupont

 

No doubt, young initiate, you have perused the nature of the magickal. You have glimpsed upon the vast aether and felt the lines of power that course through it. Undoubtedly, you have received a pseudo-intellectual explanation of the greatest of the natural forces. You think you understand the rudimentary concepts of flavours and shades. You believe that wind is composed of wind energy.

Well, my young initiate, you are wrong.

The use of the arcane is a far more complicated matter than conjuring the soft stirrings of a breeze or creating the tinkling of a bell. You will notice, in your practices, that you require ingredients and foci in order to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. Sure, you’re aware of the anchors for wards and have seen the sorcerers in the market purchasing an eclectic assortment of bits and bobs. You have the mental image of the mystique gentleman, waving about tails of newts and sprigs of holly in order to cause the very earth to shudder at his whim.

These foolish notions are even encouraged by my colleagues. They are drunk on the power of the arcane. They have tasted the sweet wine of the aether and have become lost in its heady aromas.

Well, young initiate, things are not so easy. If it were, anyone could be a sorcerer. Even the fair maids of the gentler sex would be able to tame the wild forces of chaos and nature. However, things are not so simple, and most of you will never progress beyond the basics.

The arcane is still a mysterious force even to this day. Despite our many journals, theories and practices, we still do not understand exactly how the forces work. Why do cinders and pine needles release such power to cause drowsiness in those who inhale their fumes? Why does willow bark coated in honey allow one to hide themselves beneath a veil of a foreign face?

The simple explanation, as you have heard, is that every thing contains a certain attuned energy. A flame is attuned to fire. Wind is attuned to air. The natural question would be how many types of energy are there and how do you identify them?

And that would be the wrong question.

The most basic concept is that every thing has its own unique energy. Mine is different than yours which is different than your mother’s which is different than the Queen’s. Yet we all have the same basic ‘human’ energy. We will all use our own to create glamours. However, if I hold up a piece of willow bark and admix with my own energy, I will create a different glamour than you will. Don’t believe me, let’s have some volunteers. You sir, with the dazed look. And you, mister, the one who looks like he’s old enough to teach this lecture.

Come here. I have a simple glamour for you to perform. Take this bell and rattle and create a glamour that will make the rattle ring with the clarity of the church clocktower. The rest of you, observe carefully the notes produced.

You see? Your drowsy pupil made a sound almost like a simple country church bell. One, I would dare say, sounds like it were cracked deeply down its side. And this excellent gentleman has produced a sound so clear I dare hazard it would put the great church of Thyre to shame.

And yet, neither of them have performed a different glamour. Each has focused the sound of the bell through the rattle. So what causes these differences? Is it the obvious difference in age, handsomeness, intelligence, diligence, height, weight or even hair colour? Perhaps the very diet differences between these two gentlemen has caused the energies to be different. It can not be the bell and rattle, for they were the same between.

You see, invocations are a complex practice. One that starts with you: the practitioner. You must be acutely aware of the power of your admixture. It is a quantifiable fact that there will be some of you that are just naturally more adapt at the use of the arcane. Some of you will find that your energy only produces the slightest of glamours.

Invariably, you lowly initiates will take this as a sign of superiority. Obviously, those with the weakest energies, the softest of wills must surely be closer to the mundane. They must be just one step away from those completely incapable of practising any magick whatsoever.

And, once again, your prejudice would betray your ignorance.

Some of the greatest sorcerers were those with the weakest personal wills. That is for the simple conclusion that they are able to dilute their essences the easiest. It is a fact that the greatest wills in this class will struggle to produce anything that is not a glamour. And, while the powers of glamours are certainly impressive, your wills will greatly reduce your ability to invoke charms and wards. Consequently, you will also be the least desirable for participation in rituals.

Naturally, it is not raw power that is important but the cunning and wit of one’s mind that is fundamental for the channelling of the arcane. Those with weak wills can focus their invocations through other humans and other objects. They are better able to grasp the concept of using multiple admixtures and proxy foci. They are keen to the supplemental rituals, especially those requiring multiple practitioners to suppress their own wills in the collaborations.

Of course, some of you will argue and rail against my words. I welcome the challenge of your rebelliousness. Some of the greatest sorcerers are those of Teutanic descent, a people that have consistently shown remarkable forces of will. In fact, my greatest and most controversial pupil was of this barbaric ancestry.

And that is, in my mind, because those of strong wills have greater command of the energies that they do channel. While weaker willed practitioners will be very adept at multiple implements and foci, stronger willed practitioners that overcome their own flaws can get the most out of single ingredients than any other.

But enough of that. You came here to learn the basics of invocations.

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Invocations create the bulk of magicks you will channel. They are your daily conjurations and enchantments. They are the skills you will call upon to defend yourself in confrontations. They are the spells you will use to conduct your research.

An invocation is little more than the simple release and channel of the energy from one or more simple ingredients. While they appear to be the simplest of skills in theory, they are also the hardest to create. They require an intimate knowledge of the ingredients and how they react with the self. For this reason, sorcerers naturally find a collection of invocations that they prefer. These are the most familiar invocations. For example, one of my familiars is a refraction glamour – a complex invocation to most but allows me to cause any one item to appear to vanish. Behold the rattle from the earlier demonstration. I want you to watch it carefully.

You see, it has vanished completely from sight. It appears as if I am not even holding it but observe – the slightest flick of my wrist and you can still hear it as clear as day. And before you ask, no I will not teach you this glamour. Why, you may ask, to which I have my own question. What were my components? What were my admixtures?

You didn’t see them, did you. What’s that? No, they were not hidden within the rattle, but that thinking will take you far. Very far indeed.

Observe – you see, I have had this stone beneath my tongue this entire time. The second component I use is the brass of my jacket button. That’s it, just these two simple components. Seems quite  rudimentary  but this is a familiar of mine. It will take most of you at least three more components to create the exact same invocation. Some of you will require even more. And even a couple of you will be unable to perform this without the execution of a secondary ward.

You see, despite all our research and study, the practice of magick is still an intensely personal affair. You can not just read a library of books and understand how to channel the arcane. It requires constant, daily practice. It requires intense study. It requires a persistence and strength of character that not all possess.

Most of you will struggle to ever perform anything beyond the simplest of invocations and may never develop any familiars. However, the study of the arcane is not a worthless pursuit to you. You see, even the dullest of minds can still capitalize on the qualities of components. All of you can practice alchemy.

Alchemy is almost a form of a ritual, you see. It has precise ingredients in specific measurements. It creates arcane effects but it completely removes the human element from the process. It is the channelling by recipe. All those books you see in the studies of the most successful sorcerers are likely to be alchemical books. You needn’t a familiarity to brew. You need just to be able to follow precise instructions.

It appears we have run out of time, however. Tomorrow, we will address the specifics of rituals and then I shall introduce you to the fundamentals of rituals.

A Treatise On Magick Part 2

So when I miss a day of posting, it’s a terrible event and I have to post the next day. When Derek does it, he gets to write it off as “thesis prep.” Seem fair? I don’t think so either. I’ll be sure to drop a box during his move next week to protest this inequality in our posting expectations. That’ll show him! I may even jangle some hangers!

In the meanwhile, I’ll continue posting about the development of my magic system for my first novel. I actually did a short  excerpt as some notes to myself between drafts. My original intention had been to post that but I got a tad long winded during Part 1. So here’s the first bit.

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Scholar at the Table by Wauters Emile Charles

 

A Treatise on Magick

by Scholar Henrik Wulfgang

 

It is a fact that the primeval energy of the cosmos flows through all things. Within each object, each natural item beats the softest drum of the universe’s heart. The vibrations from these essences can be felt through the natural aether that buoys all objects. A trained mind can perceive these vibrations, can sense their differing frequencies and react with them.

This is the core principle of magick. It requires the carefully trained and honed senses of the practitioner to navigate the aether and its cacophony of noise to pinpoint the source of certain frequencies. A trained practitioner recognizes the very same frequencies that they, themselves, project and learn to focus and manipulate their own projections in order to funnel the natural energies through the aether to produce the desired results. In this manner, a practitioner could funnel the heat energy of a flame into a focused concentration around the reactive energy of another object to create a spontaneous combustion.

However, it requires more than just mere concentration of one’s own energy to manipulate the aether. Due to man’s natural own peculiarities in their own projections, they cause certain repeatable contaminations to different sources which either interfere with their channelling or mutate it into a wholly different form through a process known as transmutation.

It is this mixing of different energies that gave rise to the classification of different magicks and to the development of the glamours in particular. It seems that man’s higher cognitive functioning often transforms even the basest and wildest energies into a subtle perceptual form. It is the belief of this scholar that human energy contains within it a certain higher quintessence that has a profound energizing effect upon most energies. This excites the energy frequencies, causing them to work on a higher level output. While this would create a diffusion of concentrated power, this scholar feels it is a more pure and divine creation that turns even the rawest energy form into something more sophisticated.

Human channelled energies can thusly be a vivid representation of their primal forms but to be elevated to such a level that they no longer possess the entropic qualities of their previous sources. Simply put, human transformed energy is insubstantial. It is more cerebral. It works on a perceptive level while being channelled harmlessly on a physical sense. A human practitioner can turn the raw fiery essence of heat into a blinding conflagration to the senses but leave the actual natural world unaffected by the energies. It turns highly reactive substances and makes them inert. It makes even the most languid of energies fluid and flowing.

skull-optical-illusion-1These are what the laymen call illusions. Because these energies lack a lasting impact, they are under the impression that the energy never truly existed in the first place. This is incorrect. Energy always exists within the aether, it is just the manipulation of that energy that creates the different effects. Essentially, man can move the energies about the aether of their own accord regardless of the natural frictions inherent in the rest of the essences.

Because of man’s natural affinity to the production of glamours, these techniques are typically the first taught to the initiates. While it takes a tremendous amount of skill and at least some creativity to form these glamours into the most remarkable forms witnessed, the basic glamours are quite easy for beginning initiates to grasp. One need only to step into the classroom to hear the phantom sounds of the beginner effortlessly ringing about the hall to understand our own natural affinities.

This scholar believes the reason for this affinity is due, in part, to man’s highly developed social sense. Few animals appear to possess the natural tendency to perceive and interact with high order social structures and these complex relationships are wholly unfeasible in lower based life. Quite often, the status and rank of a member is determined by almost imperceptible cues and indicators and, as such, our minds are primed to attentiveness for these subtle elements. It is in manipulating this natural propensity that a practitioner can trigger the most subtle of man’s perceptions and play into his natural biases.

While glamours may be the most common, they are certainly not the only skill to be taught. The second classification of magick arose  through the manipulation and experimentation of various other substances.

Wards are based on the unmoving energies of rocks and earth. While man has a very transient energy, earth does not. It is this immovability, this unyielding force that gave rise to the development of the wards. These are, perhaps, the sorcerer’s most famous abilities. These are static, focused fields that require a physical sourced anchor. The first wards were protective, creating fields that would alert the practitioner to any outside influence that disturbed its natural order.2006.19_PS6

However, through the careful application of transmutation, wards could be created to produce just about anything. Most remarkable are the anti-magick wards. These incredibly powerful fields dampen and restrict the flow of aether through their area. Most will weaken the abilities of a sorcerer within, reducing the amount of energy they can channel from all sources. The most powerful, however, can reduce the movement of energy so much that a sorcerer can find that he is just unable to channel enough energy to produce any magickal effect at all!

As with all magicks, the advancement of the knowledge on wards came through the creative use of their energies. Some sorcerers were able to create small, inverted fields that rippled within the aether at such a frequency that they could be tracked far further than one could naturally. Other fields flow through the natural energies of their areas that they can accurately reproduce any changes within, allowing a sorcerer to sense all activity within its area.

The final field of magickal inquiry is in the charm classification. The most recent magickal discovery, through the application of advanced channelling techniques, many prominent scholars have demonstrated that the natural energies of items can be increased or decreased if properly admixed with similar or opposing energies. Thus, a sorcerer could physically turn a small flame into a roaring blaze or turn the strike of a thunderbolt into the most harmless of jolts. These charms are, perhaps, the most misunderstood by the layman’s mind.

To the uninitiated, charms can give the impression that the sorcerer is conjuring or creating new energies seemingly from nowhere. As previously state, this is impossible within the aether. To create a flame from nothing, that object must first have a very reactive energetic source. Then, the practised sorcerer could fill that source with even greater reactive energy that causes that source to ignite, reaching its potential energetic state.

The practical application of these techniques, however, are rarely so obvious. A charm can make just about anything better: a charmed sword is sharper, a charmed sweetroll is sweeter and a charmed door is stronger. Likewise, one could induce a state of weakness into substances by interposing contrary energies. The trained sorcerer could cause a new sword to become rusted and brittle, the tastiest cake to turn dry and bland or make even the sturdiest wall crumble at the slightest touch.

However, in order for any charms to reach such effectiveness, the sorcerer must have an intimate knowledge of the properties of its target and their spell’s ingredients. They must know the exact type of energy produced by sandstone compared to marble in order to properly enhance or detract from it. Otherwise, they will find they have burned through their ingredients and produced nothing or worst, cause an aetheric flareback from the unused energies. Furthermore, a sorcerer must be careful to not naturally contaminate the spell with their own innate energy else they will produce a rather useless glamour effect which will do nothing but reveal the amateur abilities of the practitioner.

These three techniques – glamours, wards and charms – form the foundation of modern magickal study. They are well established principles from which all other research is based. The proposed existence of other techniques or forms of energy are wholly hearsay lacking any applicable empirical evidence. Most are based on the exaggerated accounts of historical abilities captured by past historians working with an incomplete knowledge of magickal practice and theory.

To understand further the magickal practices and how a sorcerer can use these principles in a practical setting, I would like to draw the curious reader to my next paper on the components of Ritual and Invocation.

A Treatise on Magick – Thyre Part 1

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Heroic Landscape with Rainbow by Joseph Anton Koch (1815)

So, I wrote a fantasy novel.

I feel one of the hallmarks of fantasy writing is the magic. People love stories of wizards, witches, sorcerers and what have you. King Arthur had his Merlin and Morgana. Shakespeare had his Weird Sisters. In a sense, magic is the easiest way to express the core of the genre. It gives a sense of wonder, excitement and intrigue that lets the imagination free from the expectations and rules of the mundane. It inherently is mysterious. The reader never truly understands how magic works. Partly because the characters themselves don’t know. It’s magical.

However, being who I am, this wouldn’t do when creating my fantasy world. First, I was setting my fiction in a much later time period that general fantasy. My societies have had their Enlightenments. They’ve already gone through their age of superstition where the unknown was an omnipresent entity and their lives were guided by elements and forces beyond their keen. They have studied. They have learned. They have begun to categorize the life around them and tease apart the elements of their world. Of course, they’re mostly on the breaking point of this revolution of thought but to give that sense of no longer leaving the explanations for daily life in the hands of mysterious otherworldly beings there needed to be some theories for why magic existed.

So I had to create a system.

But where do you begin?

I knew that my story was going to have a greater emphasis on steampunk. I also wanted the world to be somewhat familiar to our own. Furthermore, I have a personal bias against high fantasy and all three of these elements naturally led me to a low magic impact. There weren’t going to be giant stomping suits of magitek kicking around. Steam and electricity were the wonders of the age, not doddering old men waving their hands. I felt I wanted magic to be less this awe-inspiring, grandiose affair and something that had become almost forgotten. Sure, you would have some elements worked into everyday life but for the most part the average citizen didn’t feel the weight of spells. I didn’t want my narrative being hijacked by some mad sorcerer with the aims to ruin the world and the ability to reign hellfire from the skies.

But I didn’t want magic to feel isolated either. Merlini is almost cut off from the rest of Avalon and the knights with his studies and his abilities. The world isn’t shaped by those great wizards of legend. They were there as just mystics who dispensed helpful advice or a timely incantation despite the apparent ability to turn into anything they wanted or to shake the foundations of reality itself (depending on who’s telling the story of course). I did like the idea of a faded glory, however. That there were sorcerers who looked back on those legends fondly believing them to accurate tellings of the day. For them myth and legend were the stored records of an age long past where magic controlled the fates of nations and people looked upon those wielders with respect and awe.

Instead of seeing them as conning charlatans just looking to weasel a little more money from you.

I’ll confess, in our age of skepticism, this is hardly a unique point of view. But I felt it would add that element tension towards change that I wanted to capture with my story. The institute of magic was something that was old tradition. They were used to prominence but in the wave of technological advancement they were being slowly brushed aside. Here were men who had once felt they had all of creation in their palm and now few would give them the time of day.

And to insure this, I had to have limits on magic. I had to come up with the reasons for the fall of mysticism. Arthur C. Clarke famously stated that “An reasonably advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. ” I took that idea and ran with it. Not only could technology produce what magic could, but it could do it better. A gun can kill a person with the pull of a trigger. A spell could kill a person but it would require you to sit and mumble and wave your hands and possibly sacrifice a goat while you’re at it. Given the two options, any reasonable person would take the gun over magic.

So my magic had to be unwieldy. It had to be inconvenient. It demanded sacrifice and it produced often results that in this day and age were unsatisfactory. Before the explosion of inventions from the industrial revolution, magic would have been really swell when there were no alternatives to produce the results. But once everyone could light their houses by just installing some gas piping, people are going to wonder if keeping a sorcerer on staff and constantly paying for his supplies is really worth it.

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Stodgy old Newton. He probably didn’t even like apples.

But even with this fall of magic, I still liked its existence. The rules and limitations of the practice would be seemingly well understand by my societies. But just like physics felt like there was nothing else to learn after Newton’s Laws, I wanted to leave room for the current understanding to be wrong and there to be something more. Magic is, after all, a systematic way of explaining the workings of our universe. And even in our day and age with quantum theories we still struggle to come up with an all encompassing scientific theory that explains all phenomena. In the end I didn’t need a system that would accurately explain how magic worked. I needed a system that adequately explained the magic that could work at that time.

I had my feel for my system but none of the particulars. I hadn’t quite yet worked out the particulars or how it all fit in the big picture. That would take extra work and tweaking. And to find out what I made, you’ll have to wait for a later post.

Post Tournament Blues

With the International tournament come and gone, I’ve returned to my blue humdrum routine of every day life. Gone are the exciting days of watching damn decent Dota and replaced with work, work and more work. Which is to say I have nothing to say. So I decided I would keep my entry today short and just let you in on what I’m actually doing.

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I have no good image for this post. So here is the Old Guitarist from Pablo Picasso’s Blue Period.

My previous posts have mentioned that during the month of April I wrote a full length novel as both a challenge to myself and part of April’s Write a Novel in a Month. This is not to be confused with Nanowrimo – National Novel Writing Month – which takes place in November. It was, in essence, a practice month to get used to the real challenge come late autumn. Technically, you could write whatever you wanted and they encouraged a lower word limit than the actual Novel Month.

Of course, I am hardly one to follow recommendations for things. I took it upon myself to not only exceed that month’s suggestions but to almost double Nanowrimo’s goals as well. Mostly to see if I could. Also, it meant that I hit my goal of ‘one new novel a year’ pretty early.

Course, following that challenge I was burnt out so I took a small hiatus which lined up with my east coast vacation particularly well. Following that, I began writing a novella which I plan on using later this year. This took the better part of a month and a half and upon completing that I am back to doing my submission for Writers of the Future. Once I finish that up, my goal is to clean up the novella and get it into a publishable form. I’ll then have about a month to edit my novel from April before fated Nanowrimo is upon us.

And I have every intention of participating in that again this year. I have some ideas of what I want to do, I just have to do the preliminary research before hand. The rest of the year will likely be spent editing the April novel. Editing, as I’ve come to realize, takes almost as much if not more time than the actual writing.

But this has brought me to a startling revelation. I think my writing is improving. Not a claim I’d make lightly but going through the first draft of my April novel, I don’t feel as frustrated with it as I did with my first novel. I even have a clear plan of things I want to tweak, fix and rework but the overall cohesiveness is well and beyond what I had on my first run with Thyre.

And speaking with Kait, I’ve come to realize that perhaps this is to be expected. When writing Thyre I had essentially taken the final step of all my years leading up to it. I have pages and pages of half completed ideas and scribes. I have collections of shorts that go nowhere and started stories that just vanish after twenty pages. For years I’ve been scribbling and typing but never completing. Thyre was that last painful push before giving way to my first ever creation. It was long. It was painful. And I suppose I’ll never experience anything like it again.

This brings me to a point I wanted to make. I am, first and foremost, a writer. I enjoy creating and communicating. This isn’t really surprising given my passion but what I am not is a reader. I consume on average one or two books a year. This, I feel, would probably startle a lot. After all, most people I know that get into writing are readers first. They want to try their hand at their own book after reading piles and piles of their favourite authors and genres. And there was a time when I was fairly voracious in my reading too.

However, over the last few years, I don’t really read for pleasure. I read for research and for analysis. While I enjoy the analytical aspect of it, it starts to border the problem that English Literature students face. When given a story to critically examine and deconstruct, the original goal of entertainment gets shuffled aside to make way for thesis arguments and supporting evidence. Stories that, on their own are exciting, become a thing to dread. They become work.

I had worried that my reluctance to read would hinder my own budding skills. So I pressed on with a few books every now and then, leaning towards something with literary significance so that I could tell myself that even if I wasn’t reading a lot at least I was reading well. But, while many authors will tell you that it helps to be well read when writing, I don’t think it’s a prerequisite. Ultimately, writing is no different than any other craft. You examine the great works to see their technique. But you’ll never learn their skill by merely looking at it alone. In the end, Picasso and Michelangelo needed their canvases and masonry. They needed the brush and the chisel in their hand to improve.

And a writer is the same. You can get only so far by reading but at some point you need to start creating on your own. Trial by fire is the real way to learn what works and what doesn’t. It’s through self experimentation, examination and execution that your craft is honed and polished. I can read all the novels I want, but they never prepared me for the difficulties and toil of creating my own. And having come out the other side weary, beaten but triumphant I look upon the next challenge not as the insurmountable mountain that I had originally seen but as a new summit ever close to my grasp.

So, long story short is if you want to get better my advice is to just get writing.

Tournament of Heroes Part 2

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Benaroya Hall in glorious The International 3 colours. A fitting place for a tournament of heroes.

I swear, I totally planned on posting Friday. But, well, this is my Superbowl and things happen.

For those that haven’t paid attention to the Part 2 in the title, this last week Valve held their The International 3 Dota 2 tournament. Sixteen teams from around the world descended upon Seattle’s Benaroya Concert Hall to battle for a piece of the over 2.8 million dollar prize pool. It’s remarkable how people give you that questioning look when you inform them that you’re watching a video game tournament and suddenly their expression changes when they hear the prize pool.

E-sports are becoming a thing and times are exciting for those that are invested in it.

This is going to be another gushing post of positiveness and enthusiasm. Last year’s The International was a fantastic showing and Valve really demonstrated that they are capable of holding a very entertaining even despite their lack of experience. Knowing their work philosophy, I was excited to see how Valve would approach this year’s tournament and what improvements they would implement.

Even anticipating the change, I was still struck by the just how good this year’s event turned out.

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I can not understate the grace and charisma that Kaci Aitchinson brought to an event that had historically been notoriously awkward.

One of the big improvements was the inclusion of this girl. Kaci Aitchinson. A local Seattle reporter had been conscripted by Valve to work the trenches of the event interviewing players, commentators and attendees alike. I won’t sugar coat it, there was a lot of trolling and awkwardness. Somehow, through it all, Ms. Aitchinson kept collected and cool and brought a great touch of humanity to the  proceedings. She felt sincere and honest, apologetic in her ignorance of the event but constantly eager to learn more. There was some questioning of this stranger in our midst when she first appeared but within hours she was winning people over and learning more than she ever cared about Internet culture and bronies.

More importantly, her segments were a wonderful break that provided a new perspective to the production. She focused on players’ stories, the background working of the event and the reactions and feelings of special guests and the attendees. Last year, the interviews felt like a formality. A shallow stumbling through elements aped from other sports coverage. But Kaci’s bits were almost always entertaining and not just to see whether Iceiceice would discuss his diarrhea.

Kaci’s coverage also gave us unfortunate souls unable to attend a view of the additions to the venue. Valve clearly had a bunch of new ideas for bringing fans and teams together and their implementation was nothing short of genius.

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Admiral Bulldog with his eponymous Nature’s Prophet. He’s the hero we deserve.

Tables were set up to allow fans to meet with their favourite players, voice actors and even workshop creators. See, Dota 2 is a free-to-play game which means anyone can download and play without giving a single cent to the developers. In order to make money, Valve has turned into a simulation hat manufacturer. Or distributor would be more accurate.

The Steam Workshop is an initiative that allows anybody to create and upload items to be sold in Dota 2. Fans vote for their favourites and after a quick quality assurance pass, Valve includes it into the main client. From there, every purchase will give the creators a portion of all earnings. You can take a couple of the over one hundred heroes and tweak their appearance to match your favourite player’s or cobble something practically unique.

Getting sports heroes’ signatures is rather popular and Valve, in their ingenuity, came up with a system that would net attendees a way to get their virtual items autographed by their stars. Every time you visited one of the tables, your visiting pass was scanned and your in-game account would receive a digital copy of your hard earned signature. I would kill to have Anuxi sign a set of Crystal Maiden’s Snowdrop set so just give the word Anuxi and someone can be expunged from existence at your beck!

Obviously, fan favourites would be voice actors like Ellen McLain (GladOS) or star players like Puppey. And if digital signatures weren’t enough, Valve returned with their Secret Shop to sell a load of new merchandise for eager fans. One of this year’s new items were little balls that contained a random plushie. Made, no doubt, to replicate the crate system in the game, you could buy a number of balls in the hopes of getting a doll version of your favourite character. And if you ended up with a Meepo, you could just toss it at N0tail.

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Stolen from the Penny Arcade Report. Here’s Statsman Bruno from the main desk channeling the spirit of Godz for some insight on the outcome of the upcoming game between Alliance and Na’Vi in the winner’s bracket finals.

The hall itself was amazing. Spectators could see the teams in their booths – soundproof of course as the match’s commentators are just to the side of the main stage. This year they added the two large displays on either side of the main screen to showcase the heroes picked and banned during the first stage. Then, beneath the players were animated portraits of their chosen heroes including whatever cosmetic items they had equipped. These portraits would turn grey upon a player’s death and a counter would keep the audience updated on their respawn time.

Even more impressive was the personalized hard drives each of the players had. As is common for competitors, they had their own hardware from oversized mousepads to custom keyboards with specially made keys. The hard drives are important as they save each player’s personal settings which would be annoying and time consuming if they had to reset them every time a new team took the booth. It was fascinating to watch the Valve employees swap out the hardware for teams, having it down to almost five minutes to get in and out. As a result, time between matches was smooth and short.

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My team was Fnatic. New faces to the Dota 2 scene, their tendency to pick neglected heroes as well as the enormous flexibility in their own roles won me over. Sadly, N0tail’s Meepo didn’t make an appearance. But I still believe for The International 4!

Perhaps the most exciting feature for all fans was the inclusion of the Interactive Compendium. For ten dollars, every fan could help contribute to the prize pool which topped off over 2.8 million dollars. In the time between Valve’s recording for the show’s audio, the prize pool had increased 200,000 dollars which made me smile every morning when the introduction announced the pool as “Greater than 2.6 million!” It’s a testament to the passion of the fans but since this is Valve, the Compendium really went on to make the matches even more exciting. You could choose your favourite team to support, create a fantasy team to garner points through each member’s performance during the event, collect trading cards of the participating players and even vote on the participants for a 1v1 tournament and a show match between the most popular players. Being invested in a team, even if it was because their picture was on the side of my digital book, made those matches even more intense. My sister was the only one of us to not have a Compendium and I think she began to regret that as we would cheer and cry over the performance of our own teams.

After an intense week of Dota with more games and plays than I could ever hope to cover, the event wound down to a close. It was exciting and  exhilarating  and even Kaci was caught up in the enthusiasm especially by the nerve-wracking Grand Finals which wound down to a nail biting game five. Everyone seemed exhausted but overjoyed and one team walked away 1.4 million dollars richer and the Aegis. Over five million spectators were logged in on Valve’s in-game client and the streams on Youtube and Twitch.tv. This doesn’t even include those that watched on the Swedish and Chinese channels that ran the shows or the hundreds of people gathered into pubs and theatres to watch with their fellow fans.

So I think the real hero to snag the Aegis is Dota 2 itself as it demonstrated the power and passion that e-sports are creating.

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A Tournament of Heroes Part 1

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Rudely stolen from the Internet. I believe it’s a compilation of official Valve art put together by hydezz. Assuming my failing eyes aren’t complete rubbish, you can find his page at hydezz.deviantart.com

Alright, this is going to be something a little different today. For those not in the know, this week is Valve’s The International 3. It is, perhaps, the biggest tournament in e-sports. At least, it’s the biggest tournament I care about in e-sports. And while the category may carry a silly name, electronic sports may perhaps be the only type of sport I enjoy watching.

As such, I’ve been knocking back almost twelve hours a day of wall to wall action and high stakes combat. This means that my productivity is pretty much shot so I really don’t have anything prepared for the blog. I’m sorry to disappoint but you’ll have to rely on my co-creators for more meatier content this week.

For those with a slight interest, The International is a Dota 2 invitational only tournament. Held in Seattle, the best of the best are brought to Valve’s headquarters and Benaroya Hall to compete for a prize pool that is currently over 2.8 million dollars. See, I told you this is big. Granted, this is the entire pool and first place is only taking a measly 1.4 million. They’re practically paupers.

Now, there are two reasons I find Dota 2 a more engaging activity to watch over something like golf is two fold. For one, golf doesn’t involve a myriad host of critters and individuals stabbing each other in the face with swords, spears, pincers and what-have-you. Second, I actually play the game so watching people perform at the height of skill and competitiveness gives me pointers for improving my own performance in game. It’s fascinating watching the strategies that a cohesive team of five individuals will do to try and take the match against an equally fearsome opponent.

And Valve has done a remarkable job of making this spectating as engaging and enjoyable as possible. You can watch the entire tournament live from their in-game client for free. This allows you to listen to commentators and control the camera however you like. I can set it so I can watch the game from the perspective of my favourite player or ghost over the shoulders of the in-game casters as they make the calls for every play. Furthermore, I was graciously gifted this year’s compendium which is like one of those pamphlets they give out at sporting or theatre events. Only this one had a bunch of goodies packed inside and allowed me to construct a fantasy team of players who accrue me points and to make predictions based on the outcome of the game. This book, however, is not free and is priced at $10. Which might seem a little steep except it’s essentially a ticket for the event and $2.50 from it is contributed directly to the prize pool.

Hence why I initially stated that the pool is currently around 2.8.

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The champion rings from last year because Valve really are that awesome. I know it’s nerdy, but I think I’d be so proud if I ever earned one of these.

Being able to invest directly into the tournament helps give a sense of proud ownership to each compendium holder. It’s nice to know that I’m directly supporting these players with my own money and, given the amount of entertainment they’ve provided, it’s a rather affordable price too. There’s even the option to purchase team pennants if you wanted to give money directly to your favourite team and those will cost you around $2.50 though you can give more by upgrading it. These pennants, in turn, increase your chances of obtaining tournament stamped digital items you can wear when you play though the chances of actually getting one are rather  minuscule.

This year I’m throwing my support behind team Fnatic. They’re a relatively new team to the Dota 2 scene. Apparently, they were an old Heroes of Newerth (HoN) group who finally made the switch to Dota 2. I have no idea how highly ranked they were, but considering that my favourite caster Draskyl is also a former HoN competitive player, I won’t hold their origins against them. They’re a European team in the full sense of the term. Not a single member is from the same country but despite that they all get along seemingly extraordinary. I kind of like that global community feel. Plus they play some damn good an unconventional Dota. Anyone that picks and wins with Meepo in a tournament is surely to win my heart.

So, if any of this sounds interesting, you can find more at Valve’s official site: http://www.dota2.com/international/home/overview/

While I doubt I’ll make any converts of readers, I will likely post at least once more on this small obsession taking over my life. I consider this my Super Bowl, so I hope you’ll forgive me for minor consumption of my time. I’m trying to ride this wave of the future on a brand new phenomenon… or something.

The Coming of the Wurm

One key component to the Wurzelessern, in my understanding, is their anti-democractic stance. Reading through Derek’s descriptions, however, it has become quite clear to me that the Wurm’s beliefs are a little more complex than I initially thought. For the most part, much of the democratic structure and institutes have been left intact throughout the provinces. Even unsympathetic free members are able to maintain their freedom and property so long as they don’t interfere with the army’s goals and activities. What they focused on was simply the highest levels of the democracy. The same levels that are, perhaps not coincidentally, the ones that are the least democratic with their lifelong birthright appointments.

My inference from these notes is that the Wurzelessern aren’t so much a conquering force as they are a revolutionary one. It seems like they are at least presenting a war of ideals over material gain. While I have no insight into what the highest members of the order are planning, their actions give some hint into how the last few years beneath the Wurm’s rule may look.

This is important for my character since he is an avid supporter of the Wurzelessern. I have to reconcile an individual willing to fight and die for an organization that, on the surface, would appear to be promoting ideals that are against his own self-interests. No one would ever willingly give up freedoms previously granted unless there was some worthy trade.

Unless the Wurzelessern actions weren’t portrayed as against the interests of the common man. They still have their voice. They still have their representation. For all intents and purposes nothing has changed. Except they’re at war. Which technically means the Kaiser is all powerful so long as the war continues but surely no one expects that to last forever. Surely.

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Edge of a Wood by Jacques d’Arthois (1613-1686)

The Coming of the Wurm

The hall echoed with the garbled squawk of a dozen voices each shouting to be heard. Torches were light, bringing light to the room which appeared little more than a simple barn and hardly the grand meeting forum that it was. However, careful inspection of the rafters and supports would reveal age old jointing long fallen out of style to the experienced eyes of the natives. This was no simple home for cattle. There was a stoic pride in its construction though it might lack the fancy adornments and ornamentation of the Steinherz capital. But the men and women in that tight space were no artists. They were farmers, ranchers and survivors. Their pride wasn’t on such useless things like intricate woodwork and lavish painting. They looked upon the strength of a building and found beauty in a solid foundation, good walls and proper jointing.

Looking upon the hall, one would never think it the oldest building in the village. They would never imagine that for countless generations it had held so many families, gathering in times of change and need. It had seen untold troubles before and weathered them all. From the great plague of the walking dead that had shambled from the lost lands in the deep south, to skittering hordes of despicable roshome gathered beneath the snaking tongue of an ancient warlord as they poured from the roots of the Green Mountain. In a way, tonight’s meeting was just one in a long series of crises this hall had weathered. Nor glory decorated its walls and no celebrations were held within to sing its praises.

But it stood through it all. And through this it would stand as well.

The great staffed pounded against the front arch, beating the buzz of conversation to heel. Standing upon the raised front so all could see was an older woman. Her hair was thin and wispy, charcoal grey and dirty from a hard day’s toiling in the fields. Though age had worn against her skin, she still stood tall and erect. Growing old and feeble was a luxury for the cities and the folk of the misty hills had no time for it.

“Order!” she called, her staff thumping the last of the stubborn voices to silence. “Order, I say! The Wurzelessern army is reported in the Dusk Veld. Their intentions are unknown and the rumours in the fog are about as clear as the Stranger’s breath. We must decide if we will negotiate with this organization or defend against them.”

“This isn’t even up for debate!”

Elder Dykstra had barely finished speaking when the older man rose to his feet. Ewoud Rooiakkers commanded the attention of all gathered. While the small hamlet was hardly much more than a collection of farmers and a few small guild chapters, Ewoud Rooiakkers was the closest the village had to a mayor. More than once he had been sent to the Steinherz capital to represent the community’s interests on the Senate. A shrewd business sense and aggressive trading had made him quite wealthy by their standards. And many viewed him as the closest the hills had to an aristocrat.

He wore lavish furs over his woollen clothes. A short coat of fine linen dyed a deep crimson was carefully arranged over the finest shirt most of the farmers had ever seen. Fur boots practically shone in the torchlight and on his fingers were a pair of bright gold rings that complimented the silver necklace he wore around his neck. While most of those gathered looked like they had hurried immediately to the hall from either bed or field, Ewoud Rooiakkers looked just as prepared for a debate in the Forum of Law as he did for the simple community’s gathering.

He regarded Elder Dykstra coldly, directing his fury and disdain towards her even though she had yet to presented for either side. It was a trick to rally the people behind a threat even if that threat hadn’t been raised.

“These Wurms are nothing more than their name suggests. They are pests here to eat away at our lives and livelihood. Already the capital burns beneath their treachery. Our representatives and brothers burned when they set light to the Forum of Law and murdered in cold blood the heads of our glorious Republic!”

“That can’t be!” some voices cried out.

But Rooiakker held his naysayers beneath a harsh glare.

“The news came to me this morning, born on the wings of messengers far faster than the armies of these rebels. They are nothing but conquerors and villains. Mark my words, they shall take our fields and take our mines. They will press our boys into their ranks and they will see much blood is fed to our lands. But it will be the blood of our kin that is spilled. And it will be nothing but doom to us all. There is not but folly in their future and I will die before I see this glorious town side with these devourers!”

A few cheers erupted from sycophants and supporters. Much rumbling and whispering followed as his words were debated amongst the present members. Elder Dykstra clattered her staff for calm but before it could be re-established, accusations were already flung her way.

“Is this true?”

“Did you know of this?”

“We must gather our things and get away while we can!”

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Saint George and the Dragon by Egid Quirin Asam (1721)

“I hear the Elfhorz are accepting refugees!”

“No!” Rooiakkers voice cut through. “We must defend these lands as we always have. We shall not abdicate our responsibilities. Dalmistig is a proud land. We are all brothers of these hills and mist. We shall not leave our kin behind to an uncertain fate. Only one course is clear for the land of the Maier. We shall defend our farmsteads and our homes. Let each shanty, each hole and each pit cost the Wurms dearly. They shall pay for their sins in the oldest currency of all: their blood!”

More joined in applause this time, even as others looked worriedly amongst themselves. But Elder Dykstra knew that the forum was quickly swaying to Ewoud’s words. She had seen it countless times before. And she worried the price the old man’s pride would cost the community itself.

But before she could speak, there was a disturbance at the door.

At first, she seemed to be the only one to notice the distraction. But slowly a few eyes turned to follow hers, the heads of the furthest turning at the noise. As more and more noticed their fellows grow silent, they sensed the change in the air and an awkward hush rolled through like an ominous fog.

For there, standing in the doorway, was a young man holding an older woman in his arms. He was a big lad, muscles honed from long hours pounding at the metal of Master Smit’s in the forge or carrying the heavy coal and iron the old man used in his work. And though there was a dullness in his eyes, a sort of slow, ponderous look as his mind tried to comprehend that which was so often seemingly beyond his grasp, most overlooked it because of the youth’s stunning features. He was quite a sight for the village. And it was clear where he had inherited his looks.

Leaning against his large frame was a slender woman. There was no denying her beauty. Many questioned if Femke was truly from Dalmistig. Many whispered that she carried not human blood in her veins. They heard the tales of the distant elves and of the Forhemia beauties said to enchant their victims with unearthly grace far too potent for any mortal man. But Dykstra had known her line. She had seen Femke’s family and the gift that Ika passed down to each in turn.

And even as the youth set her down on a chair, there was still a shred of that grace still present. She was clothed in a simple night gown. The white linen lay stained down the front where food and drink and spilled. Even in the dim light, there was a visible bulge about her waist where the family had to fashion some swaddling strips in a makeshift pouch. Her vacant eyes lingered on the flickering of a nearby torch, her mouth hanging slightly open as a drip of spittle fell from ruby lips.

But every now and then when she turned her head, there would be that soft glimmer of the woman that had once been. Though now all that tumbled from those lips was incomprehensible gibberish, there would be the old lilt to it that reminded Dykstra of the songs she used to sing. Her fingers picked aimlessly at odd holes in her gown when once they had carefully woven elegant garments of their own.

Smedje i Hornbæk, 1875

This one is apparently done by a Smedje Hornbaek, 1875.

Her son left her near a post so she could lean against it, even the process of staying upright seemingly a concept too easily abandoned by her mind.

The young man walked forward, an awkward silence greeting his arrival. He seemed unaware of it, but it always struck Dykstra any time the elder Van der Nevel was seen. Where once she lit the room with pleasant laughter and talk, she now heralded only silence and shamed looks. Few would dare linger in her direction. And all made a wide berth for her as if she carried some terrible disease.

But that silence was a powerful thing and it immediately slayed what exuberance Ewoud Rooiakker had stirred.

“You speak of price and sin, Lord Rooiakker, but do you know that price?”

A few gaped at the youth’s boldness. Here was young Kaas Van der Nevel, Master Smit’s quiet apprentice standing in the middle of a forum directly across for the most intimidating speaker Dykstra had ever seen. But perhaps it was the youth’s dimness that made him ignorant of his position and actions.

Ewoud Rooiakker cleared his throat.

“I dare say I understand more than you, boy. I have sat at the seat of the greatest gathering in this land. I have greeted dignitaries from the united monarchies. I have weighed decisions that would determine the outcome of many lives and held the balance of a cities in discourse. What would you know of conflict and war? You who has barely seen the tops of the hills yet never left the safety of the mist?! You can scarcely recall the price of your master’s own sword!”

There were a few chuckles, but less Ewoud would hope. Dykstra wanted to move to the youth’s side and to gently lead him away. This was not the place nor the time for whatever he had in his mind. But there was a certain look in his eyes she had rarely seen. There was a light that had once belonged to his mother that flared dangerously. She could see the youth’s hands clench.

“I know not the world as you do, my lord,” the youth said slowly with his misplaced title. “But I am all too familiar with sin. I need not make my own to see the harm it causes.”

“I don’t like your tone or insinuations, child! Be careful, least you forget who helped your precious master pay to get his forge started.”

“I have not forgotten,” Kaas said, his tone steelier than anything that had come from the fires. “Nor have I forgotten your choice to stand with the adjudicators. Or how you stood watch as they took what they wanted from my mother.”

And a deathly hush fell over the crowd. Rooiakker’s mouth gaped like a caught fish as he searched for the words to say. He knew the dangers of the ground he tread and was too aware of the eyes looking over at the drooling Femke. She had seemingly grown tired of her gown and had attempted to extract it ungainly from her body, managing somehow to remove her left arm but catching her head in the sleeve until the garment hung half over her as she struggled furtively.

The boy seemed to take Ewoud’s silence as a sign of defeat. He stepped forward, suddenly his bulk making the great representative seem much smaller. But it wasn’t Rooiakker who the junior Van der Nevel sought to address.

Turning to the crowd he gauged them all in his turn.

“Who was it that raised their voices in defence of us when the reclaimers came to hold their trial? Not the clergy, who turned mute against the charges. She was called a heretic and a witch. They claimed her a necromancer and not a word claimed otherwise. She was dragged before the representatives of Ika. They held up her pendant as definitive proof of her sins. A pendant which you, yourself Elder Dykstra, had said was not but a simple heirloom!”

And he raised an accusing finger at her which she could not defend. She simply held Rooiakker’s silence, feeling the shame and guilt burn her face.

“We live beneath a tyranny. One that Lord Rooiakker would say is freedom. But what freedom had we when they cursed my mother all in the name of Ika’s will? But that curse did not pass to me, Lord Rooiakker. I know it was not this community which voted to let them carry out their punishment against their own. Behind closed doors you elders convened and decided a fate we had no say in. Condemning a friend and a mother to a life of suffering and humiliation!

“And the Senate has done the same for as long as we have belonged to the Republic. Where is our voice in the forum? The Union and the Council must grovel before those rich lords who gain their seat by birthright alone. They must pay tithes and deeds to see their own decisions democratically passed come to form. This freedom is as elusive as the tribal Anspeals but costs all of us daily in sweat and blood. We toil in the dirt and mud so you Senators can live in your manors and fine furs. You speak of a price for sin, so what does your cost?”

It was too eloquent and too convincing. While Elder Dykstra’s heart was swaying her mind could feel something off about the boy. These couldn’t be his words. Not for someone who struggled to remember his simple arithmetic any time he carried out a purchase for his master. But while what he spoke she had heard all to similarly from Wurzelessern mouths, the passion was his alone.

“We live under strange laws and strangers’ demands. The Senators born into their roles far outnumber those we send from our farmsteads. Our own Elders hold their decisions amongst themselves, committing not those of good intention but those who can fill the most pockets. All the while some foreign Goddess dictates to us damning laws without a care for the living. Her sole concern is the dead and the rest be damned. She taxes us even more blatantly than the Senators, demanding our souls in exchange for protection from an enemy we had long defeated.

“You say the Wurms are here to destroy and that they are. They’re here to burn not just the weeds choking our crops but the thieves that would steal them in the night. Our governance is corrupted and there is only one way to eliminate impurities from good iron and that is through brute application of heat and fire. The pure have nothing to fear from the Wurms. It is those whose hearts are heavy with sin that would try and condemn others upon a true noble sword. And I see only one heart here calling for us to die in the name of men who have done nothing but abuse us. I say we see what the Wurms judgement is free from the greed of the Senate and the hunger of Ika.”

Silence followed his proclamation and only then did he seem to remember his mother. He turned, discovering her lying upon the ground in a tangle of her own clothes. He hurried to her side, helping her erect and fighting her resisting fingers to get her clothes back on. When last he had finished, he looked up, seeming to remind himself that he was in the middle of a debate.

But for once Rooiakker had nothing to say. He seemed to turn to Dykstra, the soft pleading look of a desperate man turning to a co-conspirator. But it was clear a change was on the horizon. A change that Dykstra had often quietly prayed for every year. It finally seemed time for Dykstra to say her piece.

“The words of young Van der Nevel are true. We had decided to bow before the Ikan’s wishes and it was their desire to make a demonstration to our community that disobedience of their laws would not be tolerated. Justice was forgotten beneath the priests’ offer. Co-operation would see their influence lightened upon our village but, more importantly, Rooiakker would be granted prime trade of our region with the cathedral in Nebeland. For our part, we would all be eased of our guilt through the success of the land, as Ewoud called it.”

“What are you saying?!” Ewoud cried.

“I have not slept easy since condemning a friend for your greed, Ewoud. And I shall not forgive myself for waiting for young Van der Nevel’s words to stir me from my silence. I shall submit myself to the judgement of these Wurms for my part in this travesty. I can only hope that my soul finds forgiveness from Femke when at last she joins me in Ika’s arms.”

“This… this is madness!” Ewoud cried. “Do you not see, you invite danger and death into your homes!”

“We have laid beside treachery for too long,” Dykstra said. “My seeds are planted, Ewoud and I shall reap my harvest. My only prayer is that the younger of us can learn from our mistakes. I suggest you make your peace or prepare your waggon.”

The elder Rooiakker looked about the assembly. But he did not see the support he had once drummed. Many looked confused upon the discourse, clearly not understanding exactly what had transpired. But there were others who looked upon Ewoud Rooiakker not with admiration but suspicion. They were the dangerous ones. And they were the majority. Enough time in the Senate had taught Ewoud the dangers of such a force. And perhaps it was the gentle hand of Ika which had him last set eyes upon poor Femke Van der Nevel, held coddled in her son’s arms. An unnatural role reversal played long before proper time right in front of his eyes. The Ikans believed in elimination of threats through magics of debilitating efficiency. But the Wurms believed only in death.

In that moment, it was clear Ewoud Rooiakker wasn’t sure which he feared most.

He stumbled from the hall, running into the night as the roar of the crowd began to find its voice once more. The community hadn’t reached consensus yet, but with the flight of the merchant it would finally reach it of its own accord.

And Elder Dykstra knew she would not see the man in the morning. She took a seat, letting the butcher stand to present his thoughts. She finally felt her age, her bones releasing a tension she barely knew she carried. Her work wasn’t finished tonight and she knew she would have to spend the rest of it getting her things in order. It was uncertain when the Wurms would arrive but their coming seemed inevitable now. And she suspected that she wouldn’t live to see the outcome of this council’s decision. Her only hope was that it would be the right one.

Story of Myself – Deconstructing the Mary Sue

Story of Myself:

Deconstructing the Mary Sue

My sister was perusing a book discussion thread this morning and tittered over some moderator’s listed rules for writing fan fictions. This humoured me as well, as I didn’t realize that hobbyist fiction written with established characters and copyrights would maintain a strict set of rules given their work is regulated strictly to free entertainment. However, a discussion about Mary Sues developed and a curious poster asked what the term meant. My sister read me a curious response stating that a Mary Sue is a “Girl, either real or imaginary, inserted into a fan fiction.”

marysue

Found on the Internet. I don’t even know how you’d properly cite a meme.

This seemed a grossly over-generalized description especially since the term has become associated with a great deal of negatively. The suggestion that any female added to a fan fiction is an immediate Mary Sue is both misleading and curiously stifling for a form of writing which, by its nature, is fairly irrelevant. The emphasis on gender also seemed rather strange as well and this prompted a conversation between my sister and me over what it actually meant.

And at first, I believed I had a great grasp of the concept. A Mary Sue, to my understanding, was an idealized version of the author inserted into a work of fan fiction. They served as a vessel of blatant wish-fulfillment, representing all the best perceived qualities of the individual and becoming immediately celebrated and adored by an established cast of characters even if it was incongruous with the established personalities or the world itself. If they had any flaws, then these were either downplayed or used for humorous or endearing effect. As it turns out, my understanding was not too far from the original concept of creation.

The term itself arose from a satirical Star Trek short written in 1973 by Paula Smith. Titled “A Trekkie’s Tale,” the story was set to poke fun at apparently commonplace stories written about adolescent female antagonists and their grandiose adventures on the USS Enterprise. So prolific was this phenomena that the editors of what I can only assume is a Star Trek fan fiction magazine called Menagerie released this statement on the characters:

“Mary Sue stories—the adventures of the youngest and smartest ever person to graduate from the academy and ever get a commission at such a tender age. Usually characterized by unprecedented skill in everything from art to zoology, including karate and arm-wrestling. This character can also be found burrowing her way into the good graces/heart/mind of one of the Big Three [Kirk, Spock, and McCoy], if not all three at once. She saves the day by her wit and ability, and, if we are lucky, has the good grace to die at the end, being grieved by the entire ship.”

Now, I am hardly versed in the fan fiction world. I would lie if I didn’t know anything about it. When I was younger, many of my own stories were a certain kind of fan fiction. Typically, I would be inspired by the ideas or worlds of other entertainment and spend hours creating my own stories in these worlds. I mean, who hasn’t been so enthralled with a work that they didn’t imagine themselves experiencing it in a more direct manner? The power of fantasy is its ability to carry us to incredibly imaginative worlds and places that are both exciting and strange. I can easily find youtube videos of people acting out their own Star Wars lightsaber battles, so this is hardly an isolated experience.

diablo concept art

Diablo concept art. All rights reserved to Blizzard Entertainment. Please don’t sue.

For me, however, I more enjoyed the world itself. The characters were entities completely unassailable in my work. I hadn’t created them so I didn’t feel comfortable trying to write them. My words wouldn’t rival that of the original authors and, to me, these individuals would only come across as pale imitations of the individuals I loved. Besides, my wish fulfillment was to have the adventure myself. I didn’t want to share the limelight with the great heroes who would inevitably take centre stage and solve all the issues on their own.

So my stories always involved unique locations and new individuals with, perhaps, tangential comments or references to the source material. My earliest remembered fan fiction was a story set in Blizzard’s Diablo world where a party of adventurers explored a cove for treasure and become the playthings of some unspeakable demon who had taken refuge within. I also spent one summer working on my own Harry Potter work that took place not in England but in North America with its own schools, teachers and political intrigues.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with fan fictions as they are seemingly harmless in their adoration of an author’s stories. They’re just a reflection of the enjoyment readers get from the author’s work. I couldn’t get into them for the same reason I couldn’t write a proper one. While I enjoyed the original stories, it was the writing and characterization that I adored and no one but the original creators could truly do their stories justice.

That said, I have no interest in the Mary Sue character. I do prescribe to the traditional notion that characters should be well rounded, developed individuals complete with strengths and flaws. A character that is perfect at everything, is liked by everyone, can do no wrong and is always in the right is just boring to me. Most grievous is when these characters are clear author surrogates.

And it is the author surrogacy that may lead to the Mary Sue term’s most difficult characteristics. While this aspect is debated whether it’s necessary for a Mary Sue, it’s the one element I prescribe to the charge. I’m not sure why this specific self-indulgence makes the wish fulfillment even worse than an idealized character that’s not meant to represent the author but it’s something I find even more amateur than creating an unfaltering paragon. Course, by its nature, it’s hard to tell when a perfect character is acting as an avatar for the writer. A telltale sign is if they share some common characteristic, which may be exaggerated in the story even if it doesn’t truly deserve to be.

noli_me

Originally, this photo was of the book cover for the Name of the Wind novel but has been removed to avoid copyright issues. It was put up for completely unrelated reasons anyway. So, instead, here’s some crappy medieval art by Antonio da Atri (Noli me tangere – 1410)

But I’m not sure why this surrogacy annoys me so much. Ultimately, the author is going to insert themselves into their own work. When you break down the characters in the story, they essentially are aspects of their creator. Our perceptions and experiences are highly personal and while we may recognize similarities in those communicated by others, we can never truly feel the exact same things as someone else. We can only infer based on our experiences. Thus, no matter what character we write, on some level we are ultimately writing about ourselves.

Take, for example, my D&D stories. The characters are unashamedly based on those I actually know. However, if you were to meet the inspirations for Derrek, Jeremiah or Kait, you would invariably find that they aren’t truly like their fictional counterparts. In a sense, I use the real people to craft a mould for my characters but I must fill that mould with my own thoughts and decisions. When Derrek decides not to inform his friends about a dangerous magical ritual being performed in disguise, it is a decision that I made. I can’t know what the real Derrek would have done in that situation and certainly he wouldn’t have done it exactly as I describe.

In essence, a story is a collection of aspects of the writer. Each character is just a faucet, be it major or minor, of his personality. They think and act and feel as the writer imagines they would. And in that imagining, the line between the writer and the character blurs. When a character grieves over the loss of a lover, perhaps we are truly reading the feelings of a writer reflecting on her own loss of a close pet or relative. The more provocative, real and powerful these emotions the more we’re likely reading the personality of the creator.

And perhaps this is why I, personally, find the Mary Sue such an atrocious character. Their appearance almost universally degrades the personalities of all the supporting characters in the story. They stop being these small faucets breathed brief life by the care of their creator and instead become shallow cheerleaders whose sole purpose is to stand on the sidelines, cheering on one person. They are automatons created with the single purpose of making the author elevate themselves above all others. It is the dishonest murder of the self to feed the needs of the id and the desire for self-relevancy. Take the example from The Name of the Wind and how sycophantic all the minor characters are that surround Kvothe. They have little personality and their sole function is to praise Kvothe’s skills at whatever or to commiserate how awful the events of his life were. They have never suffered like Kvothe has suffered because they lack that bit of life to bring them alive. Had they been written with deeper backgrounds, I have to wonder if Kvothe would need such dramatic and over the top characteristics. By necessity, an author will have to break apart his own characteristics if he is to achieve individuality from his cast.

Course, Name of the Wind can’t have a Mary Sue because it’s an original work. But original works can certainly have the flaws inherent from Mary Sue-esque characters or situations.

Ultimately, I feel the existence of the Mary Sue is wholly unnecessary. By developing a cast of well rounded major and minor characters, the writer creates for themselves a scattered universe of their own personality. Each character, whether they be young or old, male or female, brave or cowardly are all small motes of their writer. There doesn’t need to be a single vessel for the author; they can find themselves in the hero, the hero’s parents, the rival, the mentor and everyone  in between. The death of the Mary Sue is the birth of a richer, more diverse world ready to bud from the seeds of conflict of an author struggling against himself.

Clockwork Caterpillar Sketch – New Fusang

Awhile ago I mentioned the new novel I was working on and gave a brief insight into the process I go about preparing for its writing. Progress on it continues as I juggle it amongst some other projects at the same time. But I thought the character sketches I wrote were somewhat interesting and they really don’t stand any chance of seeing the light of day unless I put them up here.

One of the characters I’m currently struggling with is a nine year old girl. Writing children is always a tricky proposition. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that children see the world different than adults. Quite often they make connections and associations well beyond what we would expect. While this gives them that stereotypical air of  “innocence” it also creates a bit of a challenge for an adult who wishes to capture that wonderful essence.

What I attempted in this passage was to try and imitate a childhood nursery rhyme. I spent time working on sound play and the cadence of the actual passage in order to replicate the youthful spirit. I don’t think it worked but part of the process of writing is trying new things even if they turn out to be a disaster in the end. So here’s some of my dirty laundry, so to speak, as an example of me stepping out of my comfort zone and pushing my abilities as a writer.

fusangzatta

Inspiration can come from the most peculiar places. My idea for the Jader colonies came from a mythological Chinese settlement supposedly founded in America long before English colonial hegemony. A veritable Eastern Atlantis, if you will.

Clucked and cuckold were the markets of New Fusang. Women in pretty coats spoke with men in dirty shirts. Clink, clink, clink went their fingers. Clink, clink, clink went the wen. Dangled the strings of coins, their square holes holding tightly to the lines as they were stretched and counted. Glasses raised and eyes presse. Clink, clink, clink went the fingers that counted the disks. Squawked went the chickens. Wan went the dogs. And the cages rattled.

Chatter and chat. Sing and spat. Round and round they prat. From stall to stall stepped the pretty ladies. And clinked went their strings. Whirled and wove like a little leaf on a stream. Fingers pointed and hands were filled. Mouths chomped and chewed round words and wan. Sticked fish and lizards, scorpions and pigeons. Barbed and bite, boxed and bundle. Fingers flick and all is bought.

The smell of roasted corn, fried jellyfish, cooked cat and brewed tea scent the air. They mixed with sweat, perfumes, cows and poop. Everywhere you looked something was passed, eaten, purchased, tossed, fed or tried. No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

She sat upon the roped boxes kicking small, tight shoes. They were simple cloth with colourful floral patterns of strange pink and white flowers and long petals. They were her favourite for the black embroidery around the anklet slip studded with colourful beads. At the tips were the worn remnants of long lost tassells. She liked kicking her feet and making the little stubs bounce up and down in the air. The frayed ends flapped like a bird’s tiny wing.

Across from her twanged the stringed wood. She watched slender fingers splay across the rows of wires. Picked and plucked. Notes echoed and twanged. Picked and plucked. Talon fingers like small claws of a little bird. They danced and jumped. And the board warbled. While the talons danced, the other fingers jumped about their ends. Ten and more strings stretched over the polished wood. Along the side ran pretty little symbols that she couldn’t read.

She tried to get her tassells to jump to the beat.

Suddenly, the tassells began to flap of their own accord, jumping and pulling without her kicking her feet. As she turned, regarding them curiously, she felt her jacket pull as a great wind nearly toppled her from her perch. She turned a small head with its little cap skywards. Overhead came the thump, thump, thump of great propellers as an enormous bladed vessel gently drifted past the stalls.

The gust of wind sent merchants scurry, reaching for tarps and cloths to tie and bound. Cotton and silk caught in the draft, fluttering and lifting like banners in a parade. She clapped her hands at the colourful twirling and twisting of the clothes as women and men jumped and danced after them.

And still those fingers plucked and danced. Twisted and bent were the scarves to the notes. Hopped and jumped went the women and men like guests at a pretty little party. Their voices cried and the strings sang and chirped, warbled and waned.

No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

The great air ship passed overhead, groaning with its journey. As it passed the wind followed. She jumped from the roped boxes, chasing after the plucky notes and twisting scarves down the crowded streets. Sails caught in the passing gust pulling their little carts on large, creaky single wheels as owners shouted and gave chase. A fancy little parade followed after the big boat as they all ran down the lane. She laughed and clapped and jumped and stomped all while scarves played and flapped about.

It was a parade of bright red and orange with small bursts of green and blue. Lapis lazuri and jade, vermilion and saffron. All were on display as they marched and skipped after the great wheeling boat. Doors burst open as others came to investigate the sounds. From a pile of colourful cushions arose cut sleeved robes, the two men joining in with others as they wove and wound down the lane.

Skipping, jumping, hopping, twirling.

Plucked were the guzhengs. Twanged were the sanxian. Whistled the xun. Banged the bolang gu.

A happy little parade chased the whirling, beating, churning air ship.

But it made not for the docks. Groaning and twisting, the metal turned as the wind caught at ladies’ dresses and men’s robes. Voices gave rise to the music as the procession made its way. Chattered and chittered and shouted and sang. She laughed as she skipped after them and their feet pounded the dirt.

Great dragon heads bit down on the large propellers. The undercarriage had magnificent carved lions with great flowing manes watching over their windows. So close flew the great ship that she could swear she could almost see the faces of the passengers looking out the silk drapes at the canvases of the markets.

A long row of bells gonged as they rushed past. Their great tubes were studded, intricate woven castings decorating around them like a beautiful ribbon wound too tightly. The supports were iron cast men, their bare arms balancing the heavy bars upon their heads and outstretched arms. The iron had begun to wash orange and green as if their skin and skirts were shedding the tarnished flakes to reveal their colours hidden beneath.

She stopped long enough to give a bright smile at the man watching over the row of bells. But his eyes followed the ship. So she quickly reached out, pushing on the largest of the bells and listening to it peel it’s bright, clear note.

Then she shouted and hurried after the fantastic ship.

Eight_Immortals_Crossing_the_Sea_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_15250

The Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea from Myths and Legends of China

“What is it?”

“Where is it going?”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Is that it? It’s bigger than I heard.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Isn’t it late?”

“It looks magnificent!”

They chattered and chitted as they hurried, clutching to their hats as long braided tails bounced after shiny heads. Hurried they went through the streets of New Fusang. Doors burst open. Windows raised. Women emerged from kitchens and men from taverns. Even the pagoda’s doors were pushed open as orange robed old men emerged, raising wise hands to shield their eyes as the ship thrummed over their tiered tower. The very tiles of the roofs clapped in anticipation as the vessel veered towards the plains on the outskirts of the town.

The gates were stuck with people pushing and jockeying to get a look. As their parade got closer, they got slower. And she had to duck and weave amongst the silk dresses and leather pants. The thin shoes and the heavy boots. In and out, under and between. Around and around.

Everything could be seen in the markets of New Fusang.

Everything but a ship that could fly.

Gears creaked and croaked. The dragons seemed to roar as the propellers shook. The sky banged and smoked as the ship turned and broke. People craned and watched, questioned and gasped. All stood watching in fascination as the great ship banked on its airy waves.

Whistles cried and soldiers stomped. Guns and swords shook. But the people did not make way, grabbing arms, sleeves, jackets and coats. They pointed, they gaped and they spoke.

“Is it from the Emperor?”

“Is it from the ministers?”

“Is it from the merchants?”

“Is it from the generals?”

“How does it fly?”

“How does it turn?”

“How does it land?”

“I want to ride!”

She shouted and pointed, watching as the ship began to sink. Shook and shake, ring and clank. The dragons roared. Bore aloft on their slender backs came this great metal egg. It was a sight and a show and she had to see it for herself.

She pressed against the gate and its thin metal studs worn and marked from the old blades and arrows of the wildmen in the hills and mountains. She tried to press her fingers into the dented and torn wood, pulling herself up as much as she could to look over the hats and heads, braids and parasols. The ship brought itself around, the great fins turning beneath the chains of working gears like a great puffed metal fish.

And then something loud popped.

And the crowd gasped.

And the ground shook.

And the air hissed.

Before she knew it, something warm and strong pulled her from the perch and to the ground. A frightful sound erupted from the air. Shouts and screams churned from the crowd as people pushed and ran. Like little birds scattering before a coming cat they took back to the streets they had hurried along.

Whistles blared and voices shouted. The soldiers stamped their feet.

She looked up to the ship and only saw the frightful burning of a sun. Lines dropped as fire rose. It ran all along the green and red sides. It licked the balloon and grasped the sky. In seconds the entire ship was ablaze as it tore and broke.

And it came crashing down.

She pushed herself to her feet but was bumped and pushed. Feet kicked and clopped and she shouted in pain as they passed. But no one noticed in their haste and fear. They ran and they screamed and she shouted and she cried.

She found herself up against the wall, pulling her legs close. Her pants were torn and her legs were bruised and bleeding. One of her lovely little shoes was missing and she looked at her dirty foot. She pulled it in close, wrapping herself up in a little ball.

Then the wall shook.

It crunched and snapped as a great series of steel beams and chains smashed overhead. Fire dropped like thick raindrops about her head as the metal crushed the roof of a nearby home. The wood caught and blazed. People shouted and screamed as soldiers rushed to the spreading flames.

Smoke filled the air, choking her mouth and stinging her eyes. She crawled away from the fire and the people. She crawled along the wall. Few people ran along side now, but all of them still jumped and struck. The fire and the heat was so strong as the house and its friend caught the dancing red and orange. She watched as the sailed carts smoked up like little firecrackers during a new year festival.

The wall shook and crashed again and she crawled crying away from it as the great metal nose of the ship came crashing through. Stones and dirt sprayed over her as she hid her face behind her arms. She stumbled and scrambled, spun and slipped. She sprawled against the dirt and crawled into the alley seeking silence and cold.

The noise and the shouts were loud and overbearing. She hurt and she cried but no one came. The air grew heavy and dark as black smoke was the only hand that tried to comfort. She coughed and tried to spit the burnt taste from her mouth. Frightened and alone, she curled up waiting for it to stop and for it to end.

There she would have stayed and lay but something stirred from the wreckage around her. From the broken and burning wood, from the gasping metal fingers of a crushed cage, poke two small coals that peered at her through the smoke. Tumbling and turning flopped a small little creature, it’s large tail singed. It plodded towards her, skittering around the flames and metal. It pressed its cold nose against her bloody hand.

And as she peeled her knees away, she could see something red beneath the soot. Two white ears pricked as she cried and its red fur was not from the fires that burned around it. It pawed with its little foot then trotted a few feet away. Turning its white streaked face, it blinked its eyes before giving a sharp, airy cry.

She blinked back.

The spirit of flame took a few more ponderous paces, turned and cried again. Slowly, she followed. Step by step on hands and knees. She slowly made her way ofter its bobbing round tail, ringed and inviting, skirting fires and sliding on its belly beneath twisted metal and smouldering wood. Past darkened bodies and bleeding faces they moved. Over tumbled stones and along cracked metal bones they climbed. She followed and he scampered.

Through the ruins of New Fusang they wound until they broke from its burning shell into the soft grass and green trees. They climbed and scampered up the hills. As she fled, she turned and looked back at the city burning and choking in a dark black haze.

No place would ever be like the markets of New Fusang.