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?

Assassin’s Creed Review: Nothing is True (1)

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Pay no heed to the man burning behind me

Assassin’s Creed – Where we limit ourselves by history in order to completely butcher it anyway.

I’m not going to play ‘spot the paradox.’ It’s not the first time something meant to be profound ends up being completely inane and devoid of any meaning. Words have been written on the famous ‘Only a Sith deals in absolutes’ and I have no intention on delving into how these slight slips of the writer’s pen undermines their goals. I’m of the opinion that, if you can’t get profundity, you’re better off shooting for clarity. Otherwise you end up with such delightful gems like Assassin’s Creed II’s motto of ‘Nothing is true and everything is permitted.’

Now, I know that there’s an in-game explanation for that silly expression. And it’s true that Assassin’s Creed is a franchise that already starts on shaky ground. For a brief summary: Assassin’s Creed (AC) is a hybrid stealth and platforming game that follows a secret sect of assassin’s as they navigate historical events and cities trying to stop a secret organization from… doing… stuff.

I’m going to be completely honest, I’ve played the original and almost thirty hours of the sequel and I can say I have very little idea of what is going on. Some of that is due to laziness since details of the plot are revealed through exploring the cities and hunting down collectibles. While I enjoy the free-roaming/parkour system they developed for the game, collectible hunting doesn’t actually turn my crank and ends up generally being a large time sink with little payoff. However, the other reason I fail to follow the plot of this series is because it makes almost zero sense.

Point of discussion – http://youtu.be/hrz044bM_RE?t=5m30s

So let’s jump right into it. My first issue is this scene in the final half of the game. It’s the moment that all is revealed to Ezio about the Assassin Order and the secret motives of the Templar. It’s a rather tricky situation, as you are required to relay information to a character that the player is wholly aware of from almost twenty hours earlier. What’s really bizarre about this point is both its execution and it’s timing. First, it comes so incredibly late that it feels almost like an afterthought. It’s like the developers realized right before the finale that they never actually informed Ezio who he was actually working for. It’s a scene that feels it should have been performed much earlier. But what I found more bewildering is the complete fumbling of this encounter.

It’s obviously meant to be a grand reunion of all the characters and a twist reveal that all of Ezio’s friends have really been fellow assassins this whole time. Course, it makes you wonder why you were sent to do all the killing when Venice has no less then three full member Assassins stationed there and Ezio still hasn’t officially been welcomed into the ranks. I like this scene because it highlights the amateur attempt for cinematic flair for a complete disregard for the verisimilitude of the world. It’s been well established at this point that the Assassins are on the losing side of this war. The Templars are always better organized, connected and armed. And here, at the moment when they are known to be bringing in one of the most dangerous objects known to the Assassin Order, they all decide to randomly reveal themselves to the only identified Templar? And they just rush head long into a fight with him without attempting to set up a blockade or corner the man responsible for so much turmoil over the entire game?

This isn’t just blind foolishness but utter suicide. The game itself says that the Assassin’s greatest weapon is their anonymity and now their chief rival knows who they all are. None of them even have the decency to try and arrive masked! Even Ezio had the foresight to throw on a guard uniform. Ok, strike one for this scene. But wait, why are all these people here in the first place? I can’t even tell you who some of them are because their relevance to the story is so inconsequential. Why are the few Assassin’s no name leaders of street ruffians? Half of these characters don’t even live in Venice so either they all got the memo that Ezio’s surprise party was being held that night or they just showed up because they were needed to leap senseless to their deaths from the campanile at the end.

But my favourite part is when Machiavelli says, ‘the prophecy foretold that the prophet would come and it was you, Ezio, that arrived.’ Apparently, these characters are so profoundly shocked to learn that Ezio arrived at this midnight rendezvous even though they were the ones that arranged the meeting for him in the first place! Considering how Ezio has been a rather faithful lapdog this entire time, it shouldn’t really be shocking that he followed orders and came to this spot just like he was instructed. Course, these are the same people that took a year to find a shipping manifest from the warehouses they captured in the prior act so perhaps insight isn’t their strongest characteristic.

So, let’s ignore these piling issues and forgive the Assassins (whose sole activity is assassinations yet the Spaniard runs off rather effortlessly despite all of them being present) and examine this scene further. Ezio arrives in disguise to deliver the MacGuffin of great importance to the villain and though the Spaniard manages to sneak off, the first thing the Assassins do is not secure this device that apparently has the power to destroy the world but instead climb the largest tower in the city in order to fake brand Ezio’s finger before swan diving into the city’s smallest pile of hay. While I’m sure this scene was meant to be awe-inspiring, what it actually did was lend a real world explanation to a strict game play mechanic. In having every character Lara Croft into St. Marco’s Square, the game has now established that every Assassin possesses the super power to lock on to the nearest haystack and defy even the simplest physics without so much as a sprained ankle. For a game trying so desperately to ground itself in reality, this is one of those moments that completely shatters a person’s suspension of disbelief. The ‘leap of faith’ (as the game describes this action) is easily understood by the player as a mechanic of convenience. As the game encourages players to human fly up the largest buildings, the designers rightly assumed that once scaling the precious landmarks, players wouldn’t want to turn around and slowly descend the way they came. Having a quick jump to return to the ground saved time and was an easy reward for the player’s hard work. It was something that never needed grounding in the game’s world because it never served a real purpose in that world.

And in a game that’s trying so desperately hard to make a grand conspiracy involving every known historical event play into this grandiose struggle between two fictitious secret societies, they need as much help in maintaining that suspension of disbelief that they can get. But this isn’t the only time these characters actions don’t make sense with their motivations. Acquiring the MacGuffin was one of the most important motives of their Order but… you know… it’s okay to put that off and not worry about securing it because we have a hazing ritual to complete first for a guy that’s essentially been part of our order for almost ten years now.

However, character motivations and beliefs are a pretty universal problem for this game. I’m going to pull a Derek and leave the second part of my rant for another day where I discover that characters aren’t treated as living people but as vehicles for ham-fisting the most hypocritical heavy handed themes I’ve seen all month. Hopefully I can retain my fury to remember all of these grievances.

Continue to the Assassin’s Creed Review Part 2 >

The Feathered Serpent

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Ugh, it’s another posting day. But I’m still recovering from my concussion (read: lazy) and don’t feel like writing. So that means you get something I’ve already written!

In other news, Derek wants us to play Neverwinter. It’s a new MMO based on the hit classic Neverwinter Nights and Neverwinter Nights 2. Which is a fancy way of saying it’s boring and it sucks. Anywho, here is another character sketch for my novel in a month entry. I’ll repeat the same warning as the last time I posted a character sketch:

This is a personal document that was never meant to see the light of day. Since no eyes but mine were expected to see it, it has neither been proof read for spelling errors or grammar mistakes nor has it actually been edited to make sure the content is interesting. I’m posting this mostly as a curiosity – a brief glimpse into the creative process that goes behind my creation of a story. So, if you’re expecting Pulwitzer Prize material here, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Now on to the show.

Graciously taken from Google image source. I am not the creator of this content.

The Feathered Serpent

“What’s that you doin’ mister?”

The ball bounced off the trunk of the tree, landing with a thud into the bucket. Slowly, the big man turned. He was a massive specimen, thick muscles wrapped about a thick, golden frame barely contained within the worn, plain clothes. But what his dress lacked in description was made up for the odd adornments attached about his person. Around his wrists with thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running from his knuckles down his hand and beneath his sleeve.

A clatter of bright green rocks etched into the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled about his neck as he turned. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes dominating the piece. And his shirt was simple white cloth but a strange mantle rested atop, fashioned from brightly dyed clothes woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with worn and bent coloured feathers.

“Baax ka waalik, little-one.”

He turned, bowing his head deeply to the little boy. The child just scratched his head.

“You’re funny.”

Undaunted, the boy hurried over, stepping over the rifle lying upon the dry earth. He scrambled to the bucket, reaching inside and producing the big, black ball. It was round and hard, almost twice as big as two fist together. He turned it in his hands, looking it over from all angles. But to his young eyes it was nothing but a black sphere.

“Careful, little-one, that is no mere toy.”

The boy blinked, looking the ball over more closely.

“What is it?”

The big man moved to his side. He strode not as a mountain made to move but with the gentle grace of a passing breeze. He knelt beside the lad, clamping on great hand on the child’s shoulder as he wrapped his fingers around the ball and lifted it with his one hand. He held it before the boy, moving it slowly through the sky.

“The great Speakers say it is the sun. Its passing marks the passing of day to dusk then twilight to morn.”

The boy giggled.

“That’s silly. The sun isn’t black.”

“Is it not?”

The boy looked at him with a queer expression.

“No, the sun is yellow!”

“Is it? How do you know?”

“You can see it,” the boy said, pointing overhead. He turned his little face skyward, stretching his finger.

“You speak that but you look away.”

“Of course. Momma says you shouldn’t stare at the sun.”

“It is wise. But if you do not look, how can you know it?”

The boy scratched his head.

“Well… I have seen it. But you only see it shortly. It’s too bright!”

“But look at something in passing and do you see all that it is?”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t know.”

The giant gave a brief smile. He then lifted his hand over the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Tell me, what do I wear?”

The boy scrunched his eyes, trying to remember the object that dangled from that loose string. He could remember it was something green. Something vaguely familiar in shape but so strange that it was nothing like he’d seen before.

“Heads!” he proclaimed proudly.

The giant smiled. He peeled back his fingers, revealing the row of carved green stone. But it wasn’t three clatter heads looped together. Instead two gaping maws encompassed the strings, the carved stones appearing more like a serpent with no tail.

The boy’s mouth gaped in surprise.

“Look briefly and only see surface,” the man said, holding the ball aloft in hand. “Wise Speaker once said, look at the sun as it moves. From yellow to orange to red. But forever keep watch and all you see is night.”

“So the sun is black?”

“In time. But heed your mother, little-one, for it also bring light. Enjoy its gifts but respect its power. You have much time to enjoy its form when you are older.”

“So what are you doing with the sun?” the boy asked as the man clambered to his feet.

The large man looked down at the ball in his hands.

“I am remembering.”

“Remembering?”

He turned, tossing the object quickly from hand to hand.

“My people, we remember with these.”

“What do you remember?”

“People. Those that left. Like father and brother.”

“Where did they go?”

The giant smiled, but it was weaker now. It was the smile of a teacher, patiently weathering his pupil’s slowly march towards understanding. It was a smile that pushed what feelings were drawn, like a bucket pulled from the dark bearing precious water but dripping with painful pieces of its past.

“Xibalba.”

“Where’s that?”

“Very, very far.”

“Are you going to see them?”

The giant laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“I will know the sun.”

The boy puzzled these words with a twist of his mouth. It was clear he didn’t understand, though how his childish mind did grapple with the words. The giant knelt once more, holding the ball up for the boy.

“Care help remember?”

“Okay!”

His face lit up as he took the ball. He turned to the man.

“What do we do?”

He stood, surveying the land about them. He walked over, picking up the bucket and motioning for the boy to follow. They walked towards the stone wall of the sheriff’s jail. The man ran his hand over the stone, knocking lightly on the stone.

“This shall do.”

He placed the bucket at the middle of the wall then motioned for the boy to stand at the far end.

“Now what?”

“First, hit ball off wall.”

The man motioned towards the stone and the boy squished his face in concentration. Lifting the large ball over his shoulder, he swung with all the strength his little arms could muster. The ball struck the stone, rebounded and bounced three times against the ground before rolling to a stop. The man walked forward, picking it up.

“Alobi, little-one. Perhaps you a born ball player.”

The boy blushed.

“Did I do good?”

“Good first throw. Now, watch.”

The man bounced the ball before him, scattering dirt in a soft cloud that rolled up to him. Twice he bounced the ball before him before twisting and striking the ball with his forearm. With a meaty smack, it launched from his hand, striking the wall soundly before bouncing towards the boy. It flew straight and true, hitting the ground twice before rolling to stop right at his feet.

“Now, to me. Try again.”

The boy nodded as he bent and scooped up the ball. He wrenched it back and threw it. It smacked against the stone, bouncing once before rolling to the man’s left. He nodded.

“Better. Important to watch angle. See where you want and follow back to know place to strike.”

The man walked over, patting one of the stones.

“Watch.”

He bounced the ball twice, held it aloft and smacked it with his forearm. The ball struck the stone, rebounding and returning once more to the boy’s feet. The scooped up the ball, judging the distance and scooting forward for his throw. The ball hit, though with less force, and bounced four times to the other man’s feet. He nodded.

“Alobi.”

“What’s the bucket for?”

“It is goal,” the man replied. “The final journey from one body to the next. Like the sun passing the horizon, going through darkness and rising new on the other side.”

He bounced the ball at his feet before striking it at the wall. With precision, it bounced off the stones near him and the ball dropped perfectly in the wooden container. It gave off a haunting echo as it rolled along the bottom.

“How can it come out the other side? It’s a bucket.”

“Normally not a bucket,” the man nodded, walking over and picking up the ball. He then lifted the pail and held it sideways against the stone. “Normally it on wall and sun can pass through.”

He moved the ball back and forth before the bucket to demonstrate. Then he pointed at the dirt across from them.

“Normally another wall with another goal. Back and forth, sun rise and fall. Journey of gods. Journey of man.”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t get it.”

“One day, little-one.”

A shout caught their attention and a woman poked her head from the street. She turned, gasping slightly at the sight of the large man standing before the boy.

“Come here, Blasius,” she called, her voice twinged with worry. The boy look at the man, disappointment in his face.

“I have to go.”

“Xiitech utsil, little-one.”

The boy ran towards his mother. As he came near, she pulled him close, suspicious eyes watching the man as she turned her bonnet down at the youngster. She spoke just loud enough that he could hear here.

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

“We played. He showed me his game.”

Not trusting the words of her own child, the woman took her son’s small hand casting one last suspicious glance.

“Best you clear out of here, savage. We ain’t want your kind here. Don’t make me have to get the sheriff.”

She pulled her child away, even as he cried out as they went.

“But momma, he’s real nice!”

“Hush child, these savages ain’t got no place in our towns. Best they stay on their plains.”

The man walked over to his gear, collecting his things. He picked up one particularly large, colourful cloth and wrapped it about his waist until he formed a pouch. He then slipped the ball inside, insuring it was secure before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he readjusted the jade beads upon his necklace until the three heads looked once more about him. Their unblinking eyes keeping eternal vigilance for their wearer.

He checked his canteen. What little remained sloshed about the bottom. He would have to stop at the town’s well before continuing on.

Not that he had intentions of staying. This land was not his and he had no intention of invading these people’s lives. They who were unable to tell the difference between the natives of the plains and those that had travelled far from the south. Their ignorance and fear spoke more than their inattentiveness. But it did not bother him.

Hatred was an emotion he was far too familiar with.

And if these people felt they could rid themselves of him then they would learn that the familiar weapon over his shoulder was not for show. If this were his home, he would have more heads upon his necklace for all these ‘sheriffs’ who were suppose to be these towns fearsome defenders. But he wasn’t home and he wished to avoid bloodshed when he could.

Unlike these primitive people who waged a futile war against the invading ghostmen, he and his people had learned generations ago their fearsome might. They brought horses and they brought firearms and beneath iron hooves and iron barrels they paved a new territory for themselves with the bodies of the old.

But so many of the natives of these northern plains clutched futile to their old ways, as if somehow their drums and their stones could hold back the invasion.

Pacal knew different. They were unstoppable. For even if every ghostman and woman was slain and their skulls collected for the great racks, they left behind their armor, their weapons and their ways. Nothing would be the same. Either one learned to use their tools or they gave themselves up to the darkened halls of Xibalba. May as well just lay before the jagged knives and pay the blood debt of the vicious Nahua Ajkin then to try and resist the change that came on the tempest’s winds.

Not that there was a home for Pacal to return to. So he wandered and he came to the lands of these strangers to see for himself that which had brought about the end of the world. What he found were a people so frightening in their strangeness and curious familiarity. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the same petty, distrustful, ignorant individuals that he discovered.

He walked towards the well, canteen in hand. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. Let them come if they so chose. He was tired of remembering.

Trumpeting the Eighth Seal

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For those not in the know, I have suffered a rather embarrassing potential concussion. I mention that this is embarrassing because of both its production and my handling of it. Suffice to say, strenuous activity while under the effects of a potential concussion are generally ill-advised least this potential injury get potentially exacerbated. So I haven’t done much of anything save finish writing a novel in a month. A full fledged novel with distinct beginning, middle and end and of appropriate length for trade fiction.

Not a bad accomplishment for being a little funny in the head. That is, regardless of the Schroedinger’s head trauma. But no one logs onto this blog to hear me natter about my health so let’s discuss… something!

My illustrious and highly industrious friend has let slip a rather terrible secret. There is this shared world we’ve created. A world of mystery and horror, and its perfect for discussing horror and players. It is a world not unlike our own but those striking similarities serve to only make its differences all the more terrible. It is a world about great eldritch monsters, the frailty of the human spirit, the boundless power of man’s imagination and the unimaginable depths of greed and self sacrifice. It is a world that has been percolating in the back of my mind since my first years of university as I wrestled with concepts underpinning the foundations of belief and faith that support our understanding of the universe.

This is shamelessly stolen from Google. I apologize to the original artist.

You can already see the old horror elements beginning to weave through. I love some H.P. Lovecraft, a confession that may startle those who see me as only the ‘man who hates everything.’ I really enjoy that sense of dread for the unknown. It’s a hard emotion to invoke in our modern world with our understanding and grasp so widespread. Each day some new discovery or invention seems to bring ever more pieces of reality into greater focus. But how often have we heard this tale before? It seems that just before a great paradigm shift, our concepts and views were at their strongest. All it took was one little piece to plunge us over the edge and shatter the structures we’d created and had felt so secure within.

So, I needed that tipping point. I needed that soft crack against the glass that could widen and swallow my poor travelers in. It always has to start off small and seemingly inconsequential. The true horror is the slow peeling of all the comfortable layers of our old lives and beliefs, revealing the strange and bizarre one section at a time until the realization dawns upon us and we see that the universe we thought we knew is more alien and strange than it is familiar and safe. In this manner, I’ve always admired the White Wolf series of games. Almost all of them take place in modern times with the character’s journey starting rather mundane at first. Perhaps it is something as simple as a chance encounter late one night at that fancy new bar that’s opened down the street. You meet some enchanting woman who seems to captivate all that view her. You don’t remember seeing her before and the word on everyone’s lips is a name as inviting as it is exotic. You drink it in like a new wine. It’s a thick ambrosia that leaves you longing – no, aching – for more and you know you must have it. She beckons with a languid finger and you follow even if something at the back of your mind is scratching and screaming to escape.

Then, before you know it, BAM! You’re a vampire needing to subside on the blood and life of the people you once held dear.

I know not everyone shares this same romanticized vision but it was this starting point that I hoped to capture. Vampire the Masquerade, for me, had always been a story of resisting damnation and the eroding of one’s humanity. Most tales, however, were usually about bad ass nightstalkers able to pitch cars through the air or rip the throats of their enemies. I know the world had deadly horrors awaiting for the new converts, but in my experience those often fell to the wayside as conflicts basically remained entrenched and consumed with vampire politics and living out personal power fantasies.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that but one element I loved about Lovecraft and his brand of horror was no matter how much you knew, no matter how prepared you were, the horrors you faced always remained horrors. They were abominations that even with the correct spells and incantations learned still threatened to rip you from limb and shred your very sanity. They were creatures you constantly had to keep asking yourself why you weren’t running away and questioning whether your life and soul were worth wagering against them.

And in most cases, they were not. But what sort of story is it if the most sensible course of action was to flee? The simple solution was to make it impossible. And to accomplish that, I made the player the monster.

In a sense. Much like a vampire passing its curse, I imagined infecting the player with a disease. They could be inhabited by something not quite their own, something that was not quite themselves. What it was, they couldn’t know. All they knew was that it changed them and in ways they couldn’t understand. Suddenly, they had a greater appetite. Simple food could not satiate them. They hungered for something more and if they couldn’t feed whatever it was inside of them then the player himself was up for the menu. It was, in a sense, the Curse of Cain with a twist. The player was still struggling for their immortal soul and humanity but not in a figurative sense that they resisted some biblical beast symbolizing infidelity to the Lord but from the very literal sense that they were being eaten from the inside out. The food to fill this need became a currency far more valuable than any dollar or yuan. And in discovering this heightened need, players discovered they weren’t alone in this startling new power structure. Suddenly, an entire orchestra seemed to emerge from behind the screens dabbling in a business and trade wholly unnoticed before.

There was an energy that permeated everything and that fueled the universe from the smallest organism to the most complex machines. No one truly understood it; no one ever really does. Many people have differing beliefs but the most suspicious were the ones who claimed to have undeniable proof. Everyone had a stake in this new market, and those quickest to help the new attendees with their affliction often had the most questionable motives. The players were forcibly introduced to the world behind the mirror and shown the real mechanisms even if they didn’t understand them. The height of fidelity and faith and the worst depravity and debauchery all produced the same results and results were all that mattered. It was a world where the question of humanity could really be asked as great beings manipulated beliefs and reality to further their own goals.

But just because I wanted to involve the players in this struggle between the ‘Daemonkin’ I had my own desire to fill out the edges. I want to test and strain the concept as much as I could and see exactly where I could take it. Though the initial idea was to create this sort of ‘demon infection’ the end results were rather surprising. Suddenly, I had secret organizations of techno-magi controlling vast communicative networks and airwaves, tapping into an unknown and potentially exhaustive energy to ‘download’ their spells. I had beings born in the combined collective dreams of humanity, populating a rich and vast new plane of existence fueled by the wandering unconsciousness of the world’s asleep peoples. Even more intriguing was the vast new expanse of reality crafted from the emergence of the modern technological era – a whole new, untamed wilderness of cyber-realities taking form beneath the nose of ancient beings and rapidly cultivated by the young.

Perhaps some of that old Lovecraftian vision had been lost but an entire world with its own unique rules had come into being. Each new expansion and idea was exciting and startling as the last and truly the impossible seemed possible.

Hard to imagine the name of this thing started because Derek is dyslexic.

And that’s where my confession comes in. So encompassing and engrossing was this setting that I had no idea what to do with it. I had too many elements. I had too many stories. What could, for one person, be a tale of nightmare and terror could be the run of the mill daily grind for another. I was lost within my own world without a clue of how I was going to use any of it. And so it’s sat, unused and unseen in the back of my mind and across a dozen or so different word documents. I hope to one day create something from it. Perhaps, once Derek finishes ironing out the mechanics… if he ever gets around to sending me them.

Perhaps then, Plemora will see the light of day. Until then, I’ll see about posting some of my coherent ruminations and ideas in creating this world.

Mask of the Betrayer Review

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Don’t ask about the image, there wasn’t a whole lot of options.

I have a friend and he hates me. After forcing me to finally finish Neverwinter Nights 2 the Original Campaign (OC), he was adamant that we begin the expansion. As a brief overview, Neverwinter Nights and Mask of the Betrayer are two computer role-playing games (cRPGs) set in the fictitious world of the Forgotten Realms. The Forgotten Realms, themselves, are one of a myriad of different D&D campaign settings published by Wizards of the Coast. Forgotten Realms has the auspicious distinction of being, arguably, the most famous of all the settings. So here, you get a Mask of the Betrayer review.

You have your dwarves, elves and halflings all running around such exotic locations as a city in the north (Icewind Dale) a city in the south (Baldur’s Gate) and a city with stupid names like Neverneath (Neverwinter Nights). It’s all very derivative Tolkien-esque fare made quite palpable for the masses. There isn’t any weighty christological morality, however, so it’s freed to explore more complex situations and conflicts than Biblical good vs evil.

It usually doesn’t, mind you, but the opportunity exists. Now, as I mentioned, my friend and I finished the OC and there hasn’t been many words devoted on my blog to this monumentous achievement mostly because the OC was probably about as exciting as parliamentary debate over a new highway infrastructure. Actually, if given the choice, I’d probably go with the debate to be honest. The plot for the OC was uninspired, convoluted, irrelevant and most offensive of all – boring. And to top it off, it was long.

It also had an annoying dwarf. Screw dwarves. The stumpy midgets aren’t useful for anything beyond dragon kibble. But given they’re all developing alcoholics, you’re more likely to upset your dragon’s stomach more than anything. At least they’ll slide down nicely.

I am pleased to announce that Mask of the Betrayer is everything that the OC is not. It’s short, interesting, explores the nature of love and faith and is, shockingly fun. I find this in direct negative correlation to the number of dwarves present. Which is to say there are none. Though the game adamantly insists on reminding you that there used to be dwarves like some sort of dangling punishment that they’ve been so benevolent in staying their hand over. However, we’re on the final act and we haven’t seen hair nor stench of the runty creatures so I’m feeling quite in the clear on this issue.

The story itself, however, poses a curious conundrum. I’m going to discuss spoilers but given the brevity of the game and the way it constantly reminds you about every plot point no matter what you do, I feel this isn’t too disruptive. Now onto my discussion!

For those not aware, there are two essential “magic” systems at play in your standard D&D setting. You have the arcane – purview of wizards and sorcerers – that often requires rigorous study and is usually theorized to shape the very fundamental nature of reality and the universe(s). Then you have the divine. This is the domain of clerics and is the powers bestowed upon them by their god for their strict piety and devotion. So separated are these two sources that they have unique interactions with their own spells and other profane creatures that stalk the realms.

Which is to say, it’s really, really, really obvious that when a cleric says he’s getting powers from a big bearded dude in the sky there’s probably some truth to that. Couple this with the fact that the Forgotten Realms has a serious issue with gods coming down from on high, getting killed and promptly shuffling around their seat in the celestial bureaucracy like a minority government trying in vain to oust their opposition, it seems that their existence based on the very nature of the world really isn’t one of uncertainty. For the Forgotten Realms, gods are and it would take an incredible amount of ignorance to deny this fact. Worship is more like a trip to the tracks where you chose the horse you think is likely to give you the greatest pay-out at the end.

But the story for Mask of the Betrayer revolves around a curious structure called the Wall of the Faithless. As the name suggests, it is a wall… formed of faithless individuals. As explained through their own characters, for all the people who insist on not laying a bet at all, when they die their souls are shunted into this ever stretching, moaning and howling structure to add their body onto its swelling length. The major events of the story are propelled by a character’s faithlessness but I find it most curious that the actual reason for this lack of belief rather perplexing.

It’s like basing a story on the actions of a globe-trotting journalist who insists that the world is flat. At some point there must have arisen a conflict when it seemed reality factually contradicted this person’s own beliefs. At the end of the day, Mask of the Betrayer doesn’t really delve into true issues of faith and faithlessness but uses these concepts as plot points to further the story. It tells a great tale without actually examining the elements that compose it.

Which is a shame since it’s almost a third shorter than then OC. I can’t help but feel like this is a gross missed opportunity. Wherein the OC had this plodding tale of some swamp man stumbling out of coddled ignorance into a world filled with two dimensional individuals and hours of inane fetch questing, Mask of the Betrayer jumps erratically between some rather heavy existential ideology with barely a moment to even ponder its own intrinsic consequences. There’s so much stuff here to actually explore, like self identity and the nature of souls, but it gets shuffled to the sidelines to push the story further at it’s frantic pace.

Why would someone believe? What causes people to lose their faith? What is the nature of man and gods and are either intrinsic or important to its own world’s functioning. For example, the nature of good and evil, justice and law. Are these the true creation of these divine beings (remember, they get shuffled about any time one of them has the misfortune of stumbling into the machinations of an epic level character) or are these concepts something far grander and primordial than petty deities squabbling over who gets the worship of stubborn hicks who refuse to move out of their swamp.

At one point, your party comes face to face with a dead god and have a brief conversation about how this divine hierarchy functions. The god then points out that one of your companions himself is faithless, and yet standing on the enormous spine of this echoing skeleton, said companion continues to profess his beliefs that gods don’t exist. Yet you’re given no time to actually point out or examine this contradictory moment as the narrative quickly pats you on the bum towards the next big point and click killing moment.

It’s the stuff you can write great stories about but they’ve given themselves so little time to actually explore it. The brief taste you get is tantalizing and I really wish that Mask of the Betrayer was the OC and that the OC was… well… just a unfortunate memory much like the dwarf.

It’s a Trap! – Part 5

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< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 4

My sister is taking me to the evil dentist today. She has no soul.

—————Break —————

“Anything?”

Jeremiah looked about. Little light crept down through the scattered holes above him. The effect created dim shafts that speared the pit. The one thing he could discern was how dusty the space was. His knees scratched against the rough stone of the wall and every time he placed his hands to steady his descent, he could feel a thin film stick to his skin.

“Lower!”

The taunt rope suddenly slackened, sending him on a short, gut-wrenching plummet before it stabilized and Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief that he still wasn’t dead.

Course, he was thankful that Keirn thought of lowering him down with the rope instead of blindly jumping off like he imagined. And given the distance he’d already descended, he knew he’d saved himself some serious injury at the very least. But the depth of the pit was much deeper than he first anticipated and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer lightning before calling to be dropped even lower.

This entire line of thinking, however, seemed pretty counter-intuitive to Jeremiah. They wanted to go higher to escape, not deeper.

“Lower!”

In the darkness, something seemed to form. He squinted, hoping it was the floor.

“Could I get some more light?”

“What?”

“LIGHT!”

There was the sound of scuffling above and Jeremiah waited, dangling slowly in the air and wondering how long this rope could hold his weight. Then, the walls seemed to be washed in dry orange before he looked up to see a torch plummeting straight for him. He cried, kicking from the wall as the burning wood tumbled by in a flash of heat. He watched it drop, clattering seemingly twenty feet below him.

“Anything?”

“Lower!”

Down and down he was dropped until he felt he was close enough. He then struggled with the tight knots about his waist. Slowly, he began to wiggle the rope loose of his confines until the rope slid from its loops and dropped him roughly on the ground. There was some more shuffling before a distant call echoed down.

“Are you dead?!”

“No!” Jeremiah groaned, as he rolled on his side and immediately regretted not having them lower him further. His chest hurt from where he’d landed but he looked around to gather his surroundings.

The torch still burned close by and he scooped it up, directing the flame towards the darkness.

Small piles of broken tiles littered the rough floor. As Jeremiah took a step, a cloud of dust and dirt exploded upwards and rolled out into the dark. He took his time examining the place, the light of the torch settling over a few tell-tale scattered bones that littered the floor.

However, from his brief inspection, he could not find a way out of the pit. He turned, making his way back to the rope when something caught his eye. Holding the torch above his head, he looked on in wonder at the expansive mural that had been carved into the pit wall.

Great men met upon a lavish field, brandishing swords, spears and bows in their naked hands. Two clear forces engaged each other in a devastating combat. On the one side, came an unimaginable beautiful people from the valleys and hills. Robes and capes fluttered from their lithe, muscular frames. Opposing them was a terrifying band of warriors with wicked weapons and iron helms on their heads. They seemed to swoop down from the very skies as if the clouds had borne them like great boats to this confrontation.

As Jeremiah studied the ancient artwork, a great clatter and shouting erupted above him. He turned, holding his torch to illuminate the shape of a figure quickly descending down the rope. At first he’d assumed that Keirn had grown tired of waiting and was surprised to see Amber dropping the last couple of feet to the floor.

“Where is it?!” she hissed, spinning around.

“Where’s what?”

There was more commotion above them and as Jeremiah turned to look, Amber lunged unexpectedly at him. For such a petite girl, she had a ferocious strength as she grabbed the torch and wrestled it from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Where’s the exit!” she yelled, waving the torch menacingly to keep Jeremiah at bay.

“I didn’t say there was one down here.”

“Where is it! Don’t try hiding it from me!”

She backed away from him, the torch waving madly in the darkness. She stumbled over a pile of debris, cursing in the darkness before scampering to her feet once more.

In the play between dark and light, she appeared different to him. The shadows seemed to harden the features of her face, turning that once round and soft visage into one of steeled malice. A frantic, almost maniacal, spirit seemed to possess her as she stumbled around. Was this the woman he had once loved? She seemed so remarkably changed from that sweet thing he’d once doted over.

Jeremiah turned from the mural, following slowly after her. Somewhere in the dark, he found his voice.

“I must know – why did you do it? Why did you leave me?”

“You all tried to kill me!” she hissed. “You’d leave me here to die!”

“No, not now. I mean before. Back at Galt.”

“You want to know why? You want to know the real reason!”

And Jeremiah had to pondered the proposition. He had often asked himself, alone in his bunk staring up at the rafters of his small house. He wondered if there was something he could have done. He wondered if he had offended her somehow. He wondered if there was no way for him to make things up with her.

He had feared a confrontation, almost terrified to know what reasons had torn them apart. But if he were to close that chapter of his heart, he had to know the truth.

“Tell me.”

The torch paused its examination of the walls for a secret door. Red hair turned, locking those vibrant eyes with his. For a brief moment, that enchanting smile spread across her lips. But that smile was only a vestige of something long dead. Instead, a wicked sneer quickly took hold.

“Have you looked at yourself recently? Please, Jeremiah, it was a fantasy. I am the daughter of the Gothar. I am a direct link to the divines. And what of you? You’re nothing more than some fat, ugly northern barbarian. I can have my pick of any man in the village and you think I’d settle for you?”

And she began to laugh.

But to Jeremiah, it was like some spell had been lifted. Whatever fear had clenched his heart seemed to release. The beauty of the girl seemed to melt away in that moment, driven back like so many shadows before the breaking dawn. All he saw then, in that dank pit, was what she truly was stripped of her fancy clothes and manicured features. Standing naked before him, she was little more than a repulsive, petulant child.

And it was Jeremiah’s turn to laugh.

The sound shook off the walls, reverberating through the small space to come echoing ferociously back upon her. It struck harder than any sword and she seemed to stumble back from its onslaught.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

And Jeremiah found he couldn’t stop. It seemed so ludicrous that it was almost hard to believe it was even true. How could he have ever imagined being with this girl? How had he spent so many nights envisioning the rest of his life with her? He had stupidly looked towards those pegs and pretended to see her cloak dangling from them. It was like some cruel cosmic joke. If there were any gods, then they would certainly be devious tricksters. They were not these romantic visions etched into the walls.

“Stop laughing!”

The self righteousness of her indignation only made Jeremiah laugh even harder. His whole body shook from it that he could feel his sides begin to hurt as if they were about to split. Even if he wanted he didn’t think he could stop himself now. And as his voice rose, so did hers.

She let out an ear piercing scream, dropping the torch as his laughs seemed to pin her in from all sides. She raised her hands to her ears in an attempt to block it out. But from the darkness it felt like an entire chorus of people had come to mock and ridicule her.

“Stop it! STOP! IT!” she shouted. “I’m the daughter of the Gothar! Shut UP! I demand you shut up!”

She flung herself at him, but she was nothing. Her fists were little more than feeble taps like raindrops throwing themselves uselessly against the mountains. She tried to dig her nails in, to cut at the laughter and crush it in her fingers. Jeremiah merely lifted his arms to deflect her assault away.

“I’m the important one! Shut up! She’s just some ugly little daughter of some filthy whore!”

She screamed at her phantoms, retreating back until she pressed up against the wall. Frightened, she clutched at her ears, trying in vain to block out the unending mockery crashing upon her.

“I’m not crazy! I’m not! These visions – they are of the divine! A gift!”

But still the laughter and rejection assaulted her from all sides.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing! It’s the others that are wicked! It’s the others we must be wary of! She brought this upon us. Not I!”

In the darkness, Jeremiah could see tears begin to trickle down her cheeks as Amber’s inner demons seemed to consume her in the shadows. She huddled and shook by herself – abandoned by those that had been near. As Jeremiah slowly calmed and gathered his senses, the girl he’d loved seemed to lose herself completely in the dark.

A rumble and crumble of tiles signalled movement from above. Minutes seemed to pass in the dark and Jeremiah move to the torch barely burning at Amber’s feet. He gently breathed upon the flames, slowly building them into a brightening glow once more. The girl flinched before the flames, crawling away from the revealing light as if it burned at her very skin. He turned towards the hole and dangling rope, watching a dark lump slowly inching its way down. A scramble behind him caused him to turn and he saw, wordlessly, the retreating back of the priestess as she fled into the shadows.

Jeremiah waited as the others slowly made the descent into the pit. Kait took the longest, having to slide her numerous bags down first before committing herself to the climb.

“Where’d the strumpet get off to?” Keirn asked, approaching Jeremiah’s side.

“She ran off. Don’t know where. What happened up there?”

“Took a good swing at Keirn!” Derrek announced happily. “Looked like she was going for the eyes then she hurried down after you.”

“Why’d she do that.”

“Keirn was threatening to throw her after you since you were taking so long,” Aliessa sighed. She gave a brief shout as another of Kait’s bags clattered behind them. Somewhere amongst her folds a frightened bird gave a chirp.

“Are you okay?” Keirn asked. “You look… different.”

“Different?”

“Odd. I don’t know. You didn’t kill her did you?”

Keirn looked at the scattered bones on the ground.

Jeremiah only shook his head.

“We talked before she left. Cleared some things up.”

“You know she’s crazy right?” Keirn asked.

“As a jaybird.”

“Good because some of the things she’s said…” Keirn shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m sure Kait will be glad we never have to hear from her again.”

A shocked shout drew their attention back to the rope and they found Kait struggling to extract herself from the pile of bags. Keirn hurried to her side, chiding her as he fished her out from among her things. She looked back up the way they came, giving the rope a soft tug.

“We’re not going to leave this behind, are we?” she asked.

“Unless you plan on climbing up and fetching it, it’s probably best to leave it.”

“What is this, anyway?” Aliessa asked, stepping to Jeremiah’s side and taking a look at the murals over the walls.

“Ah, see! I knew this was the way to go,” Derrek said. “That’s why the answer was ‘exit.’”

“Dear, you’re not making sense.”

“It’s simple, the floor above us was a trap.”

“Really, you think?” Keirn said.

“But the solution itself was a false lead. See, if we’d successfully crossed and gone out the door, it would have sealed anyway. And from the looks of the cables overhead, the final corridor has already been coated in a flammable grease. Had we arrived through that exit, we’d have been roasted like a boar.”

“He’s not actually being serious, is he?” Kait whispered.

“This way should do it!” Derrek announced, heading into the darkness after plucking the torch from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Just get your bags,” Keirn said. He stepped to Jeremiah’s side as they formed rank. He pulled the long rod from his sleeves, admiring it in the light of Jeremiah’s torch. “At least we still have this to show for our troubles.”

“Seems rather fortunate that she found it before we did,” Jeremiah said.

“Not really. This isn’t the first time that Mai-” Keirn stopped mid-sentence, looking quickly at Jeremiah.

The dark man scowled.

“What was that?”

“Quite a little puzzle, that. I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

“You knew she would be here!” Jeremiah cried, grabbing his friend by the wrist before he could sneak off.

Keirn shook his head.

“I didn’t know she’d be here. But I won’t say it was a surprise. And you seemed so excited when we first bumped into her that I wasn’t going to bring it up. Then there was the whole issue of the creature chasing her and then getting stuck in all those traps and it… just never seemed like the right time to mention it.”

“So this whole damnable adventure had been a trap from the start!”

“This way!” Derrek called, waving the group towards a darkened passage. As the torch drew closer it revealed a set of stairs leading up.

“Look, it’s not my fault that we’re mortal enemies with a woman who has seemingly unending underworld connections.”

“We agreed we wouldn’t deal with that witch again!” Jeremiah cried. Keirn hissed at him.

“Look, the others don’t know and I don’t see why they have to.”

“I’m not keeping your lies now! I can’t believe I agreed to all of this.”

“You agreed because you know you’re needed. Without you, who would be our moral compass?”

“But you don’t ever listen to me!”

“That’s not true. We didn’t throw the tart down the pit and now we’re all better people for it.”

Jeremiah sighed. But perhaps his friend did have a point. Deep down he didn’t really think they would throw her in but maybe that’s because they knew he would intervene. Perhaps it wasn’t the strangers that needed to look up to him at all.

“Oh, before I forget, we packed these up for you,” Keirn said. He held out Jeremiah’s scabbard. “But I thought it might be wise to at least give this to you for now. Who knows what else we’ll come across.”

Jeremiah took the sword. They paused at the top of the stairs as he handed the torch to Keirn then wrapped the leather thong around his waist. The metal of the scabbard slapped against his unarmoured side and to feel the blade against him without his armour on was a strange sensation. But he patted the handle, its presence somehow easing his mind.

“We really need to get you something new,” Keirn said.

“This is just fine.”

“No, look. The reward for this little beauty is quite high. And now that she-who-we-don’t-speak-of has to pay all of us for retrieving it instead of just the little tart, we’ll have plenty enough coin to get you something a little more respectable. Something a bit more knightly.”

“It’s fine,” Jeremiah said. “It’s really not important how it looks but what I do with it that matters.”

And Keirn regarded him curiously as the girls pressed by to continue on after Derrek.

“I’m… glad to hear it. But I insist we get you something. At the very least, let’s get that awful armour of yours repaired.”

“Fine but I’m not sure how comfortable I am with giving her some ancient powerful relic.”

Keirn turned the rod over in his hands. He looked down the corridor to make sure the girls were out of earshot before looking back at Jeremiah.

“Look, if the ancient murals are anything to go by I don’t think her abuse of this artefact is really going to be an issue. From what I can gather it’s for…” Keirn paused as he tried to think of some tact. “Let’s just say its powers are for personal use.”

Jeremiah shook his head.

“Now you’re joking.”

Keirn smiled.

“Buddy, you’ve been missing out a lot by skipping temple. Come on, let’s get out of this dusty place and I can tell you more. Who knows, the gods may not be as bad as you think.”

They hurried down the corridor to catch up with their compatriots. However, as they approached, they found the others standing before a great iron door. The girls were watching Derrek expectantly as the young man pulled anxiously on the bars.

At the sound of their approach, all three turned around and began shouting. But as Jeremiah stepped into the room, he felt the floor shift slightly. A pressure plate slide beneath his weight and before they could react, a crash of metal sounded behind them. They turned to see a second metal gate had sealed them in.

“Turns out I was wrong,” Derrek muttered. “Seems like it was a trap all along.”

A rumble in the distance caused each member to turn with concern to the other. Jeremiah looked at Keirn.

“I still hate temples.”

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Hayashi no Jinjya: The Shrine in the Woods

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Didn’t win but here’s a short I submitted for a writing competition:

Hayashi no Jinjya:

The Shrine in the Woods

Word Count: 2,466 words

Her scratched fingernails slid aimlessly over the worn keys. The soft glow of the menu highlighted small cuts and dirt smeared across her face. But no matter what settings she tried, or where she waved her arm, she could not get any of those five stubborn bars to light.

Frustrated, she slammed the cellphone closed and pulled her knees beneath her chin.

She eyed the empty festival stalls dotting the lane. Their plastic banners, boldly coloured, hung limp overhead. A deceptive peacefulness filled the front of the shrine. The only sounds penetrating the thick copse of trees were the distant cries of an absent child. Her mother stood on the edge of the tree line, frantically peering between the trunks into the gloom. A colourful pinwheel was clutched to her chest. To Carla it seemed like she had been standing there for hours, never attempting to leave the front court in search for her wayward kid.

Carla flipped her phone open again. The reception bars were still empty.

It was a strange emotion: feeling utterly alone, yet surrounded by so many people. Carla couldn’t remember how long she waited on these steps. Time seemed to move slowly at the reclusive shrine. At least the shaking had stopped.

A fire crackled in the late winter night, the glow from a large iron barrel belching thick plumes of smoke into the twilight. Four older men sat around the barrel warming their hands and chatting softly. The kindling came from the same middle school where Carla spent her days teaching. She felt a twinge of guilt when the students’ wood projects were broken for fuel but knew it was not her place to say anything.

A tapping overhead caught Carla’s attention and she looked up at the thick shimenawa rope. It was a massive knot of woven rice straw with pristine white zig-zag pieces of paper dangling like thick icicles. She never understood their meaning only that they demarcated the transition to places considered sacred.

Carla glanced at her phone. Still no response.

An overbearing sense of anxiety filled the front of the shrine like an unwanted guest. Were they through the worst? Was this just beginning? They had no information and everyone was left literally in the dark as the power had been off since Carla awoke.

The gas lantern at her side hissed at the crunching of gravel beneath soft runners. She looked up from her self-imposed exile to see a round face smile encouragingly.

“Oh, Carla-sensei,” the girl whispered bowing respectfully. Her long black hair tumbled over awkward shoulders. The girl still wore her school clothes which always reminded Carla of an outdated navy uniform.

“Hello Ai. How are you?”

The girl chewed her lip. She was shy – a common trait in her students – but one of Carla’s favourite pupils. Ai’s eagerness to learn impressed Carla, even if she possessed the typical teenage awkwardness and uncertainty. Thankfully, she took her lessons seriously and could converse rather well with Carla. And it was a rare soul who even tried to bridge the language divide.

“I thought you are hungry,” Ai said in that slow drawl the students adopted when they first began speaking English. Carla could almost see her flipping through a mental dictionary as she translated her thoughts. She produced a small round can from behind her uniform.

“It’s pan!” Ai offered as if that made things clearer.

Carla gave a polite bow as she took the can with her hands – you always accepted gifts with both hands. She turned the tin over slowly. It was light and the metal cool to her touch. There weren’t any labels or familiar markings to suggest what lay within.

She hoped it wasn’t fish.

A tab, much like a pop can, was fastened to the top. She caught Ai plucking at the air as if Carla might need further instruction. Carla’s cheeks prickled at the implication. She was a foreigner, not an idiot.

She breathed away the indignation. She was stressed and tired. Perhaps food, even smelly salmon, was all she needed.

The can gave a soft pop as she pried the lid off. Instead of a pungent seawater smell, Carla found a soft, spongy yellow substance inside.

“It’s pan!”

Confusion knitted Carla’s brow as she poked at the food. Pinching a small amount she brought a tentative piece to her lips. Surprised, she tasted the soft linger of pineapple sponge cake. She felt a moment of brief embarrassment wash over her as she made the correction.

“It’s bread.”

“Oh yes, so sorry. It’s bread!”

Ai bowed hastily in deference to her teacher. Carla smiled and motioned to the stone step. Pulling her skirt beneath her, Ai sat.

The one thing Carla could never appreciate was the sweetness of their bread. Of everything she missed from home, it was a simple fresh, crusty bun that she longed for the most.

“Where did you get this?”

“I find it down way…” Ai paused, struggling with some idea she couldn’t quite express. Instead, she merely turned and waved down the road. “Offering for strength and happiness.”

Relief supplies, Carla thought. It would explain the lack of labels. Perhaps things were worse than she thought. There hadn’t been any news over the town’s public announcement system but that was probably due to the lack of electricity. But she still didn’t have contact from her head office. She flipped open her cell but there was still no signal.

“You hear from family?” Ai asked, leaning in to look at the screen.

Carla offered the empty inbox as a reply.

“Don’t worry, Carla-sensei,” Ai smiled.

“Thank you,” Carla said, offering Ai a piece of sweet bread.

The girl merely shook her head and rubbed her stomach.

“Ippai.”

No subject, past tense – full. No doubt she had already eaten before thinking of Carla. Carla only wished she knew they were handing out supplies. She could have helped instead of sitting here feeling completely useless.

Carla licked dry lips as she searched for something to say to the third year student.

“Where’s Yuki?”

The two girls were best friends and almost inseparable. Ai cocked her head sideways in that curious fashion her students had when asked a question they didn’t fully understand.

She gave a short sigh and reached into her pocket, pulling out six hundred-yen coins. She looked morosely at the small collection before turning and glancing at the shrine behind her.

Carla followed her gaze, spotting a pair of vending machines not far from where they sat. Was she thirsty? Carla reached into her pockets and was surprised to find her wallet missing. Then it dawned on her; she’d left her purse in the teacher’s office.

Ai looked very curious to see Carla remove her empty hand from her pocket.

“Gone home.”

“Home?”

Carla looked around at the gathered solemn faces. The shrine was an evacuation area indicated by the green sign hanging from the gate. With the worst over, everyone should have returned home. Yet no one here seemed ready to leave.

Carla was waiting for more information. This wasn’t her first earthquake, but it was the worst. She didn’t know what to do but the thought of being alone in her dark apartment kept her on the steps before the shrine.

“Yuki was at 4-C,” Ai whispered.

Fourth floor, third room from the front stairs – the music room. Ai was an avid member of the Band Club so it seemed reasonable for her friend to be there. Perhaps she was working on the upcoming student rehearsal for the cherry blossom festival. The trees about them were just about to bud and Carla was excited for that brief week when they would bloom and surround the town in a cloud of soft white and pink.

Carla nodded but was surprised to see tears welling in the girl’s eyes.

“What about your parents? Are they coming?” Carla asked.

Ai wiped her eyes with her palm before looking around and shaking her head.

“They’re not here.”

“Maybe they will come later.”

“No,” Ai whispered. “No, I do not think they come. It is good. They are safe.”

The girl smiled.

Carla looked at her phone. Still no reception.

“I am sad for Carla here,” Ai said slowly. “You should be home. Gomenasai.”

“Oh, no! This is good. I’m happy to be here!” Carla said.

“Happy?”

Ai tilted her head.

“Of course!” Carla sighed. “To tell you the truth, I was very scared. When it started, I didn’t know what was happening. It wasn’t until Takuma stood and shouted that I knew something was wrong.”

Carla paused but Ai sat patiently, staring at her. She couldn’t tell if the girl was waiting for her to continue or completely lost in the words. Oddly enough, Carla didn’t care.

“I crawled under a desk with everyone else. That’s when I felt it. The whole school seemed to shake and the windows sounded like they were going to shatter in their frames. But it was the floor that scared me the most. It bent and waved beneath my hands like it was made of water. I thought… I really thought it was going to collapse.”

Carla could feel that fear building up in her again. She shuddered and pulled her suit jacket tighter about her.

“And then everything was still. I remember Iwai-sensei opening the door and yelling for everyone to evacuate. The class ran. I followed but just as I reached the stairs, I remembered that Megumi asked to use the bathroom. I was worried she would get left behind. I ran to find her and then the building began to shake again. The floor shifted beneath my feet and the walls rumbled so loudly. And then…”

Everything else was a haze. Her best memories were a jumble of noise and chaos. She could vaguely recall the burning of dust in her eyes and the sharp stabs of pain running up her body. But she must have got out, how else could she get to the shrine? The last thing Carla remembered was collapsing against the wall with the girl’s bathroom only feet from her. Had she heard someone crying within?

She felt that growing knot of worry in her stomach return. She had so many unanswered questions. Were the rest of her students alright? What of her co-workers? She didn’t know them all that well even after a year together. Few spoke with her, perhaps fearful of making a mistake with their English, but Carla felt she was beginning to understand them. Even if it was just a little.

She didn’t notice Ai move until she felt warm arms wrapping around her and the young face pressing against her shoulder.

“Carla-sensei! I… I thank you.”

“For what?” Carla asked shocked that the shiest girl in her class would suddenly embrace her.

“For being so brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

“You are! I could not… I didn’t leave my desk. But you went for Megumi. You came here and alone! Your stories of travel inspired me. I wanted to see your world. I wanted to be you. You are brave and pretty. And… I say thank you! Thank you for coming. I could not be brave without you.”

Her arms tightened and Carla lifted hers to return the embrace. She was speechless. Not because these people were reserved with showing affection but as a teacher there had always been a distance between them. A gap created more by her strangeness than her position. She wasn’t Japanese and this cursed her forever as an outsider in their world.

“Well, I think that’s a good goal,” Carla said. “I love travelling and I think you will too.”

She wasn’t sure what it was, but the hug was comforting. Perhaps it was the contact, that little bit of tenderness, Carla needed. For a moment the two women sat on the steps of the shrine in peace.

A gust pulled the trees, bowing their great heads to its passage and the thick rice straw rope swung above them.

“Almost my time,” Ai whispered.

The girl pulled back, her hands briefly taking Carla’s.

“Gambare, Sensei. You will do well!”

An encouraging phrase – good luck. As she stood, Carla felt the girl slip something cold into her hand. She looked down to see Ai’s six coins.

“I can’t take these!” Carla cried as Ai turned.

“Yes,” Ai said, bowing respectfully. “Carla was brave. It is Ai’s turn to be brave. Don’t worry, Sensei, I don’t need them. I am good swimmer. I have family who help me on my travel. I now help you on yours.”

The great shrine doors groaned opened before a hunched priest with the barest wisps of hair dotting his spotted head. Ai gave a bright smile before turning and passing beneath the faded wood torii gate. The old man raised a gnarled hand to stop her but Ai merely shook her head. Wordlessly he nodded, moving aside. Carla cried out, standing and hurrying up the steps after her student. As she rushed towards the gates, the aged priest eyed her briefly before slamming the doors shut.

Carla stood there, staring at the cracked wood. It was then she noticed the mural etched on the front. She ran one hand over the stylized ukiyoe etching of a grand, forked river. A trickling stream of downcast people made their way towards the waters. Before them stood a balding man in faded robes holding out his hand.

For those with enough coins they passed over the river along a marvellous bridge. Those with less picked carefully along a ford; the water pulling at their exposed ankles.

The last group, those without coins, passed naked by a tree covered in clothes. They waded into the turgid waters; their faces petrified as the waves curled around their bodies wrapping like thick snakes about their arms and neck.

It was a passing but not for the living. Carla looked down at the coins in her hand then to the dead cellphone in her other. She began to realize that she would never receive word from her family.

And yet, as she turned back to the gate, there was a worrying fear those doors would never open for her either. They were not built for her. They were built for everyone else. They were built for the Japanese who looked upon them and understood.

In the distance, the unanswered cry of a lost child echoed through the night.

My Writing Process: Something Different

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I think I made mention of this earlier but I’m currently in the throes of attempting to write a full novel (90k words) in one month. Which leaves me with 3k words a day. Which leaves me with little time to do any actual writing.

So, this has led to the recent spat of back to back D&D stories. Well, to try and break some of the monotony, I’m going to post a bit of my creative process instead. As a forewarning, this is my rough work so is wholly unedited as it isn’t really meant to see the light of day. This is more akin to a quick peek at someone’s unmentionables. They’re worn for comfort but with the sole expectation that others won’t see them.

(But why do we buy ones with such interesting designs then, you ask. Well… shut up. The analogy works. Sort of.)

The current story I’m working on is a lighthearted idea at land piracy. Since I knew I was going to be running a facsimile of a crew, I needed to have a collection of fairly detailed individuals to populate my “ship” with. To set about defining and developing these individuals, I had two important steps. The first was to come up with a base outline – a bunch of thoughts and idea of this character’s appearance and personality.

So, let’s take the example of the first mate.

Here is my character sketch for Walter Samuel Schroeder:

Walton Samuel Schroeder (Schroeder) – Second in command. Landed gentry, old world blood and attitude, the youngest son of a colonial governor and plantation owner. Insufferable gambler and louse whose debts often precede his reputation. Daddy cut him off from his stipends in an effort to curb his limitless spending. But ‘just because we live in the colonies doesn’t mean we have to live like a colonial.’ Instead of finding honest work and pay turned to the life of an outlaw. Hates his name and usually referred by his last. Breast pockets, polished shoes, clean shaves, stacked decks and imported alcohol are his trademarks.

From here, I took some time to try and write a scene from their perspective. I find working from a character’s point of view and trying to see the world through their eyes really helps to bring them to life in my mind. When forced to consider their ideals and put them in conflicts that they must react to do I develop more and more of their personality. For this exercise, I chose to write them in a “bubble” that would try and extract as much of their personality as I could. I took a setting that I felt really encapsulated the idea I had for them and tried to create a situation that would shine them in the most revealing light. This also gives me the added bonus of developing and playing with my setting in ways that may never come up in the story proper.

For my insufferable gambler, this manifested in a paddle boat casino:

Walton Samuel Schroeder II

“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”

A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was the response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the other. They searched for some unforgiving tell.

Neither could be more unalike. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin that seemed cracked and split from the long years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie – a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared any time the man’s ire rose.

Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had a fearsome reputation on the plains as he did at the table. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did passed judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging sack by his side.

Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.

But every caravan needed its mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.

And Walton Samuel Schroeder II looked the fool.

He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.

On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. Elegant curving patterns of the western peoples depicted stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.

Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.

And Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always washed away to be the same.

And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.

“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage ain’t getting shorter. You’ll be putting down that hand either way but if you be parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”

He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.

Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.

He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.

“I ain’t be aiming to wait for this wine to get better.”

Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.

He played his hand.

With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines.

It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt the young man to himself for a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer’s hand but revealed the gambler for the cheat he was.

And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.

Schroeder set down his cup.

“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.”

Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood holding, offering his foe an apologetic shrug.

“Perhaps next time.”

The young man began to collect his ill gotten gains.

But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.

“I want to see the rest.”

“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”

Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.

“Show me.”

His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from his gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.

Schroeder coughed.

“Very well.”

The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He turned and coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head back.

Schroeder turned back, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the three remaining cards, slowly turning over a seven of swords.

“And the next.”

Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning over a six of coins.

“One more.”

At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors eyes and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.

“The coup de grace!”

Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his ally who rubbed at the sting where the card struck his skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.

“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”

He tossed a handful of coins at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck.

Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol chased after him.

“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”

The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap bouncing in his pack, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step but nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”

She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stain wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.

A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hat in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.

Schroeder took to his heels once more.

Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting out upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the rail, attempting to gauge his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.

The crash behind him was all the motivation he needed. As raised voices echoed out the corridor, he put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests gave a great shout and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on the knees. And he’d just purchased these trousers.

He cast a quick look skyward.

Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.

The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.

But now things had gone too far.

A few of the patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their own pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasure night of cards.

Meyer ducked behind the rail, returning what fire he could. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as the horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.

Bullets struck tables, splintering debris in worrying close proximity as he slid his hat. He paused before one table still upright, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim stem of the crystal glass. He brought to wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.

He motioned to pass on but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.

The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.

A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcement to the confusion and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table to gauge the development. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought in the firefight.

“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”

Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the rail works, running own the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.

The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.

It was seconds before some embittered separatist cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well to do red suit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the wood about him.

And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jangle for going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. The rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.

A bullet sang past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium had taken over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his foot caused the boat the slam loudly against the deck.

Eventually, the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.

As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with great deep purple bustle that seemed to shimmer in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.

“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.

The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.

“You may, good sir.”

She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.

“Take this end, I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.

“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.

“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”

“Why delay?” Schroeder smiled, stepping to the rail. She gave a brief smile as she placed her hand on his chest.

“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”

She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.

“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”

And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like an intoxicating wine about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.

Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.

“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”

But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.

“That was custom fitted!” he shouted.

A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced back at the mayhem overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath and plunged into the waves.

It’s a Trap! – Part 4

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Oh my goodness, I completely forgot to post yesterday!

Errr… there is no man behind the curtain!

—————Break —————

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?!”

Jeremiah stabbed the crackling logs within the fire pit. A swirl of embers twisted upwards, dancing briefly like small fireflies before burning their little bodies out in a bright flash of light and heat.

Jeremiah lifted the lid of the pot suspended over flames. The fresh squash was beginning to cook nicely and the heady scent of herbs filled his nostrils. He stirred the mashed vegetable with a long ladle, hopeful to not burn it to the bottom this time.

Keirn sat at the table, still dressed in his travelling garb. The shadows from the fire played across his eager face, ringing an almost hungry expression in his eyes. But it was not food that his friend sought. There was something else behind his sudden return and Jeremiah was suspicious of some further play behind his request.

“I have to wonder over your insistence in remaining here,” Keirn said, thrumming his fingers against the table. “It must be awfully lonely now.”

Jeremiah turned towards the pegs by the front entrance. Most lay empty now. His brothers and sister had long since moved out, having met spouses of their own and having houses of their own to tend. The only cloak that didn’t belong to him had remained unmoved upon its peg for quite some time now. And yet, even though its owner was never coming back to claim it, Jeremiah couldn’t find the motivation to throw it away.

And it wasn’t particularly out of some grander fondness for his mother. He liked her well enough, but to him she had been a bit of a tyrant. The youngest of four and the third brother to boot, he offered little to the household and his lineage other than another mouth to feed long after his mother cared for rearing young.

At least, young at his age. She was far fonder of babies than children and the moment his brothers started having some, any positive attention Jeremiah hoped he could still get was quickly transferred to them.

But despite her growing neglect of her own child, Jeremiah still remained in her home even after her very health began to leave. And when the gods came to claim what was left of her, that cloak remained. Jeremiah had such plans for it, but any time he took it from its hook the empty void it left just came to reinforce how quiet the house had become.

“I have plenty here,” he said, stubbornly stoking the fire. “Master Beadell says that my training has been coming along really well lately.”

“Master Beadell is old and senile. The old fart is lucky if he can remember which foot to properly put in his slippers.”

“All the more reason for me to tend the apothecary. And maybe in a few years he’ll name me…”

“Name you what? His successor? He keeps forgetting his wife is dead! I’m pretty certain that place is going to his son and no matter how many years you put in it won’t change that fact.”

“Look, not all of us can just abandon everything we know to wander off into the horizon on some silly sense of adventure. Some of us have people we care about. And people that care about us!”

“I know you and Amber are through,” Keirn said flatly.

“What? But how-”

“Well she’s hardly here tending to your hearth,” Keirn said, pointing at the pot now giving off a steady stream of blackened smoke. Jeremiah cried out, leaping to the flames and dragging the smoking pot away between a pair of large iron tongs. “Also, I saw her earlier with Cairen behind the temple in a most… how do you say… un-priestess like fashion. That girl does seem to have quite a fire in her, though. She should really have worshipped a Vanir.”

Jeremiah dropped the pot on the table, cursing as he quickly removed the lid. He wetting his scorched fingers as he surveyed the damage. Keirn leaned forward, pulling the nape of his cloak out of the way as he inspected the contents.

“Don’t worry, I prefer meat anyway. And it’s not like we could have bundled that up to go.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Why not!”

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying?!”

Keirn waved his hand.

“Those are just lingering doubts. Everyone has them. Come, it’ll be exciting!”

“I can’t leave the house unattended.”

“Sure you can. Just inform my mother. She’ll keep an eye on it. It’s not like she has anything better to do.”

Jeremiah shook his head at his friend’s blatant disregard for anyone’s feelings.

“There’s nothing for me out there. Everything I want is here, in this village. I still don’t see why you need anyone to go with you. Or why you left the Academy in the first place.”

“The student life isn’t for me,” Keirn dismissed. He leaned forward. “Look, Jere, I need you. I need you to do this for me.”

“Why?”

“Well… because… because…” Keirn looked about the small room for some answer. But there was nothing in the humble dwelling to assist him. A simple hearth filled the space between the larder and the large table. A small cleaning basin was set to the side and was surrounded by various drying herbs cultivated from the tiny garden in the back. Across from them lay Jeremiah’s apothecary supplies – the tools and containers he’d been stocking up with his pay from the rare peddler that stopped in the village. Finally, a large straw bed lay before the stairs that descended into the small cellar where most of the food and wine was stored.

“Haven’t you always wanted more. More than this?”

Jeremiah lifted a careful amount of squash to his lips, testing to see if any of it was salvageable.

“No.”

“Not even once? Never have you woken from your sleep and turned over to see the separator between you and your mother’s bed thinking that there was more to life than this useless little village and its useless little routines? What life really remains for you here: one of endlessly toiling at a business that will never be yours, waiting for some lovely maiden to walk by to come and warm your bed in the hopes that perhaps in her arms you’ll find some solace that lets you sleep?”

“Why do you even care!” Jeremiah shouted, tossing the ladle angrily towards the water basin. He thundered to his feet, stomping back to the hearth and upending the contents of the pot into the fire.

“Because… unlike this unsympathetic village… I need you.”

Jeremiah turned towards the other man.

“You having a laugh?”

“No, I mean it.” Keirn’s voice grew soft – almost vulnerable. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“Why not?”

“At the Academy, we were taught to recognize the limits of ourselves. I know I can be a little… brisk and that sometimes my actions may need a more moderating hand. I’m no valiant knight, Jeremiah. But you, however – you are.”

He looked up at his friend, the flames reflecting brightly in his eyes.

“You care and that is a powerful thing. People see that in you and that can be a great strength. With a little refinement and a little direction you can be the very thing people look up to. The person people turn to when in need. A kind face whose honour holds him to a higher calling than the petty schemes of the rest of us rabble.”

Something stirred within him at those words.

“You really think so?”

Keirn nodded.

“Of all the village it was you who spoke to me in the glade. All the other children were content with calling me names or throwing rocks at my head. Adults turned a blind eye or sneered when I passed. But not you – you sought me out even after I mocked you and turned you away. Day after day you came, sitting on that rock despite what I did. Even when I sought further refuge, you came and you waited.”

Jeremiah felt his face flush at the memory.

“How did you know?”

“Because I didn’t leave. I stayed in the trees. I… wanted to know if you’d still come even if I had left.”

Keirn stood, crossing the room and resting a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder.

“I need you Jere, because you’re the only friend I have in this rotted village or anywhere else. Come with me and leave this empty place behind.”

That night, Jeremiah went into the basement. Behind barrels of stored cheeses and pickled vegetables was one particular chest. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, abandoned in the darkest spot. Abandoned but not forgotten. Jeremiah fiddled with the rusty latch, finally opening the lid with a terrific groan.

Inside lay an old sword and a suit of worn armour. Jeremiah stared at those treasures of a man he’d never remembered. A man his mother refused to speak of and whose last belongings his siblings shun. Jeremiah took that suit and sword back upstairs and spent the rest of the evening checking the straps and latches and polishing the metal.

The next morning he greeted his friend, shifting uncomfortably beneath the unfamiliar weight of the strange metal suit and shouldering a bag filled with what little belongings he couldn’t leave behind.

But even from the start, Keirn hadn’t been truthful. They met a strange bard shortly after: a resident of one of the further villages. Shortly after that, a woman with familiar brown hair and even more familiar features came running after them down the dirt trails.

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 5 >

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It’s a Trap! – Part 3

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I had such glorious plans for articles today. Instead, I spent most of the holiday playing Dota. Now I’m super behind on my writing.

So here’s part 3 of the D&D story!

—————Break —————

Amber gave the rod a gentle shake. In the dim torchlight, it glowed golden and twinkled from the priceless gems inserted in its tip. It was almost three feet in length and slender in girth. But it looked undeniably valuable – a relic from a bygone era and almost forgotten by all save the most devious.

“What shall it be then? Should I just let this slip and fall into the empty void much like our relationship?”

“I can’t believe you’ve had that all this time,” Jeremiah said. “We’ve been risking our lives searching this forsaken place and you’ve just been quietly carrying it in your pack. How typical.”

“Please, you’re nothing more than common grave robbers,” Amber scoffed. “This place is sacred to one of the blessed Vanir. I’ve been sent on a holy intervention to preserve its purity.”

“You’re one to talk about divine sanctity!”

Amber shook her head.

“I knew it was a mistake coming. I should have left you all to be buried here with your misplaced greed and heresy. I thought maybe we could rekindle that which was lost. But it’s clear to me what you are and what you’ve always been – selfish, self-loathing denouncer of the gods.”

“Gods damn clerics. Will someone just shoot her already?!” Keirn cried.

Jeremiah felt a pang strike his heart. This is not what he had envisioned. This is not how he saw his life unfolding. He was meant for simpler things: a small farmstead and apothecary in town, a roasting pheasant over a fire spit and a loving wife to return home to in the evening. Even with her face contorted in anger and spite, he couldn’t help but see that first beauty that had made his mind blank and heart stop.

With great reluctance, he drew his longsword and pointed it towards the woman.

“Drop it or I’ll drop you.”

Amber laughed. It was a shrill sound devoid of any mirth.

“And now the coward finds his spine? Spare me the dramatics, Jeremiah, you were never good at them.”

“I’m not the same man you left.”

Curiosity coloured her features as she re-appraised the armoured man. For but a moment, Jeremiah considered whether he was capable of running her through. It shouldn’t be difficult. She had only the barest of leather protection padding her simple travelling clothes. And it wasn’t like she would be trained in the use of her walking stick to defend herself. No, she was the daughter of a priest with little knowledge than some outdated religiosity and the most effective methods for gutting a man’s heart.

She took a step back, her boots pressing slowly against the tile behind her.

“Then go ahead, love, show me how much you’ve changed. Run me through on your blade. Let my blood stain your hands and this temple. Leave my body as some forgotten sacrifice to this nameless deity!”

She leaped from tile to tile, picking her safe path across the board. Jeremiah just watched her go, watched the bob of her fiery hair as it trailed behind the priceless artefact they were tasked with salvaging. Only three columns from the end, she turned back to smile wickedly at his frozen advance.

“You see, you may put on armour and play a warrior but you’re still that lost silly boy from the glade. A sword doesn’t make you a soldier. A codpiece doesn’t make you a man.”

She turned towards the exit, pumped her arms, and leaped the last few rows. She fell short of her target, landing heavily against a pair of runes that crumbled immediately beneath her weight. She scrambled for the ledge, the rod slipping from her hands and rolling across the floor with a clear ringing tingle. She pulled herself up the ledge, brushed dirt off her clothes and retrieved the rod.

She turned back to the company, giving them a soft wave as she moved towards the exit.

“Do pass on my regards to Alfather. However long that may take for you to run out of food. Or for our friend to come through the door.”

The pounding on the lowered door reminded them of the company that awaited them in the dark. The company that had only begun stalking them when they ran into the fiery priestess. Amber bent to crawl through the gap on the other side, but as she extended her arm to scramble through Keirn gave a great shout and released the stone in his grasp.

The door smashed to the floor, a great clatter indicating the hidden lock slid into place. The pulleys and chords overhead shifted and groaned as the change in position was transferred across the room. Amber cried, looking up at the network of balances before trying to squeeze through as quickly as she could. After a few seconds of realizing she wouldn’t make it in time, she pulled herself quickly back as the exit slammed before her face.

“What did you do that for!” Aliessa cried. “Now we’ll be trapped!”

Keirn glared at the other woman, his face flushed a deep red as he gripped his knees panting for breath.

“If we’re… going to die… then she’s going with us.”

Amber drew to her feet across the room.

“Figs for cods! Have you any idea what you’ve done, you muck sucker?!”

Kait raised her brows.

“Quite the mouth on the priest’s daughter,” she muttered. “Honestly, Jere, I have no idea what you saw in her.”

Jeremiah sheathed his sword.

“It matters not. What’s done is done.”

He watched Amber slap the rob against her palm to remind them she still held the artefact. But Jeremiah knew it was an empty display of rebellion. There was nothing to be done about it for the moment.

Derrek gave a spurt and spasm on the floor. Aliessa stirred, holding his golden head gentle as he slowly lifted himself to his elbows with a cough. He looked curiously around the room before turning to Keirn.

“The door’s closed.”

“We had some… complications while you were out.”

Derrek struggled to his feet, Aliessa helping as best she could. He leaned heavily upon her as he looked over the tiled board from this new perspective. His eyes settled on Amber and he gave a crooked smile.

“Oh good, you’re still here. Keirn would have been so mad if you’d left with the rod.”

“You know she had it?!” Aliessa exclaimed.

“Of course. It’s the only reason she came here.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I thought the rest of you knew.”

Derrek blinked at them. Jeremiah sighed, shifting his feet beneath a clattering of metal rings.

“Can we just get me across this damn thing?”

“No point now with the doors closed,” Derrek said, pointing to the pulleys above them. “The counterweights are situated in small alcoves in the adjoining rooms. You can see the holes where the chords diverge there and there. Without someone to displace the weight on the other side there isn’t anyway to open them.”

“Can’t we just lift them?” Keirn asked.

Derrek shook his head.

“They’re weighted down to prevent precisely that. You’ll notice there are no handles or locks on these doors. Rudimentary precautions probably installed to safeguard against temple thieves.”

“So… us,” Kait said.

“More of the temple-temple kind. What with the war between the two divines, some clergy turned to their own number to steal into rival temples and snatch their holy relics. Helped shift the balance usually in favour of the Aenis since the Vanis were so unlikely to take such actions. Or so they say.”

“Whole bunch of nonsense,” Jeremiah grumbled. “And now we’re all going to starve to death because of some foolish belief in sky wizards?”

“At the very least it seems pragmatic,” Kait said. “I mean, it stopped us from stealing.”

“Which brings us back to the original problem. Any idea how we can get out of this, Derrek?”

The bard looked at the sorcerer while he considered his words.

“I suppose we could wait for whatever is still prowling these corridors to smash down the door.”

The pounding had subsided for the moment, but Jeremiah wasn’t a fan of facing some fantastic beast with the strength to tear through the thick stone containing them inside. Especially given the limited terrain they were offered with the tiled floor taking up much of the room.

Not to mention the large holes now spread across its surface because of their attempt to cross.

“Honey, you can’t think of anything else?” Aliessa asked.

“Well, there is one other option we haven’t considered.”

“What’s that?”

“We jump down the hole.”

Keirn laughed. Then abruptly stopped.

“You’re serious?”

“It has to go somewhere.”

“But what if it’s a deadly pit filled with sharp spikes!” Kait cried.

“I guess we can wait then,” Jeremiah said. “Who shall start splitting the rations.”

Keirn sighed.

“Fine but we throw her down first.”

Keirn pointed across the room at Amber.

“No! I won’t do it!” Amber screamed

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

Amber held the rod out over the hole.

“I’ll drop it!”

“Then you can pick it up again when you land,” Keirn said. He took the tiles slowly, trying desperately to remember which ones were safe from the earlier crossings. As he got near Jeremiah, the other man couldn’t help but speak.

“I don’t think this is a really good idea,” he whispered.

“Are you volunteering?”

“What if she dies?”

“Then we know it’s not a valid route. Gods, you two were just shouting how much you hate each other a moment ago.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean that I wanted to see her dead!”

“Can we possibly put this to vote?” Aliessa called.

“Oh, good idea. All for?” Derrek asked, immediately shooting up his hand. The woman at his side gave him a horrifying look.

“I, personally, am not comfortable with this,” Kait said from her tile.

“Do you have a better course?”

“No, I just wanted to say my part.”

“What is this?!” Amber cried as the last objections were raised. Keirn continued his approach and she stumbled back. “You can’t be serious about this!”

“Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse.”

“I knew you were trouble!” Amber shouted. “The moment that whore of your mother came to the village, we knew you were no good. My father was right, only rot grows from spoilt earth! The whole lot of you should have been strung up in the town centre for the crows and maggots!”

“You know what, I’d like to change my vote,” Kait said.

Keirn paused before the last three rows, readying his jump. Amber raised her staff, pointing it aggressively towards the sorcerer. Undaunted, he jumped the distance, landing upon the other side. Amber gave a great shout as she charged forward. Keirn merely crooked his lips before side stepping her clumsy lunge, grabbing her stick and knocking her to the ground.

She coughed up some of the ancient dust, rolling on her back and glaring up at him.

“Know that the gods will thrice curse you for your transgressions!”

“Says the girl who snatched the holy relic,” Keirn said. “Speaking of which, want to hand it over before you’re sent in. I’d hate for it to break and the entire point of this stupid adventure ruined.”

“Never!” she spat.

Keirn shrugged and merely whacked her with her stick. She cried out but refused his demands. So he struck her again and again. This continued for a bit, with Keirn pausing after every strike to ask for the relic but Amber refused to acquiesce. After enough beating, however, she eventually cried out.

“Fine, fine! I can’t believe you all just stood there,” she hissed, struggling to her hands and knees. “In my mind, you’re all culpable for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, save your sacred indignation for a captive parish. The rod please.”

Keirn held out his hand. Amber’s face contorted into a horrible mask of fury and malice. Keirn just waited and she finally slapped the rod into his outstretched palm.

“I hope you’re happy.”

“Not yet,” he said as he began prodding her with the butt of the staff towards the pit.

“Know that if I die, my god will strike you down for your impertinence.”

“Amber, dear, you’ve been wagging that threat for as long as I can remember. If I was going to be punished, it would have been a long time ago. Not quit stalling and jump into this dark and potentially lethal pit.”

She stood at the edge of the broken tiles, looking into the gloom. Her hands fidgeted, clearly anxious about the possibly inglorious end that faced her. She looked to each gathered face, quietly pleading for someone to take her side or stand in defence. Aliessa merely turned to the ground. Derrek seemed honestly curious about the outcome of their little test. Kait glowered back at the other woman.

Thus, it was with a heavy sigh that Jeremiah finally stepped forward.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun. But this can’t continue.”

Keirn rolled his eyes.

“You can spare your conscience, she was going to leave us all for dead.”

Jeremiah frowned.

“That’s not how morality works. It doesn’t bend to whatever is convenient to you. It’s wrong to force her down the pit and I won’t let you.”

“So what then? Should we send you instead.”

“Yes.”

Keirn laughed then stopped abruptly.

“Oh, you’re serious. Was there some sort of crazy draught that I missed this morning?”

“Of course I am serious! You’re not forcing her down there.”

“Aren’t things over between you two?” Derrek called from across the room. “Might as well just dump her!”

Aliessa slapped his arm.

“There will be no dumping!” Jeremiah cried. “If we’re so determined to have someone go down, than I will be the one.”

Silence fell between everyone gathered as Jeremiah looked to each challenging them to contradict him. Keirn merely shrugged.

“Fine but I really think this would have been best for you – you know, emotionally and what not.”

He removed the staff from the small of Amber’s back and the girl waved her arm angrily at the retreating stick. She brushed her clothes and stepped back from the pit making sure to fire one last withering look at Keirn.

Jeremiah made his way slowly to the other side, pausing before the jump over the last three rows. Amber sheepishly stood across from him, looking down at her hands in what he could only assume was a mix of awkwardness and shame.

“Look… you really didn’t have to step in on my behalf. I do appre-”

“Stow it,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve had your maiden act before. This isn’t for you.”

Amber sneered and shook her head.

“Of course it isn’t!”

She stomped off to a corner to hunker down and sulk. Keirn took her place, holding the staff out for Jeremiah. Jeremiah stretched, taking a hold of the opposite end. He then jumped forward, clutching the staff tightly as the other man pulled him forward. His feet struck the tiles, each crumbling beneath him, but the momentum generated by the two brought him tumbling to the other side.

“Thanks.”

“I still think we should toss her.”

“I’ll pretend that’s out of some misplaced concern for my well-being.”

“Also, she’s a thrice cursed brat.”

Jeremiah stood to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands and carefully approaching the edge. Not many of the tiles were broken on this side and it seemed the pit just yawned down into endless nothingness. A soft cloud of dust rose from Jeremiah’s hurried crossing to the other side. He poked at one of the nearby tiles, listening as the pieces tinkled as they fell through the gloom. He counted the seconds, straining his ears for the telltale sound of them striking something underneath.

“Second thoughts?”

“All the time.”

He poked at a few more tiles, widening the hole for him to fall down.

“Look, if we’re going to go through with this foolishness, we can at least not be stupid about it. Take off your armour.”

“What are you on about?”

“Trying to not get you killed,” Keirn said turning to his sister. “Kait! Toss me your rope!”

She sighed as she stood and began the acrobatic technique of searching her numerous bags without falling from her square. While she was busy with that, Keirn lent a hand in unbuckling the straps keeping plates of Jeremiah’s armour on.

“This is looking in pretty rough shape.”

“We haven’t really had the chance to fix it. Or buy a new one.”

Keirn held up one piece with a clear cut run right through it.

“Does this even protect you anymore.”

“It’s not always about protection,” Jeremiah replied, snatching it from his hands and placing it gently on the ground next to its kin. He looked at the makeshift suit spread before him. “Sometimes, it’s just about the image that you portray.”

“Oh really?” Keirn asked motioning for Jeremiah to lift his arms as he helped slide the thick chain shirt off. “And what image are you looking for? Hedge knight?”

Jeremiah didn’t respond.

“Truly? But you… you are…”

“Am what?!” Jeremiah growled.

Keirn backed off.

“You were just so reluctant to leave, I guess. I don’t know. I always assumed you were resentful that I dragged you from your home. That I convinced you to leave everything you enjoyed for this dung heap of a life wandering aimlessly from town to town.”

Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest. He tried to force out the denial of his friend’s words but nothing seemed to come. Instead, he just unstrapped his scabbard and placed his sword at the foot of his equipment.

“Here it is!” Kait called, tossing the snaking rope towards the men.

“Well, let’s get you ready then,” Keirn said, motioning for Jeremiah to lift his arms as he tossed the rope about his chest.

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 4 >

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It’s a Trap! – Part 2

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< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 1

I saw G.I. Joe Retaliation and I’m just too confused to post anything. So here’s some D&D.

—————Break —————

The village of Galt was peaceful. Perhaps that is what drew so many people to it. There was nothing remarkable in its countryside. No fabulous ruins of an ancient civilization with legends of promising forgotten treasure lured adventures to the hills. No strange arcane towers jutted from the wilderness begging people to wonder what occurred within the sequestered walls. No castle of a feudal lord broke the horizon reminding the peasants of the divine protection and the weekly tribute demanded of them from some absentee ruler.

For the villagers of Galt, there was nothing but placid farmland and serene wilderness branching out in all directions. Nestled among the distant woods and sloping vales lay other quiet settlements. Possibly as content as Galt but never as pleased.

The villagers always maintained some extraordinary tranquillity welled up from the land like some miraculous brook they all savoured. But they needed no ghostly lights or monuments to highlight it. They had the very villagers themselves to attest to this strange power.

For whoever set foot in the small village found it almost impossible to leave. Travellers were rare but rarer still were those few that could resist the pleasant charms and carefree spirit of the village. And no suspicion or doubt clouded the minds of the residents. They welcomed each wanderer as if they were some lost kin. And that hospitality brought more to roost than not.

Jeremiah knew his family came from elsewhere. That much was certain with his family’s darker complexion and thicker frames compared to these pale, slight people. But Jeremiah could count the number of times his strangeness was remarked upon and usually such taunts were hastily reprimanded by the offending youth’s parents.

Jeremiah remembered little of where he did come from. The youngest of his kin, his recollections of that early time were little more than some shaky visions of a covered cart and the whiff of some peculiar roasted meat. His mother never spoke of that place and his eldest brother always hushed any questions of their origins.

He was told, time and again, he was a member of Galt. And for the Pitmans that was enough. Jeremiah had far fonder memories of being educated in the local town hall than whatever place actually gave birth to him. He could recall sermons in the tiny parish and of rolling down green meadows surrounded by colourful flowers. He loved the two hounds his mother let him keep, the poor pups found one sunny afternoon lost in the wilderness.

Jeremiah took an interest in the power of plants and herbal remedies. And while the situation that spurred his study of salves and concoctions were tinged with bitter emotions they landed him a respectable apprenticeship with the local apothecary. And there was this lovely girl from the parish who made him smile and feel all funny in his stomach. They laughed and played beneath the maypole and frolicked in the quiet groves.

But that all ended when he arrived.

There was nothing auspicious about his entrance. Much like others before, he had come quietly in the night. Found sleeping in his mother’s arms as she appeared humble before a homestead pleading for a safe place to sleep. Perhaps the only peculiar note was the scar she bore down her neck, a long and old wound that hinted at a past to be fled.

But who in Galt didn’t have some ancient spectre they wished to be forgotten. So the mother was welcomed and found the perfect place to raise her two children that was both understanding and secure. Her eldest was a girl with long brown hair and inquisitive eyes. She seemed to take to the village and its ways quite willingly, laughing and playing with the other children.

But her brother was the odd one. A dark shadow seemed cast over his demeanour. He was quiet and reclusive and sneered or turned away those that approached him. Only his sister seemed to pierce that shield he’d raised about him. He seemed to loathe the village and everything within. He was the single black spot on a sunny day. He was the dark cloud that hovered in the horizon as a portent of an encroaching storm. He was trouble and Jeremiah would often wonder what cruel twist of fate bound his and that boy’s destinies together.

For the children Kait and Keirn were the village’s small trouble that they wished not to discuss. Their pivotal years were filled with whispers and gossip. Never before did Jeremiah hear of questions or concern over a strange arrival. Where did this family come from and why did they come here, people whispered. None would dare finish their thought or voice that one idea that every one shared.

What would it take to get rid of them?

For even if the children were peculiar, it was the mother that kept the villagers at bay. Jeremiah had little interactions with the elder Faden but she was a formidable woman. It would have been nothing for her to take control of the village, assert her will and have all people bow before her directions. But while she unnerved and cowed even the boldest man, she kept to herself. Only when her children seemed threatened did some dark fury bubble just beneath her eyes.

And none dare raise a weapon against her. For one doesn’t receive those scars by toiling in noble’s fields.

It was at Jeremiah’s mother’s insistence that the boy approached the lad. She seemed convinced that all the other boy needed was a friend and with that small gesture the entire clan would ease gently into the simple village life. Their first interactions were brief but it was his mother’s vow that dark night that convinced him to get close to the youth.

His persistence was rewarded. But only just. While the young Keirn did finally allow the other boy into his life, Jeremiah always knew he was kept at arms length. He didn’t recall his own past, but he wondered if the other boy did. And if it were those memories that forced him to shut all others out.

But time passed and the boys grew older. Then, out of the blue, Keirn announced he was leaving for the strange Academy. Few knew what that meant, they were just happy to see one of the Faden clan leave. Jeremiah felt sad and even slightly betrayed by this sudden proclamation. But he was one of the few to actually see the youth off. He could still remember his sister quietly weeping as her brother shouldered his pack and headed down that trail with nary a look back. Everyone, including his sister, felt that this was the end of him. He’d gone and would never return.

And for that year and a half, the village seemed much like Jeremiah remembered. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. Kait took the post at the town hall, schooling the younger children in their letters and numbers. Jeremiah spent much of his time with that red haired beauty.

But then he unexpectedly returned and Jeremiah’s life seemed like it would never be the same

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 3 >

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