A Treatise On Magick Part 2

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

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

Wauters-Emile-Charles-Scholar_at_the_Table

Scholar at the Table by Wauters Emile Charles

A Treatise on Magick

by Scholar Henrik Wulfgang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Anatomist’s Apprentice – Book Review

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It started when I was surfing the ebook section at my local library. The idea was to find new reading material, for it has been a while since I read something all the way through. My interest had returned from fairy tales to steampunk. What I wanted was something light, fun and fast paced. Amidst the stream of vampire flooded section I found one title and skimmed very briefly the summary.

I read the title as: The Automatonist’s Apprentice (or something of that nature). Certain I was getting a steampunk mystery filled with automatons and dusty, coal-streaked London I flagged the title and waited for it to become available. It was probably this wait that distorted my memory of the book. For what I got instead was a novel dealing with dissected dead bodies and a long-winded murder mystery. I was utterly disappointed with the first chapter. It was a bucket of cold water on my eager anticipation.

However, I forged ahead with the Anatomist’s Apprentice by Tessa Harris. After all I didn’t have anything else to read and I had spent a good three minutes downloading this book. To my surprise, I started to get into the style of the writing and the intrigue of the plot.

I suppose I should have known from the cover which certainly lacks the expected mechanicals.

The beginning revolves around the sudden gruesome death of a young lord, observed by his doting sister. Rumours quickly spread through the county that it may not have been naturally caused. Even the sister begins to worry over the cause of death. Eventually, an inquest is ordered. In the meantime we are introduced to a young, brilliant anatomists who has taken over for a blind professor in London. We meet him as he cuts carefully into the recently deceased flesh of a former acquaintance. The two threads of story merge when the dead lord’s sister requests the secret help of the renowned anatomist.

The piece is written in third person, though each section usually focusses on one individual at a time. While I like this style, the author kept adding new and new character voices as she wove a convoluted tale of intrigue. I was happily following along, wondering if the Harris was the type of author to add a massive twist at the end of the story or not when suddenly an unexpected romance was thrust unwelcoming upon the reader.

I think it was about halfway through the book when the two ‘primary’ characters where suddenly thrust together. I suppose it was supposed to have been a slow building of feelings, but it felt shockingly awkward in a plot focussed on a potential murder. So disconnected was their midnight rendezvous that I put the book down. I suppose her writing was not good enough to keep me engaged. The mystery that was being subtly built with layer upon layer of deception and complexity no longer held my attention.

After a period of reading nothing else, I did return to the story. I skimmed my way through two more chapters before skipping to the end. The final chapter was significantly better than I expected. It did not explain everything that happened in the last 40% of the book, but it suggested at even more complex a story than I previously imagined. In fact, while I spoiled the mystery I am actually now more intrigued by the plot than before. I just might return to this book at some future date.

In the mean time, I think I will return to my own bookshelf and the well-known friends that rest within. I know they will not disappoint me with discontinuous moments or awkward transitions. I will be safe between the familiar covers as I relive their tales.

A Treatise on Magick – Thyre Part 1

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Heroic Landscape with Rainbow by Joseph Anton Koch (1815)

So, I wrote a fantasy novel.

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

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

So I had to create a system.

But where do you begin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post Tournament Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prayer to the Toilet Demons

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When I was at University, three other girls and I rented a house for our second – fourth years. It was a small, run down place with its own special charm. One of the charming features was the lack of inssulation and the increadibly cold temperature of the building. We once put an ice cube on the baseboard – it took more than a day to melt. Another feature of the house was the toilet in the only bathroom. Most notably was its inability to function all the time. The following prayer hung above that tempermental fixture for three years.

The best kind of toilet is one that flushes consistantly.

Prayer to the Toilet Demons

To the Demons in my toilet, I really have to go

To the Demons in ny toilet, please let the water flow

To the Demons in my toilet, I am begging you to say

That you’ll be so kind as to let the toilet flush today

I am ever more grateful for the proper functioning of a good toilet. I think this is one of my favourite inventions of all times.

Certainly it is one of the things I would miss most if I was forced back in time. Yes, I have thought quite a bit about toilets over the years. They are great – when they work.

Tournament of Heroes Part 2

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dota 2 international compedium stretch goals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Appeal of Shoes

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I was glancing at the TV the other day and there was a segment on shoes. The hostess of the shoe was giddy about attending some sort of she exhibition. I watched some 10 seconds, where the camera panned across long tables showcasing the works of some famous designer. What struck me most was the simple fact they were all the same.

An internet image of shoes – notice how they are all The Same.

What we had were tables of high-heeled shoes in different colours and strap designs. Some had flowers or glass jewels pasted on. The underlying architecture of the shoe: the thickness of the sole and height and shape of the heel, even the roundness of the toe were all identical. It was the same shoe!

So then I started thinking of different shoe styles. There are the chunky, utility shoes of basic design. These are work shoes or running shoes or Doc Martins. There are your ballet flats; your stilettos; something called a pump (still not entirely certain on this one) and the wedge. There are pointy toed shoes (of which I am afraid to wear because I don’t want my toes crushed and bunions to develop) and boots (which are often variations of the above). I suppose we could branch out into sandals (flip-flops, strapped, and croc style). But while this list includes several legitimately different styles of footwear, most of the modern work seems to be taking one style and changing the colour or strap thickness and then marvelling at the work.

I don’t get it.

I do not have a fascination with shoes strangely typical amongst women. Typically, I rotate between two different pairs of shoes in any season: sneakers & sandals in the summer, black & brown shoes in the fall/spring, and boots & slippers in the winter. I also keep a pair of nicer, dress shoes for wearing with skirts – these are not worn all that often.

This is not the type of shoe I wear. I like the flat, sturdy kind as I am less likely to fall over.

This is not to suggest I don’t appreciate a good pair of shoes. In fact I would love to own a truly wonderful pair of shoes. But my requirements have less to do with aesthetic and more to do with function. My feet are blister prone and it doesn’t seem to matter what short of footwear I am use (with the slipper exception), I will eventually get blisters from my shoes. My hope is once my feet have blistered, they will callous over and I won’t have to worry about more blisters. This doesn’t actually happen, at least not as long as I continue to go for long walks. My current pair of sneakers, which I have had for 1.5 years have been bothering my right heel for the past month. Why did they suddenly start irritating my feet? I don’t know. But it is massively frustrating and probably adds to my general disregard for shoes.

Practical shoes are good. Sparkly shoes are amusing for many people. Expensive shoes you only plan to wear once or twice are a ridiculous waste of money. And really, what is the point of owning a closet full of shoes when you typically only wear a few pairs?

Nope, still don’t understand the fascination with footwear – particularly the tipsy tall things with tiny straps and narrow heels.

A Tournament of Heroes Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Coming of the Wurm

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

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

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

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

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

The Coming of the Wurm

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t even up for debate!”

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

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

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

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

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

But Rooiakker held his naysayers beneath a harsh glare.

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

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

“Is this true?”

“Did you know of this?”

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

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

“I hear the Elfhorz are accepting refugees!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ewoud Rooiakker cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you saying?!” Ewoud cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Review – Jessica Day George

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Recently I read a good book. It was a bit strange, as I was half certain I had already read this particular book, but as it was a fairy tale I wasn’t entirely certain. After all, everyone knows how the fairy tale is going to end and who the main characters are. This was further complicated by the fact that I know I have read more than one telling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses. In the end, it doesn’t matter if I had read Princess of the Midnight Ball before or not. I read it recently and I enjoyed.

Book Cover

In fact, I enjoyed it so much I checked out the other titles by the author Jessica Day George. It my utter delight she had written two other Princess books: Princess of Glass and Princess of the Silver Woods. Both books were retellings of fairy tales – Cinderella and Red Riding Hood respectively. I enjoyed both.

The first book focusses on the classic story of twelve sisters forced to dance every night until their shoes are worn out. The helpful strange, cloaked with invisibility is the only one able to follow secretly after the princesses, discover what they are doing and help free them. As I said, the tale is classic. The author told it in a world like and unlike ours, set in some fantasy medieval period. It was filled with tiny kingdoms and a bit of magic. If there was any complaint to make I would say that the story lacked depth. It felt simplistic and flitted between several characters without the depth I would have preferred. In this manner the characters moved across the pages, playing their respective roles. Yet, I never felt drawn into their personal conflicts. I suspect this is in part due to the fairy nature of the story and the emphasis being placed more on the world than the inhabitants.

I preferred the second of the books which was surprisingly a sequel. The main character was one of the twelve dancing princesses visiting a different character. I liked the different and not entirely flattering portrayal of Cinderella. I was also surprised by how much I liked the Princess as she reacted to the trauma (forced dancing) of her childhood. Here there was more emphasis on characters than setting and I enjoyed the story much more for it. I also appreciated the link to the first book.

The third book in the series also followed one of the original twelve dancing princesses – the youngest. It was a different twist on Red Riding Hood which was good, but not great. I feel that the author missed a fantastic opportunity to really play with the Red Riding Hood characters. I also wasn’t whelmed to the continuation of the first book’s plot. I understand why we came full circle to the main problem of the first story, I just wasn’t enamoured with it. I would have preferred more of a character piece, which I think is the strength of the author.

Overall, these are good, fun, fairy tales. A great young adult read. As such I was then tempted to read move of Jessica Day George’s books. Her Dragon Trilogy was great original fun. I liked the dragons and who they fit into the world. I liked the main female and her love of sewing (another thing I liked about the Princess books was the incorporation of knitting – being a knitter myself).

Another Book Cover

By far the best book in the series was the first: the Dragon Slippers. This is where we were introduced to the main character, to the world and importantly to the dragons. The dragon hoards are the very best part of the series. The following two books, Dragon Flight and Dragon Spear where good but not as great. The first book held mystery and adventure. So many things happened. When I reflect back on the story, things that didn’t make sense at the time or seemed like the author pushing the story ahead were actually explained. These events didn’t just happen because. They followed in world logic and plot making a cohesive and tight narrative. The second two books lacked the complexity of the plot.

If I had to choose I would place preference for the Princess books over the Dragon books. Why? The Princess books are written for a slightly older audience, the stories feel slightly more complex as do the characters. Also, I have a bias towards retellings of fairy tales – my new obsession.

In summary, Jessica Day George is a good author of children/young adult fantasy adventures. Her writing is fun and imaginative and her characters have some scope. Her work is set in comfortable fantasyland, that may not be revolutionary it is extremely appropriate for these stories. I would recommend her books.