Cry of the Glasya Part 5

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 4

There is a confession I should make. I don’t understand feudal peerage. Every time I start writing one of these things I’m constantly spending time on Wikipedia and the web in general checking and cross-referencing the damn caste system established so long ago. I keep meaning to do a deeper study of it so I don’t have wonder whether a Duke is higher or lower than a Viscount and what the hell a Baronet is.

Of course, I still haven’t gotten around to it so I mostly do the standard trope of tossing some fancy titles out there to make it sound extravagant. The devil, as they say, is in the details. And typically the details are worked out in the editing process that these shorts generally miss.

So to all those big Medieval history buffs out there, I apologize. For the rest of us, who cares if an Earl is greater than a Duke. None of us would ever have any of these silly titles anyway. On to the next part!

I don't even know what this is trying to be. Art for the Cry of the Glasya story, I suppose.

I don’t even know what this is trying to be. Art for the Cry of the Glasya story, I suppose.

The sun shone brightly above as Keirn clanked up the steps. He clutched the haft of the halberd with unsure hands, frowning as the ridges of his gauntlets pressed uncomfortably into his skin. He was certain he was going to have ring imprints all over him for the rest of his life.

He scanned the length of the ramparts, pausing briefly to marvel at the majesty of the fluttering banners held in their posts. Like a sea of crisp standards, the exterior of the keep had been lavished with just as much attention as the inside. Whatever special occasion the Duke was celebrating, he was sparing no expense.

Keirn clanked along, keeping a bored eye out on the town as he passed. He didn’t know what he was expected to watch for. It wasn’t like an army was going to march up to the gates. The threat was far more subtle and wholly impossible to detect from this location. Perhaps after he made a quick round he could sneak back to the throne room. Maybe take up perch in the galleries where it would be harder for a random passer-by to find him.

He paused, feeling the heat of the sun and weight of the armour pressing down. He leaned against the stone rampart, enjoying the moment as he caught his breath.

All too late he heard the more sure footsteps of another. As he fumbled quickly for his halberd, his armoured fingers knocked the weapon to the ground with a clatter.

An arm bent and retrieved his weapon, holding it out to him.

“You must be new here.”

“What gave it away?” Keirn asked, taking the halberd back. Quickly, he added, “was hired just today actually.”

“Not much surprise,” the guard said, joining Keirn against the wall. “The Duke’s been throwing money at mercenaries and the like for the last fortnight. Seems he’s willing to give pay to anyone that can hold a weapon… or wear a suit.”

“And even to those who can’t do either.”

Keirn caught a forgiving smile.

“Have you been here long?”

“Most my life,” the guard responded. He stretched a long arm over the rampart. “That there is my humble home. Had aspirations of becoming a squire and perhaps one day a night. But… well… funny thing about aspirations.”

“So the Duke hasn’t always been this paranoid?”

“Ha, the man hasn’t always run this keep. I can say things were far better before he took up the throne.”

“He hasn’t always ruled?”

“Three years to the day. And with each passing night he seems to grow more and more anxious. At first we didn’t think much of it. New lord would surely be worried over his security especially given the circumstances of his arrival.”

Keirn looked at the man curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Not from around here, eh?”

“To be honest, my friends and I were just passing through. We didn’t think much of the place but jumped at the opportunity for coin. Was a little surprised to find such a keep in a place like…” Keirn stopped himself before he said anything truly stupid about the other man’s home.

But the guard only laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse. Many travellers like to comment how Etreria has some decrepit fort while backwater Gelph has this resounding keep. What they don’t know is that this used to be the centre for a powerful kingdom.”

“Sounds like there’s a tale in there.”

The guard shrugged.

“Perhaps but I ain’t a bard.”

“Probably for the best. I’ve had my share of them for the day.”

“Aye but have you seen the one the Duke brought in? That man certainly spares no expense.”

Keirn watched the banners for a moment as he puzzled the guard’s words.

“So what happened to the old Duke?”

“Earl,” the guard corrected. He stood, looking up and down the rampart as if he suspected the knight captain to be standing over his shoulder. He then leaned in close to Keirn. “Rightly no one truly knows. Word amongst the quarters was some dodgy visitors came up to the keep one night demanding to see the Earl’s wife. Obviously, the Earl wouldn’t take such a flagrant show of disrespect. Had them locked up for the night to teach them some manners. But when they went to release them in the morning, they had apparently vanished.”

“Did the Earl have a change of heart?”

“You didn’t know the Earl.” The guard shook his head. “He was right jumping that day. I missed the whole event but he had us turn the entire keep over searching for them. Threatened to lock all those involved with handling the guests in the stocks. I think he was convinced they were looking for some improper dealings with his wife and the guards were conspiring with those folk.

“I remember him saying we were to arrested any of them on sight if they showed up in town again. Would have been quite the feat since no one seemed to have any good idea of what they looked like. Kind of strange, how the entire staff and even the Earl couldn’t quite get a good description of their faces.”

“That does sound odd. What happened next.”

“Lots of stuff. Can’t hardly even remember what order it was in either.”

The guard looked at the edge of his halberd, turning the weapon in his hands to slowly reflect to glare of the sun.

“The Earl and Countess had quite a few fights the following nights. Most of us tried to keep our heads down and avoid what we could. I couldn’t even tell you what they even fought over.

“More peculiar were the complaints from the scullery. Had us running all over the damn grounds searching for missing hounds or raided larders. Truthfully, I was thankful for the distraction and excuse from the throne room. But…”

The guard paused once more.

It was clear he was about to say something and thought better of it.

“But what?”

Keirn straightened, regarding the man’s features. He seemed momentarily reminiscent, letting some fleeting recollections pass quietly by. But the guard merely shook his head.

“Nothing. I should complete my rounds.”

“But you haven’t yet explained what happened to the Earl!”

The guard hesitated one last time before letting the spirit of gossip finally win over.

“Well, it’s like this. The Earl got really withdrawn. Like, he refused to see audiences, refused to see the Countess started demanding the servants stay out of his rooms. He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t even leave for his garderobe. The servants would have to collect a bucket deposited outside his door.”

“You think he suspected something of the servants?”

The guard shrugged.

“No one knew what to make of it. By the time the bucket stopped appearing the knight captain decided to investigate. The door to the Earl’s chambers were barred from the inside and after hollering for some time at it, he ordered it bashed down. By the time we broke through, we found nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Just… nothing.”

“The Earl was gone? Perhaps he just left in the middle of the night.”

The guard shook his head.

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t just the Earl that was missing. His entire private chambers had been cleared. No desks. No chests. No bedposts. Nothing.”

“What?”

“Precisely!” The guard accentuated his point with a raised finger. “We poked around. There was the burnt fragments of something in the fire pit. Caulder thought it looked like the remainder of his bed. His windows were opened so we thought perhaps he’d fashioned some makeshift ladder and scrambled out. Instead we found the ruins of some furniture that had obviously been pitched but nothing to suggest he’d escaped that way. And the keep is quite large, I couldn’t imagine the Earl trying to scramble down its side with his… stature.”

“What of the Countess?”

“She hadn’t been allowed inside for some time either. She was quite shaken by the discovery. The knight captain suspected some sort of foul mischief and had a retinue posted about her. I was told that she simply couldn’t deal with the Earl’s sudden disappearance and had a few trunks packed before mounting her carriage and leaving quickly into the night. She was gone before the knight captain was even woken from his sleep.”

“That must have created quite the chaos for the knight captain.”

“That’s just the thing. Two days later the Duke rolls up in some fancy carriage with a proclamation of his right. There was no way the messenger would have arrived by then and yet he was here making the transition seamless. And aside from having his room moved, he made no comment on the Earl.”

“And now he’s fearful of an assassination on the three year anniversary of the Earl’s disappearance.”

“Well,” the guard paused, “when you put it that way it sounds downright sinister. You think there’s actually something going to happen?”

Keirn clasped the guard’s shoulder.

“I’d probably try and find a post that’s not in the audience chamber today.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 6 >

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Failed-Book Review

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I suppose I should start posting spoiler alerts at the start of my book reviews. For this one, an alert hardly seems necessary as I never actually finished any of the three following stories. All have been abandoned for bland tales, poor writing or some combination of the two.

In an attempt to branch out in my reading I went to the internets for a book suggestion. In multiple threads several book titles were continuously flaunted. Having unsuccessfully tried George RR Martin’s unfinished series some time ago, I skipped past that title. I have heard mixed reviews for the lengthy Wheel of Time saga so I ignored that recommendation too. However, one name kept returning to the lists, The Name of the Wind. So I ventured to my local library to delve into the rich fantasy created by Patrick Rothfuss.

Failed-Book Review 1 – The Name of the Wind

Book cover so you know to avoid this poorly written specimen.

Book cover so you know to avoid this poorly written specimen.

Again, I state that this book came highly recommended. I also foolish thought – for a while at least, that this was a stand-alone story. As it turns out it is one in an unfinished trilogy.

It is difficult to know where to begin with a book like this. As my observant brother has already remarked, there are no well-developed characters, no meaningful females and an excessive amount of bottle-polishing in the all black inn. Truthfully, I didn’t even notice the bottle polishing or the authors overwhelming use of black descriptors.

I did, however, notice the incredibly bland nature of the story and the inept dialogue. The scene that sticks out the most for me occurs when the young hero’s teacher goes to speak with the young hero’s parents. Sitting seriously across from the two doting individuals the teacher breaks the startling news that his pupil is actually shockingly bright. Haven’t you ever noticed, he asks the parents, how your son just picks up everything so quickly and so perfectly? With his talents he could even … [drum roll please] … attend university!

Seriously? You have to tell the boy’s parents that he is obscenely gifted and then the best he can do with his oh-so-amazing abilities is attend university? Whoot. He might even me a merchant one day! OMG – this is beyond dumb. Ok, what is really impossibly stupid is that I continued to read this painfully inactive narrative for quite a bit longer. Past the point when his parents are meaninglessly slaughtered so the young hero can experience trauma in his formative years. Of course, the child of some 12 years or so acts in the most un-childlike and ridiculous manner – uhg!

One must particularly enjoy the stories told within the hero’s narrative of his own life’s tale – so glaringly important yet so obviously disconnected with the flow of the story it hurts to read. While the Name of the Wind may lack the glittering vampires and characterless female protagonist in the horrendously terrible Twilight series, it is clearly a Mary-Sue novel (for boys). I cannot understand the appeal. I cannot comprehend how people have not only read the entire 92 chapter book, its equally long sequel and actually await the third and thankfully final installment with anything resembling eagerness.

To all those internet people I have to ask: if you thought this was the height of amazingness, what do you think actually typifies bad writing?

Defeated by The Name of the Wind before I even reached the half-way point, I moved on to something a little different. Nights of Villjamur by Mark Charan Newton was an impulse buy from chapters. I was perusing the shelves looking for something new and exciting and this was in the bargain section – was that the first sign?

Failed-Book Review  2 – Legends of the Red Sun: Nights of Villjamur

Another book cover to avoid.

I still rather like this cover. I like the cold, hard landscape and the promice of epic sword battles it invokes.

Once more I thought I was selecting a stand-alone book. Once more I had picked the first in a series – clearly someone needs to do a better job of reading the book cover.

I will start by noting two things that I found interesting as I started my journey in this new fantasy realm. First, the world was set among an archipelago of islands rather than the typically large continent characteristic of most fantasy stories. Second, it was set in the far north where the threat of another ice age loomed in the not too distant future.

As for the negatives, well it is difficult to know where to begin. We are coarsely introduced to three separate characters in the prologue – each in the midst of uncompleted actions that loosely weave together. Their names, like those of the islands and cities are foreign and difficult to pronounce. So I found it very discordant when we are next introduced to them and two out of three bare different names than the prologue – rather confusing. More voices are introduced and more long and difficult names are bandied about without spending much time lingering on the characters before skipping to the next.

Similarly I struggled to make sense of the cities and their relationships to the each and the world at large. All told, I was not clear whether the city of Villjamur was at the centre of the empire or its edge. Was it the largest city and capital or did it actually belong to some outside force?

The mix of more modern cussing and coarse description interjected in to periods of detailed, historic-feeling description and world building did not sit well. But three things really pushed the slow-moving disjointed tale over the edge for me.

First, the mix of races found in the city: living (apparently) banshees that screamed with the deaths of others; garudas that are half-man and half-vulture (wings, beaks, and talons on a human form); and the rumel which seem to be a human crossed with a horse. Really, why? You have these bizarre combinations and one of the recurring characters worries that everyone else looks down on him because he is albino – well, he doesn’t have a tail or horse hide so I don’t see what the big deal is.

Second, zombies. Yes, they really do introduce dangerous, deadly hordes of clever undead stalking and killing the elite Night Guard (also magically or mechanically altered to be super humans – though I didn’t get far enough to learn which method was employed). This led me to the most obviously evil councilman who is not subtle in the least with his manipulations of the governing body. There was no ambiguity for his actions, not redeeming features. His little seen of bribery was so mustache twirling-evil as to be comical in other media.

Third, there was growing sense of despair that the author was going to directly connect his story with our reality setting it sometime in the future. Granted this was not explicitly stated. But there were worrying signs. It was in the nods to the Vikings with the descriptions of weapons, longboats and a direct mention of Valhalla. It was in the assertion that this was not the first ice age to sweep the lands and destroy earlier civilizations – including those that mentioned the walking dead in their records. It was in the allusions made when discussing magic as the use of ancient artifacts – magic/artifacts that caused large explosions very similar to grenades.

True these characters lacked the same obvious stupidity of those found in Name the Wind. They lacked Name the Wind’s perfect hero capable of doing everything without fault. They also lacked that hook to make them interesting; that snare to make me want to find out how they dealt with the growing problems swelling around them. Of course, because this is the first in the series, there seemed little emphasis on a clear, contained plot and more on introducing some large-picture, overwhelming problems.

One quarter into the book and I gave up. Part of me feels I should return to this tangled mess, after all, I actually paid money for it. On the other hand, I could weed my garden, wash a cat or watch some paint dry.

And so I am brought to review my third failed book. This book was actually the third in a series of undefined length. I had enjoyed book one and slogged through book two before giving up all hope on Black Powder War by Naomi Novik.

Failed-Book Review 3 – Temeraire (Book 3): Black Powder War

I actually perfer the cover of the first book in the series to this one.

I actually perfer the cover of the first book in the series to this one.

The series started interestingly enough with the hatching of a dragon egg on an English navy ship during the Napoleonic war. The unfortunate Captain finds himself transferred from the respectable position of captaining a war vessel to captaining a Dragon. It is a wordy novel that you have to be in the correct mind-frame to read. Most of the action happens in the final quarter, though I did enjoy the growth of the baby Dragon and the development of both main characters that eventually lead to a fight.

While I appreciated the first book, it took time for me to start the second. It was even longer to pull myself through endless pages of sea-voyage as the Dragon and Captain travel from England to China. Again the story is crammed awkwardly into the finally half-dozen chapters. The rest of the book being detailed descriptions of the food eaten by the Dragon (not by the humans), the endless sailing (but never the supposed tensions that exist between ship crew and dragon crew) and the Captain’s lengthy worries that his Dragon would rather stay in China than return to England (he is a Chinese dragon after all).

There was little character development in the second novel. We were already acquainted with the main protagonists and the author didn’t feel the need of personalizing the dragon’s crew (each dragon is manned by an undetermined number of airmen). This lack of detail, beyond the occasional name and one line description (like: one of the cabin boys was actually a girl), meant we the reader didn’t care much when these characters were unceremoniously killed. Often during battles when they were stabbed, shot or cut free to fall to their deaths. Occasionally individuals were washed away during storms or eaten by sea monsters (not as exciting as you would think).

The long-winded style of writing, which I assume was intentionally done, does affect an aura of that time-period. However, since nothing really happens for most of the book, I feel you are better off reading the final quarter which seems to summarize everything you need to know and completely skip the first three quarters of writing.

So, it was with considerably less eagerness that I embarked on the third part of the series. Here they destroyed the ship in a most convenient (or for the characters – inconvenient) fire, thus forcing the Dragon and his crew to travel the over-land route: the dangerous silk road. Even here, most of the pages were dedicated to the number of camels the Dragon would need to eat. As the party, a few men lighter from storms and … honestly I don’t remember any more … were first exposed to the talking, hungry, feral dragons I finally gave up in defeat. I skipped to the end, skimmed the last couple of chapters and closed the book for good.

While I appreciate period pieces to be written with the flavour of the time, you do not need to be as boring. Sure the war wasn’t all excitement, but already you have drifted into fantasy land when you had a dragon egg hatching on your ship! Now, let’s inject some action and more interesting plot and for goodness sake develop your main crew. They are so bland and forgettable the dragon doesn’t care when they die – and these men are supposed to be the dragon’s horde!

I would not recommend any of the above. However, if you have mysteriously found yourself successfully reading these books, I have two questions for you: Exactly how did you get through them? How do they end (please, summarize in four sentences or less – after all, we have already established my short attention span)?

Cry of the Glasya Part 4

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 3

A small note about these D&D shorts. They are, by their definition, short which means I don’t put nearly the amount of work or effort into them as I would for either a full length novel or even something I planned to submit to a competition. These stories are basically the filler and practice I do between other ‘jobs.’ They are essentially my doodles if I were in art and not writing.

As such, there are some portions of it that I would rework. I would be a little more exacting in the smaller details and I would certainly spend more than one or two quick ‘once overs’ to get the structure exactly right if I had any intention of these seeing some sort of official publication. Since I do not, they exist in the state that they do. They’re like a caged specimen stolen from the Cambrian – untried little organisms locked in stasis and saved from the exacting extinctions and pressures that would force them into the common organisms we see today.

Which is to say I’m not particularly fond of my next section.

Characters:

Licia (Lychee) Songsinger – beautiful singer and terrible summoner responsible for the death of Duke Arren Hasselbach

Jeremiah Pits – valiant paladin and moral bulwark for his friends

Derrek Gungric – insightful bard with a curious intuition and questionable music skills

Keirn Faden – self proclaimed leader of the adventuring band and stylized sorcerer

Kait Faden – sister and hoarder with a love of nature and archery so probably a ranger if she’d ever get around to ranging

220px-Caim_in_bird_form

More Ars Goetia art for Cry of the Glasya. Not my creation but found through Google searches. Also, it’s a cute bird with a sword. How adorable, he thinks he’s a real person!

Keirn sat on an upturned barrel, warming his chilled fingers over a cooking fire. A scratchy wool blanket was draped over his shoulders while the minstrel stood, pouring two dented cups with the boiled tea. She held one out for the sorcerer before pulling a chair and sitting opposite him.

“So, I apparently conjured some great demon creature from only the gods know where in order to eviscerate the Duke at the height of my performance?”

“And his entire court. And his guards. And presumably my kin and kind.”

“And why would I do this?”

Keirn opened his mouth but immediately shut it. He thought back to his conversation with Derrek. The bard seemed rather insistent that she was the one who did it but now her motives did seem suspect.

“I… guess you were hired to.”

“Me? A hired assassin?”

“Considering the Duke’s personal retinue, having a renown minstrel bring about his death would certainly slip past his security.”

“And, being this renowned minstrel you claim me to be, why would I throw away my reputation on some rather brutish ploy?”

“You’re paid well?”

Licia crossed her legs, giving Keirn the most condescending look he’d ever seen.

“I would think, given your professed time spent with that rather dubious troubadour you claim kinship with, you’d know just how valuable reputation is amongst the performing scholars. It is something worth far more than the gold and silver these upstart royals throw our way. We do not devote ourselves to this path over a misguided dream of riches and leisure.”

She paused and thought to herself.

“Well most of us don’t.”

“Then why would you perform?”

“For immortality.”

Licia leaned back in her chair, sipping slowly from her drink. She looked down at the cup, analyzing the contents briefly before holding it aloft for Keirn.

“See this? It is a special blend of herbs I’ve concocted in order to preserve my voice. I’ve devoted far more than a few hours of rehearsal to perfecting my craft. My food, my sleep and even where I’ll perform are all dictated by what will nurture and maintain my song. This isn’t a devotion you throw away for something as meaningless as coin. This is something more sacred. Something… divine.”

“Then why summon the demon?”

“I’ve done no such thing.”

She set her cup down, leaning in to appraise Keirn’s features more closely.

“I can see your conviction, however. What you’ve seen, you truly believe whether it be real or not. So let me ask you, why does a wizard study the arcane?”

“For… knowledge?”

“But not riches?”

“I’m sure they’re paid well for their services.”

“Truly? How many rule kingdoms or vast trading fleets? How many live in palaces and feast on the finest foods?”

“Look, this isn’t about wizards.”

“And yet they devote their entire lives to studying their tomes. Those with even greater thirst search abroad to further their knowledge, risking life and limb in an attempt to understand something far greater than you or I or even this Duke. Minstrelsy is much the same, though we search not through ancient lore but through ourselves and others.”

“Bards are wizards now?”

“Of a sort. Or wizards and bards are priests of another kind. The classification is meaningless.”

Keirn shook his head.

“This nonsense sounds like something Derrek would lecture me on.”

“Indeed.”

Keirn lowered his tea and carefully placed it away from him.

“So you and Derrek…”

“Are old… friends.”

“Odd, he never mentioned you to me.”

“Nor you to I. Yet here we are.”

It seemed impossible. Keirn had known the other man for most of his life. They had grown up in neighbouring villages of all places. It seemed unlikely, no unthinkable, that he would never have heard of this woman before.

And yet, they did grow up in different villages. And how well did the sorcerer know the bard before their time at the Academy. There was quite a few years unaccounted for in their past. And it dawned on the sorcerer that he knew little of what the bard did during that time. He’d assumed he’d just lived a quiet life at home.

But after travelling with him for so long, a quiet life was perhaps anathema to the other man.
“Fine, let’s pretend that you didn’t summon a demon and kill the Duke and everyone I care about…”
“Easy enough,” Licia smiled.

“… then by the hells where are they?”

“Well, I can’t account for your friends or the bard,” Licia said, “but unless I have been purposefully misled, the Duke is out on one of his extravagant hunts. It was meant to give me ample time to prepare for my performance. Time, I might add, I’ve decided to spend entertaining you instead.”

“But if you haven’t performed yet…”

“Then how could I have summoned a demon? Hm? Now do you understand my position?”

Keirn shook his head.

“This is impossible. You’re telling me that somehow I’ve travelled back before the ritual? No one is capable of such sorceries.”

“I know. So, really, the mystery seems to be surrounding you and not I. And given all that you’ve told me, it seems clear the course of action we must take.”

Once more there was a rustle of cloth before her dagger appeared again.

Keirn raised his hands.

“Look, I know this sounds unbelievable but give me some time to figure this out.”

“How do I know you’re not the alleged assassin and this is part of your plan?”

“Do I look like an assassin?”

Licia regarded the blanket wrapped man. She lowered her dagger with a smile.

“Very well, you have until after the feast but first some precautions.”

Licia stood, walking over to her bags. She searched through them until she produced a thin wand, some powder and three dried daffodils. She held the flowers out for Keirn.

“They’re really not my colour.”

“Eat.”

He knew he couldn’t argue and he slowly raised each dry plant to his mouth will the minstrel sprinkled powder about his stool then poking them into small piles with the wand.

“I’m certain this isn’t necessary. Whatever it is.”

“I can’t afford to keep an eye on you forever,” Licia said, smacking the vestiges of the dust from her hands. “So we’ll just make sure you can’t leave the keep.”

“You’re a wizard then?”

“More of a learner. All bards are keen students of life and that happens to include magic. It’s remarkable how much of the craft can be picked up by non-practitioners.”

She clapped her hands, closing her eyes as she began her chant. That crystal voice echoed about the stone walls, enchanting Keirn even with the dry words of wizardry. He couldn’t help but sit in mute appreciation as she lowered her hands to his head. He felt the soft tingle of arcane energies swirl about her fingers and course through his hair.

Odd that Derrek never seemed able to do any of this.

A few chortled syllables later, she removed her hands and looked at Keirn appraising.

“Weird.”

“Finished?”

She crinkled her forehead for a moment then shrugged.

“I suppose. It seems… nevermind. Go about your business, stranger. I’d recommend you be quick about it.”

She then claimed her blanket and kicked him from her room with little more than a pat on the bum.
Keirn stood shivering in the empty hall, rubbing his bare extremities. He never could understand why keeps had to always be so cold.

His first inclination was to find some clothes. He made his way back towards the guard room but, if his suspicions were correct, then his belongings wouldn’t be there. Sure enough, the quarters were in pristine order with nary a sign that Keirn and his company had been through.

Was it really possible that he had somehow reversed time? There were rumours of powerful archmages that could halt the passage of time but to completely reverse its course was as likely as forcing a river to run upstream.

Keirn picked about the room, searching through what trunks he could open, until he had enough clothing to drape himself in some makeshift armour. It wasn’t the most comfortable suit – these clothes always were best when fitted for the wearer – but it was better than running about in a loincloth. He plopped a half helm on his head to complete the assemble before clanking out into the hallway. He had no idea how people put these ludicrous suits on everyday. The chain mail was heavy and his arms felt like he’d been lifting Kait’s sacks all day.

He paused, considering his options. He didn’t know where to begin unravelling this mystery and decided the scene of the horror was the best start as any.

The audience chamber gave off an even grander presence when emptied of people. Keirn didn’t have much time to appreciate the majesty of the keep when they had been hired. The job opportunity had been a very last minute deal and they had been shoved into the rank and file of the guards in uncharacteristic haste.
Now that he had time to appreciate the Duke’s keep he couldn’t help but feel that this place was far more lavish than what belied the man’s position. Not that Keirn had much opportunity to judge the wealth of nobles but the few throne rooms he’d entered were just as lavish. How the Duke could afford such rich tapestries, exotic ornaments and a throne that would make any King jealous was beyond the sorcerer’s keen.

Keirn approached the centre of the chamber. Kneeling to the ground, he ran his hand over the floor. He couldn’t feel any markings or sediments to outline the seal Derrek mentioned. He removed his helm, leaning close to the floor to try and see if there had been any indication of mischief. It seemed clean, which led Keirn to believe the best approach to capturing his culprit would be to camp the audience chamber until the villain arrived to arrange his mischief.

He turned, finding a chair and easing his heavy armour into it.

Straps and loose rings of metal were starting to poke into his skin. He scratched absently at them, still trying to comprehend why people wore these cumbersome suits.

Keirn then wondered why anyone would want to kill the Duke. Certainly his brief interaction with the man hadn’t been pleasant but from Keirn’s experience most nobles were rather irritating to deal with. However, the man clearly knew of the plot against his life. Keirn was informed of that when the guards approached them in the market. Plus, they were promised quite a bit of coin for protecting him.

And as Keirn examined the polished arms hanging upon the wall, he began to question the Duke’s unfathomable wealth.

Was there a relative that was hoping to come into their inheritance early? A rather common plot and one Keirn was well acquainted with. The Duke appeared unwed so a child was out of the question. Disgruntled sibling, perhaps? Keirn wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister willing to kill you for your gold. He certainly couldn’t imagine Kait being that bloodthirsty. Though she had threatened to end his life on numerous occasions it was never over money they never had.

And as he peered at those arching pillars, Keirn couldn’t help but feel a sense of loneliness. He had his friends and sibling to rely upon. He knew he could trust them with his life. But here was a man that threw money at even the slightest armoured stranger to seek that comfort from a shadowy threat. He looked towards the elegant throne, noting it sat alone on its raised dais.

“Soldier, what are you doing there!”

Keirn jumped at the voice. He turned to see an armoured knight stroll boldly into the chamber. It took Keirn a second to realize he was being addressed, looking down at his mismatched disguise.
The knight regarded his ill fitting suit for a second before pointing roughly towards the exit.

“You should be on the ramparts! You’re not being paid for idling around while the Duke’s life is being threatened!”

Horse-dung, what was Keirn to do?

“It’s alright, I’m… securing this room.”

“Are you questioning a direct command?!”

The knight placed his gauntlet dramatically on his sword hilt. Keirn slowly slid onto his metal boots. There was no way he could keep watch on the chamber if he was walking the walls.

“And where is your weapon? Gods, what a disgrace if you were seen in this state!”

Keirn tried to conjure some explanation but merely dropped his head in deference.

“My apologies, sir.”

“Report to the armoury immediately! I want to see you on those walls before the Duke returns!”

Under the knights watchful gaze, Keirn cast one last desperate look over the hall before stepping out into the corridors.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 5 >

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Food in Fantasy Land

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What would life be like to live in a world without breakfast cereal?

I have recently been in a position to think deeply about the sorts of foods I eat on a regular basis. I find my tastes rather seasonal and generally very simple. I like salads and vegetables and barbequed meats during the hot summer months. During winter I tend to crave more traditional ‘comfort foods’ such as pasta – in nearly any form, roasted meats and potatoes, curries, cabbage rolls and even the occasional stew. These are usually the dinner or supper meal. Lunches are often similar as I generally consume leftovers, with the addition of a few more sandwiches. Breakfasts however, are regularly bowls of cold cereal and occasional eggs or pancakes.

However, if we were to enter Fantasy Land things would be different. According to the informative Tough Guide written by award winning author Diana Wynne Jones (she really did write excellent children’s fantasy books), my diet would consist largely of stew and waybread. This is the long way of bringing me to my point of interest; the appearance of food in books.

How many stories actually deal with eating; not just for the occasional banquet, but for the sustaining of the character’s life? How many fantasy books fall into the clutches of viscous, brown slop served with a flatbread?

This stew has more clearly identifiable meat than I would expect in Fantasy Land.

This stew has more clearly identifiable meat than I would expect from food in Fantasy Land.

There are a few stories that come to mind where the food stood out – not in a glaringly awkward way. Rather I noticed the food was something different, something regional. The first to come to mind is Zoe Marriot’s Daughter of Flames. I remember it had the main character eating chickpeas, which was different and weirdly interesting to read. Not that the author made a big deal of the food being consumed, just that when she described the meal as flavour for her world it didn’t include stew.

I suppose you could argue Harry Potter has a more realistic bend on the food issue too. Although many of the sweets are given cutesy names to fit with the fantastical world, the students often eat regular food: sausages, potatoes, eggs, toast and the like – I am sure there were vegetables in there somewhere too.

This stew has too many vegetables for Fantasy Land. Incidentally, I actually like to make and eat stew - good stew.

This stew has too many vegetables for Fantasy Land. Incidentally, I actually like to make and eat stew – good stew.

Just to clarify, I am not looking for vast detailed treaties on food and its preparations. Tolkien is famous for spending six pages discussing the preparation of rabbit – though was it a rabbit stew? I cannot remember. However, even this wordy narrator fell into the common trap of feeding his travellers a steady diet of waybread for much of the books. After all, the purpose of eating food is merely to remind the reader these are real people with real needs.

Interestingly, modern, urban fantasies and other adventure fiction falls victim to a similar problem of what to do with meals. I find that stew is not prevalent in these situations. Instead it has been replaced by coffee. Similar meal swaps are seen by many characters on TV. The first thing these individuals do in the morning is grab a cup of coffee – seemingly unable to function without the jolt of caffeine. When time is running short and the days long, don’t worry they don’t need to stop to eat – just drink another coffee or the occasional pop (soda for the Americans) and the character is good to save the world.

Realistic?

I hope not. Unless these individuals are also connected with nutrient giving IV drips, I don’t think they are going to have the strength to save the world – certainly not on a repetitive basis. I wonder does this also connect with or potential perpetuate eating disorders? We are in a time when the number of serious eating disorders (anorexia to obesity) is soaring and the characters in our popular media are showing serious lack of healthy eating habits.

Or perhaps I am more sensitive to the overabundance of caffeine in my stories as I don’t drink coffee, tea or pop. While not as bad as my brother, my morning requires a healthy bowl of cereal to start – substituted with the occasion egg or pancake. After all breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Name of the Wind – The Trouble with Breasts

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Edit – I apologize for the lateness of this post. The site has been undergoing some minor revisions as we attempt to comply to Google’s new SEO formatting and I’m really slow in learning new things.

I have returned from my eastern travels a little more worldly if not a little extra sore. However, during the long hours on the road, my sister had graciously provided me a copy of a very special book. This delightful read, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss to be precise, was a rather interesting experience if only for the reactions it produced from my family as I read it aloud.

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True story, I searched for sexy wind in Google and got this. Granted, I have my safe search on so I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home.

Now, I have no intention to write a proper review of the novel mostly in part because I never finished it. Between my constant breaks as I tried to slog through its curious writing and the sudden expiration of the digital download’s loan period left me only about a quarter into the book. Suffice to say, I’m not the most knowledgeable to comment on its overall story and narrative since I don’t know how it finishes. And, as small as it might be, there is a possibility that halfway through the writing actually starts to be good.

No, instead I wish to discuss something that grates on the average person’s nerves even more. I wish to discuss feminism.

This may not surprise anyone, but I am not a woman. This startling revelation has often left me a little wary of feminist issues. I didn’t think I was truly prepared to really discuss its arguments either for or against having never had the experience that usually fueled the standard discourse. However, I have been reading quite a bit of its discussion in my online interactions and have slowly begun to educate myself on its core issues. Primarily, feminism is less about women’s rights as it is about equal rights.

Not really the most astounding revelation, especially for anyone familiar with the movement. But, after reading numerous opinions and perspectives, I began to worry if my writing was somehow anti-feminist. I am certainly a supporter of equality and as popular opinion grows more and more in its favour, the discussion of discrimination has shifted to the examination of more subtler channels. Often times, the things that are discussed as being discriminatory appear to be unintentional. They are more insidious methods of perpetuating classical views of female subordination and repression. Things like the ‘Male Gaze’ only complicate matters further for someone that has never felt discrimination based on gender. So ingrained, goes the argument, of patriarchal standards, that many people are not even aware of contributing to it either through neglecting deeper characterization of female characters or constantly reverting them to positions of powerlessness. I worried that I, like many others, had fallen into this trap. I mean, I don’t even have a D&D story from the only girl’s perspective!

However, after reading The Name of the Wind, I no longer have this worry.

Now, let me first state that I don’t believe Patrick Rothfuss is some disgusting bigot or anti-feminist. I think the arguments I’m about to level are better explained through a much more likely avenue – Rothfuss just isn’t a good writer. And there’s far more evidence tho suggest the latter over the former that I feel comfortable in this belief. Also, as I’ve confessed, I haven’t finished the novel so there does exist that miniscule possibility that squirreled somewhere in the later sections of the book is a damn good representation of a woman. I’m just never going to bother trying to find out.

And, as this is a semi-critical examination of a work, do expect there to be some spoilers.

The first moment when I began to sense this subtle sexism, however, came rather shortly into the story. For those who are lucky enough to have not cracked the spine, The Name of the Wind is the first in a three part series that follows some discredited hero called Kvothe who is so amazing and clever that when going into exile, his idea of the perfect disguise was to drop two letters from his name. Which might not be too bad, but given the constant description of his flame red hair being more red than red and undeniably unique, you’d think there might have been more consideration put into the guise.

However, I digress.

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Obviously I don’t own any of these windy cloud clip arts.

Elusive Kvothe has started – by his own description – an unsuccessful inn smack in the middle of nowhere Medieval England. This inn, in small town Mudville, still manages to pull a constant crowd of six young bachelors who constantly fill the shack’s gloomy hall. This setting is where the majority of the action occurs, as news and gossip is shared amongst the men while Kvothe listens attentively (but not too much to appear interest) while compulsively polishing his massive collection of bottles in the corner.

Now, I knew beginning the novel that it had a rather curious format. The story was meant to be a narration of the protagonist detailing the story of his life over three years to a scribe. What I didn’t realize, was that it has a substantial beginning that covers rather trite events leading up to the actual crux of the narrative. However, curiously, during this lead up I made a rather strange observation.

There were no women.

There wasn’t a female bar wench which is so prominent in fantasy fiction. While I would normally consider a breath of fresh air, the lack of a female presence (let alone voice) drew more and more prominent. Kvothe has some annoying assistant/student who often makes talk of distracting young maidens disrupting his studies as if they were some wild beast trampling past for attention. Yet, none of these virtuous unicorns ever graces the inn. When one of Kvothe’s seemingly single patrons arrives with a gruesome present from the countryside, only a male priest is informed of the discovery. When Kvothe ventures into the town village for errands, he only ever acts with men. The only time I recall there being a female mentioned in the first hundred pages is when two unnamed and undescribed women come bustling into Kvothe’s inn in a most uncharacteristic moment of business. They enter with a group of travelers and merchants of various detail and trades and I suspect the poor ladies were only ever known because the only thing that made them remarkable in that crowd was probably their breasts.

And, of course, none of them have lines.

This struck me as incredibly peculiar. There was no discernible reason for there to be such a lack of female representation, even incredibly cursory, in this world. It wasn’t like this inn had been established as one of many in the small village that only held particular appeal to young, confirmed bachelor men who displayed an uncommon lack of interest in the opposite sex. Their absence on the streets during the day or in shops is even stranger and I am left assuming that in Rothfuss’ world women are meant to be kept like horses: safe and warm in their private quarters with a pile of hay to bed with a salt lick stashed in the corner.

In fact, it takes until Kvothe is sitting down with the Chronicler before we even get a speaking female character. And, unfortunately, what we’re presented with is a shallowly sad one-dimensional individual whose sole role appears to be double duty of providing Kvothe with a sickly sweet doting mother and sexual object for his father.

Seriously, the number of times his parents are mentioned as wandering off for sex is astounding for a story that has been surprisingly chaste up to that point. So important is Kvothe’s mother as a tool for sexual gratification that the last moments of her life are supposedly spent in bed with her father.

Now, sexual liberation isn’t a bad thing. But given that the only other female in child Kvothe’s band of merry travelers is mostly discussed right before she takes Kvothe’s mentor aside for some farewell coitus, it starts seeming like the sole role for females in Rothfuss’ narrative are for gratification. In fact, one of the few times we see Kvothe’s mother interacting individually with her child is after she catches him singing a lewdly suggestive nursery rhyme to himself which I will be very surprised if it didn’t turn out to be a song about her. The only other moment I recall that we get some interaction between the parent and child that is devoid of any semblance of sexuality is when she tries to teach Kvothe courtly manners, thus fulfilling the kindly teacher trope of maternal parenting.

If we were to examine The Name of the Wind with the Bechdel Test, Rothfuss would fail with flying colours.

The Bechdel Test is a rather interesting metric for analyzing gender bias in fiction. The test is simple: does a work have two female characters, does it have them talk to each other and do they discuss something other than a man? It’s not particularly robust. Meeting its requirements does not by any means suggest that a work is free of bias. In fact, it’s establishing a really, really low base-line which so many pieces fail that highlights the inherent bias in modern fiction. In the nearly two hundred pages that I read, certainly there would be a moment that could qualify. However, Rothfuss didn’t even manage to reach two women with moments of dialogue. He barely scrapes by having two women in the first place!

Course, this isn’t suggesting that every work must feature two women chatting or even include women altogether. Setting and story can certainly impact female representation in a work. Which brings me to the second point I want to discuss.

Just because a work is based on medieval fantasy does not mean it has to be inherently sexist. There appears to be a common perception that prior to the the turn of the 20th century, women were a quiet and demur species that constantly bowed their heads to their kindly male keepers and kept themselves and their genders from prominence. Which is, to say, that there exists an argument that you can’t have strong women in fantasy because it’ll break the reader’s suspension of disbelief.

First, the very nature of fantasy makes such assertions ludicrous. Here we have a genre which often features flying, talking and fire-breathing lizards of monstrous proportions with men able to bend the very fabric of space and reality with a simple flick of a wrist and some poorly researched Latin. I have a hard time thinking that swords which glow when some species of monster that is birthed from mud pits is nearby is going to disconnect its audience because a women dares to speak her mind, pick up a weapon or, heavens, just appear with a name and some rudimentary dialogue.

Second, this idea that all women were quietly sitting on the sidelines while letting men do everything is a gross fallacy. Throughout history, there are stories of women performing remarkable services and duties. Some examples are incredibly mainstream that they’re so easy to remember when mentioned. Queen Elizabeth I and Joan of Arc are two women that fall in fantasy’s generic timeline and completely crush this false ideology. And that’s ignoring many, many other examples.

windy

So credit goes to the creators who made these images. Bless your anonymous hearts, wherever you are.

The one mention I would like to give is Geoffrey Chaucer’s depiction of the Wife of Bath in his Canterbury Tales. Now, I know the literary discourse over the work and the debate centred on whether this was a negative satire of certain women and their beliefs or not. However, the Wife of Bath’s Tale is an interesting examination of antifeminism thought. In the Wife’s Prologue, the Wife discusses her many divorces and remarriages and the power women can wield in marriage as well as pointing out inherent contradictions and discrimination put on women by the Bible. So, while she exemplifies antifeminism thought by portraying women as manipulative and coercive, she also attacks these beliefs by pointing out that these traditions and restrictions were set by men in the first place. So even if Chaucer’s goals were to ultimately criticize these thoughts and behaviours, by discussing them he’s demonstrating that they existed at that time.

It is further telling that a man, writing nearly six hundred years ago and in a half developed language is capable of creating a far more compelling and developed character than Rothfuss is with all this medium’s development and with Chaucer’s own work readily available for study. Now, I want to draw specific attention to my use of character in that previous statement. As I mentioned at the start, I don’t think this is inherently an indication that Rothfuss hates women or that he believes they have no value. For that, I would need indication that Rothfuss was capable of actually writing compelling and developed characters. After 200 pages I had yet to see one. His main character is as insufferable as he is a grossly exaggerated ubermensch. The rest of the supporting characters seem to only existto further develop just how awesome Kvothe is at everything compared to everyone else.

This unintentional sexism can really be fixed by one thing and that is simply improving the quality of the writing. For, I think, by improving and developing their skill, good writers begin to realize that their perspective and thoughts can’t dominate that of the people they pen. By exploring other individuals and their experiences, authors begin to delve into deeper and greater stories that will naturally drift away from discriminatory presentation.

Course, this isn’t to say there aren’t bigots out there writing stories. But for most of us who aren’t assholes, the natural development of our skills should steer use clear of these pitfalls. It took reading The Name of the Wind to realize that I’m not unintentionally hurting woman and for that, those insufferable pages of unending bottle polishing and monochromatic interior decorating were well worth the pain and misery they provided.

The book is still Twilight for boys, however.

Cry of the Glasya Part 3 (Vacay Post 5)

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Well, I should be making my way back to sweet, wonderful Ontario now. My stomach should be filled with lobster. My camera should be near its memory limit. And I’m most certainly going to be out of money. So, here’s part 3 of The Cry of Glasya, a new fantasy short story!

ribesa10

Alright, I’m running out of Ars Goetia stuff to post. Here’s some funny critter with a long nose.

Characters:

Licia (Lychee) Songsinger – beautiful singer and terrible summoner responsible for the death of Duke Arren Hasselbach

Jeremiah Pits – valiant paladin and moral bulwark for his friends

Derrek Gungric – insightful bard with a curious intuition and questionable music skills

Keirn Faden – self proclaimed leader of the adventuring band and stylized sorcerer

Kait Faden – sister and hoarder with a love of nature and archery so probably a ranger if she’d ever get around to ranging

< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 2

“I feel ridiculous.”

Keirn crouched beside Derrek in the galley above the audience chamber. He had finally acquiesced to Derrek’s defensive measures and now knelt in little more than a thin loincloth while searching blindly along the rail with his hands. A thick piece of cloth was bound tightly about his head to cover his eyes and dampen sounds to his ears. He held his sword uselessly in his hand. Should a moment to strike arise, Keirn doubted his adversary would allow him the time to first feel out his target before swinging the weapon.

But it was a gentle comfort to have something pointy in his hands even if he was more likely to poke Derrek with it than a murderous courtesan.

The pair had waited out their pursuers in the guard quarters. Evidently, after tiring themselves on the door, the frenzied men and women had wandered off down the halls presumably in search of some less entrenched targets. Discarding most of their belongings, Derrek and Keirn slowly made their way into the hall.

They moved tentatively through the corridors. Derrek led, swearing he knew the layout of the keep well enough to manoeuvre them into position without requiring such petty tools like sight. He carried Kait’s bone chime in his hands, a remarkable little construction project she’d undertaken unbeknownst to Keirn. He had no idea she was collecting the skeletal remains of who knew what or why she fashioned them into this morbid instrument for a purpose only she could possibly reveal.

The fact that Derrek knew about it would have been surprising if it had been anyone but Derrek. The hollow clatter of its femurs and tibias led Keirn on, accompanied with the few awkward moments when the two almost naked men collided into each other.

Keirn wasn’t sure how long they snaked through the twisting corridors. It felt like he was being led in a random direction but even he felt the few brief flashes of a distant heat during their skulking. Each time, Derrek proceeded immediately in the opposite direction. Thusly, they managed to avoid most obstacles save for the twisted clumps that they stumbled over on the ground. Keirn didn’t remove his blindfold to confirm what those objects were.

At last they reached a set of stairs and began to ascend. Slowly, Keirn could feel that distant heat grow, like a gentle hearthfire that beckoned them onward. But this time Derrek didn’t led them away.

Even through his protections, Keirn could still hear the chaotic din of a great commotion beneath them. It was hard to imagine that not long ago the whole hall had been filled with such beautiful music. And now there was nothing but the heavy smell of death and the sound of despair.

Derrek grabbed Keirn’s arm, tapping on his skin with cold fingers. It took a minute for Keirn to realize he was attempting to communicate with him through those beats. By Helja’s frozen domain, Keirn couldn’t tell what he was on about and lifted his hand to the cloth around his ears.

But before he could remove the obstruction to speak with the bard, Derrek swatted the cloth from his fingers. He returned to his futile tapping.

This was hopeless, Keirn realized. Without the ability to see or hear there was no possible way they could co-ordinate with one another.

Frustated, Keirn snatched back his arm.

“Sure, whatever!”

He didn’t know what the plan was but at this point it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway. Hopefully, Derrek knew what he was doing.

That thought ran fleeting from him the moment Derrek shoved the bone contraption into Keirn’s hands then hurried along the galley.

“Wait!” Keirn called, reaching out uselessly. But his fingers only brushed empty air and he crouched there completely alone.

He slumped against the rail, feeling the wood against his back and the pulsing heat from below. He had no idea what he was suppose to do nor what the bard had wandered off to accomplish. All he had was the fading memory of the young man’s furtive tapping, an inscrutable puzzle which only the minstrel himself could likely decipher. But then fear began to encroach into his thoughts as he felt the heat from below grow warmer and warmer.

Had Derrek decided to just up and leave? Did he know some secret passage he was going to use to run from this infernal keep and it’s unimaginable bloodbath below?

Gods, a demon. These things were meant to be only rumour and legend. How Derrek recognized it was beyond Keirn. How the minstrel was able to summon it seemed equally baffling. It all seemed like a terrible nightmare or horrible illusion. Perhaps this was all just a mad visioning. Perhaps he’d consumed too much mushroom stew at the feast. That meal certainly felt off. And Kait had warned him that eating too much may give him terrible nightmares.

Yes, this was most certainly a dream. A stew inspired dream that he simply needed to awake from…

Suddenly, the bones in his hands jangled together before raising out of his hands. Keirn cried out, waving his arms wildly in front of him for the magical chime that had evacuated his grasp. All he found were a collection of fingers that wrapped about his headwear and quickly pulled the cloth from his eyes and ears.

“What are you doing?”

Keirn blinked up at the hooked nose and questioning eyes of the gorgeous Licia Songsinger.

“Ah…” Keirn muttered.

The lady minstrel looked even more resplendent upclose than she did when performing. Her dress was majestically cut despite its simplicity. A gentle weave of silk and linen that gave an abstract sense of a gentle rosy waterfall cinched tastefully about her waist. Her hair had a glossy sheen and a small dusting of complimentary powder was dashed about her eyes.

She turned the rather grime object in her hands before looking back at Keirn.

“What is this?”

“A chime.”

“It’s… it’s…”

“I can explain,” Keirn muttered though he knew he couldn’t.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Really?!”

Licia held it out by the tiny finger bone, letting the thin ropes unwound as he bones clattered against each other. Fully extended, the chime actually looked rather remarkable given it’s materials. Each piece dangled, clattering against its neighbour but releasing a rather pleasant echo. Course, it wasn’t really something Keirn would want to hang on his front door but it wasn’t nearly as macabre as he first thought.

“The construction is quite expert. The bones haven’t been damaged when attached and still produce clear notes. It’s very remarkable.”

“Can I have it back?”

“What did you make this for?”

Keirn frowned.

“I don’t think this is really the best time for this.”

“Oh? How come?”

Keirn gaped at the young woman. He turned looked up and down the gallery to make his point.

Yet, now with his blindfold removed, he didn’t see the bodies he’d expected. There were no archers clawing at each other or howling at whatever pain had driven them mad. No disgraced courtesans huddled in corners searching furtively for some relief from unimaginable fear and terror. In fact, the gallery was completely empty. The rows of high back wooden chairs lined in uninterrupted rows. Keirn scrambled to his feet and peered over the rail.

Where he’d expected to see visceral and blood was a rather tidy and kept audience chamber. The large tapestries hung unchanged upon the walls and the great rugs lay pristine across the stone. In fact, the room was too in order. There appeared to be no guards at the doors and the throne lay pristine and untouched despite the grisly scene that had unfolded on it not long ago.

Keirn turned to the minstrel.

“What trickery is this?”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“The audience chamber… the guards… the Duke! Where is everyone?”

The minstrel merely blinked at him.

“I’m… afraid I don’t understand your question.”

“Duke Hasselbach!” Keirn cried, grabbing the woman’s petite shoulders. “Where is he? Where is his body?!”

Songsinger pulled away from him.

“I think a more prudent question would be where are your clothes?”

Keirn looked down, suddenly frightfully aware of his nakedness. He crossed his arms uselessly over his chest in a noble attempt to casually cover as much skin as possible. He narrowed his eyes as he appraised the minstrel.

“You’re the demon, aren’t you?”

The bard returned an equally puzzled look.

“Perhaps this came at a bad time,” she replied, holding the chime back out to Keirn. “I should really go prepare.”

“Prepare? Prepare for what? For some sort of grisly sacrifice with all the bodies?”

“Look, I just came up here to inspect the acoustic quality of this hall. I don’t need some half-naked barbarian stammering some mad nonsense at me. I should go prepare.”

She seemed too sincere. But then again, Keirn was all to familiar with the performance skills of bards.

“I can’t have you leave here,” Keirn replied, reaching to his hip. His fingers clutched air and he turned, searching for his sword.

Inexplicably, the weapon had seemingly vanished along with all the other evidence of the bloodbath.

The minstrel raised a brow and began to slowly retreat from the man.

“I really think it’s time that I went and got ready.”

Keirn looked back at her. What sort of duplicity was this? No blood, no death and all his belongings gone save for the cadaverous keepsake from his sister. Something clearly wasn’t right.

“What have you got me into, Derrek?” Keirn growled.

For a moment, confusion coloured the other minstrel’s suspicious features.

“Say that again?”

“I said, what is going on here?!”

“No, that name. Who did you speak to?”

“Well… no one. Myself I guess.”

“The name, you fool! Who’s name did you say!”

“What, Derrek?”

“Derrek Gungric?”

Keirn looked at the other minstrel warily.

“How do you know Derrek?”

“I could ask you the same.”

And then, in a great sweep of her dress, the minstrel produced a wicked curved dagger from her clothes though Keirn knew not where it could have been hidden before. She pointed it menacingly towards Keirn. The sorcerer merely looked back, hand clutching his chest and the chime.

It looked weird.

“Well, he’s my best friend. I’ve been travelling with him for quite some time now. The four of us, my sister and my other best friend, were hired on by the Duke to protect his life. A life which you rather viciously stole away.”

She stepped forward, the blade pressing dangerously against Keirn’s throat. Keirn instinctively retreated from the cold touch, his lower back pressing against the polished wood rail.

“What reason do I have not to slit you right where you stand?”

Keirn thought for a second.

“Well none, you bloodletting witch. Go ahead, might as well finish what you started!”

Keirn held his arms aloft, leaving himself completely exposed to her assault. But instead of plunging the weapon into his soft flesh, Licia merely retracted the blade though she did not return it to its sheath.

“Perhaps you best start from the beginning. And I do hope it contains some reasonable explanation for why you’re not dressed.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 4 >

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Cry of the Glasya Part 2 (Vacay Post 4)

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We continue with our second part of The Cry of the Glasya.

seals5

More Ars Goetia seals.

Keirn slammed the portal behind him. The wood groaned beneath the force pummeling from the other side. He could feel it bending and warping as he braced it with his back. Visions of broken fingers tearing through and ripping him into the accursed hallways filled his mind and he could feel more sweat running down his back. But these drops weren’t from the heat.

“It’s not going to hold!”

He felt the wood cracking beneath his fingers.

“You better have a damn good plan! And if you don’t do something miraculous with those bones…”

Keirn cut off mid sentence as he craned his neck to see Derrek standing placidly in the middle of the guard’s quarters. The sorcerer growled in annoyance. Of course, the bloody bard couldn’t hear him with the damn wax.

The door banged again with the force of the bodies smashing upon the other side. It was a stroke of luck that Keirn was able to snatch the key for the lock before the frenzied guard fell, disappearing beneath stampeding feet. Complete madness was not something the young sorcerer was accustomed to. He wasted no time with remorse over looting the still twitching and groaning bodies of those who succumbed to the horde while fleeing the massacre.

Like a torrential river people scrambled after them. It was all Keirn could do to dislodge ornamental suits of armour and other decorations to impede their pursuit before he found the quarters and tossed Derrek inside.

And if he didn’t do something about the door then the crazed court would soon reach him again.

Keirn motioned madly for one of the large chests at the foot of the bunks. Then he remembered the bard had blinded himself as well.

By the gods, Derrek was impossible to deal with sometimes.

Twist against the door, Keirn stretched with aching fingers towards the container. It was just out of reach. He unhooked his scabbard, trying to slip it through one of the handles so he could pull the chest towards him.

A great surge of force pounded against the door, knocking Keirn to the ground. Freed of its impediment, the portal began to open inward as fingers snaked along its edges. Keirn kicked as hard as he could, slamming the wood on the poor bastards’ hands. He kept kicking until they retreated then he stretched as best he could and slipped the scabbard through the handle. Grasping the weapon on either side, he inched the container towards him, the metal scraping across the floor as he twisted his feet, trying to keep the only entrance into the room shut.

Once he got his fingers around the chest, Keirn pushed it up against the door and stepped back to admire his work.

Still the persistent men on the other side banged against it, but it looked like it would hold for a time. Frustrated, Keirn stomped towards his friend before grabbing him roughly by his earlobe.

“CLEAR THE WAX!”

Derrek wrenched his ear free but obediently began to dig out the plug. Keirn flopped down on a bunk himself and began to work on his own wax clogged ears.

As he dug the offending substance out, he could begin to hear the monstrous banging against the door clearer. Through the wood were the howls from the assailants outside. They didn’t even seem to be speaking, just making deafening noise as they attempted to bash their way into the room.

“So where’s the bag?” Derrek asked.

Keirn frowned at the small pile of scrapped wax sticking to his shirt. He then briefly surveyed the quarters.

“It was somewhere in here. I don’t know, have you checked under the beds?”

“Going to be tough with these glasses on, boss.”

“Then take them off!”

Derrek merely shook his head. But once it became clear that Keirn wasn’t moving from his perch, he dropped to his hands and began to search blindly beneath the bunks.

“By Helja’s frozen tits, what is going on out there anyway?” Keirn asked.

“Precisely,” Derrek said.

“Precisely what?”

“The hells,” the bard said matter-of-factly.

Keirn glared.

“Wait, you knew this was going to happen?”

“I told you I heard this one before.”

“Are you saying Songsinger brought that… thing… here?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Keirn could feel his blood begin to boil.

“I think it would be best if you started from the beginning.”

“I hate to give unwarranted credit, but it was a masterfully done piece…”

“Obviously.”

“I mean, who would have thought of hiding the binding ritual in the lyrics of an aria? But it wasn’t even that straight forward. They only placed it partially within the song. It wasn’t until the concluding stanza that the summon would be complete.”

“So… she summoned that thing with her song?”

“Of course. The first hint was the lyrics were off tune from the music. A real minstrel would have noticed that!” he shouted to the wall. Keirn could only assume that was directed at the cursed singer still presumably locked in the audience chamber. After a moment of no response, Derrek cleared his throat. “Course, the salt seal beneath the step was also a dead give away.”

“What seal? I didn’t see any seal!”

“It was obviously dissolved with water,” Derrek said, standing and brushing his hands. “Why do you think she wasn’t moving? The problem was figuring out who was being bound.”

“But how did she conjure a person here? That’s impossible. Even an archmage couldn’t do that.”

“Didn’t I say it was a binding ritual? I thought I said it was a binding.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I thought you attend the Academy?”

“We’re not going to start this again,” Keirn growled.

“Not my fault you can’t remember your studies.”

“So who… or what… did she bind here?”

“A demon. I couldn’t tell which at first but then it became clear from the hanging tapestries.”

“The tapestries?”

“Stags of course. The Duke is an avid hunter, we passed through his dog kennel when we were shown the grounds. Also, the crimson backgrounds are an obvious indicator. It’s the demon of bloodshed.”

“Then what’s the business with the wax?”

“The demon can incite fury in those that can hear it. And can charm those that look upon it.”

“And the nudity?”

“It was going to get warm.”

“Alright, let me get this straight,” Keirn said slowly, standing to his feet. “The four of us were hired on to protect the Duke from a sinister plot on his life. You convinced us that it was nothing but paranoia and superstition and that this would be the easiest gold we could ever make. You then spent the entire time touring this keep looking for evidence of not only an assassination but a demon… binding of which you recognized the moment the guest bard started singing but felt it more prudent to strip naked than to stop?!”

“Can I be frank for a moment.”

“Oh,” Keirn growled, “you better.”

“I couldn’t stop her, it would have ruined me.”

“Ruined you?”

“The aria. It’s… well… her singing was too… and with that accompaniment…”

“You. Were. JEALOUS?!”

“Maybe not jealous, oratorios really aren’t me field of purview…”

“YOU NEARLY KILLED US TO DISCREDIT A RIVAL?!?!”

Keirn stood to his feet. Fury burned in his eyes as he took one murderous step forward, his twitching fingers outstretched for the other man’s throat.

“Now Keirn, what you’re feeling is just the influence of the demon.”

“I thought you were blind!”

“The charcoal is starting to rub off.”

“Get over here!”

Keirn lunged for the bard, chasing after the man as he bounded across the room. He duck and wove through the bunks, putting as much mattress and pillow between himself and the murderous sorcerer.

“I can explain.”

“I think you’ve explained enough!”

“See, minstrelsy is a difficult business. We have to keep each other in check, you know. Otherwise if someone gets too much prestige and fame then they will just dominate the courts. It’ll stifle creativity as the lords and dukes will vie for the same material to be replicated over and over. Homogeneity suffocates the muse!”

“So all these people are going to die because you can’t let some tart take a position at a court you’d never entertain at in the first place?”

“Lychee is not just any bard.”

“Oh, I heard.”

“She is a demoness in maiden’s clothes.”

Keirn paused.

“Seriously?”

Derrek thought for moment.

“Naw, figuratively.”

“Well, apparently she’s some sort of devious assassin. How do we stop her?”

“Considering the Duke is currently being digested by twelve different stomachs, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Twelve?”

“They have more than one.”

Keirn wasn’t going to debate the point.

“Alright, so how do we get rid of this demon?”

“That’s where we need the swine legs.”

Keirn sighed, standing on his toes and peering over the top of the bunks.

“Try the bed on the end.”

Derrek hurried to the bunk, clambering up the side and kneeling over the small pile of worn leather packs. He began to rifle through them, the sounds of clanking pots, tin, pieces of metal and only the gods knew what else shook from the bags as he searched for his prize. Keirn only hoped that he didn’t start emptying them or else he’d never hear the end of it from his sister and her “perfect” packing.

Assuming, of course, she was still alive. But Keirn pushed that thought quickly from his mind. She was still out there. He knew it. They just had to get these bones and then…

Something. He didn’t know what but they would come up with something. It was the only thought he could entertain. The alternatives were too unthinkable.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 3 >

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Cry of the Glasya – a new fantasy short story (Vacay Post 3)

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Continuing on from the demonology of the plemora universe, here’s a new fantasy short story, continuing my brand of D&D inspired adventures. As it’s a highly fictionalized idealization of some of the people I know existing in Fantasyland, changes in their personal lives necessitate changes to their adventuring counterparts. Thus, I present to you Part 1 of The Cry of the Glasya.

Glasya-Labolas

Glasya Labolas seal from Ars Goetia.

The court thundered. The stone walls shook. Beneath a tempest of violins and drums, the commanding keys of the piano wove masterfully through the piece. But even the clarion of the trumpets and the gentle weep of the harp sounded little more than background chatter. For there was but one sound that broke through the minstrel band like the stampede of an unstoppable cavalry charge.

And it was produced by the smallest, least intimidating creature Keirn had ever seen.

She stood between the thick stone pillars of the throne hall. Dwarfed on all sides by the yawning arches of the audience chamber for the ancient keep. Even the thick tapestries and heralds hanging from the walls couldn’t dampen the pelting voice pouring from those thin vocal chords. A single, unassuming woman stood statuesque upon a tiny wooden block.

But while her feet appeared rooted, her arms twisted with each haunting symbol that erupted forth with a greater force than a storm whipped tide. It seemed inhuman the sounds that she twisted from deep within her breast. Had Keirn not been standing there to experience it himself, he would never have believed it to be true.

And neither could the assembled court.

Every onlooker watched in stunned muteness as the foreign words of this incredible singer drowned out all other sounds and thoughts from their minds. There was no doubt in Keirn’s mind. This was the most beautiful and elegant aria he had ever heard. Granted, he’d never heard one before, but even the Duke Hasselbach sat riveted upon the edge of his stolen throne in rapt entrancement.

And just when Keirn thought it couldn’t grow more impressive, a sudden string of notes he’d never imagined singable came bursting from her, directed right down the hall at the raised lord and his gathered attendants by two thin waving arms.

There was but one soul in the entire chamber that seemed unmoved by the piece.

Derrek Gungric, Keirn’s closest companion and minstrel-in-training had his back turned upon the performance and busied himself with a nearby candle stand. Through sheer apparent boredom, he passed the soft flame from one wick to the next, letting the wax drip in thick rivers down the sides until it pooled in the small holders.

“How can you not like this?” Keirn whispered. “I hate your music the most and even think this is damn good.”

“Heard it before.”

“Not like this,” Keirn said. There was no way in this life or the next anyone had heard something like this.

There was a collective gasp as the young singer stepped from her perch. She turned, addressing the courtiers to the sides and the guards standing before the massive barred doors. It was impossible to know what she sang but the delivery gave the briefest impression that it was directed at you alone before she broke the spell and turned to the next face.

It was impossible to turn away. Until Keirn heard a strange rustling and quickly scanned around for the source.

Having exhausted his attention with the candles, it seemed that Derrek was now busying himself with darkening a pair of thick glasses using a large piece of charcoal.

“What are you doing now?!” Keirn hissed, slipping as unobtrusively to his side.

“I can’t watch this any longer,” Derrek said.

“So you’re going to blind yourself!”

“That’s the plan.”

Keirn stood momentarily mute.

“We’re suppose to be guarding the Duke!”

“So?”

“How are you going to do that if you can’t see?”

“Shhhh!”

Keirn turned to the intruding voice only to be greeted with Jeremiah’s stern face. The larger man motioned towards the singer with a look of impatience. Keirn cast a glance back at the Duke who appeared to be completely oblivious to the disruption. He motioned to Derrek as explanation for his actions but Jeremiah merely waved his hand dismissively.

Keirn turned back to the stubborn minstrel. He’d already completely blackened one eye. Keirn sighed, turning from his friend back to the performance. Keirn would just have to settle with being extra attentive to make up for the lack of eyes from the bard.

Not that there wasn’t an already impressive show of force in the court today. Trained archers lined the galleys and four guards stood watch over every entrance. But even this show of force seemed entranced by the entertainer. Weapons dropped limply at their sides as uneducated men were lost within the elegance and grace of the woman. She didn’t even appear that magnificent. Her dress was simple though colourful. But it was her slender features and enrapturing voice that made her stand apart from her troupe like the burning sun brightly shining out all other stars in the sky.

Keirn then felt a tugging at his sleeve.

“What?!”

“Do you know where Kait left her bags?”

Keirn leaned in close to his friend as the singer hit another stretch of impossible notes.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She looks like she’s having fun.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’ve already missed the overture. Besides, I’m doing you a favour by missing this atrocious performance.”

Keirn sighed.

“What do you need now?”

“The leg bones from dinner.”

“Of course you- what?”

“From the swine. You know, you said yourself it was the finest you’d eaten in weeks.”

“I’m well aware of what I ate!”

“SHHHHHHHH!”

Keirn grabbed his friend’s dainty wrist and pulled him from the throne dais. Once he was sure he was out of earshot from the duke, he turned upon the impossibly delicate features of his friend.

“First, why in the blazes would you need those. Second, why are they in my sister’s bag?!”

“Probably to finish her chime.”

Keirn merely blinked at his incomprehensible friend.

“You’re impossible sometimes.”

“So do you know where she left them?”

“I believe she was requested to leave them in the guard quarters just outside the hall.”

Suddenly, there was a pause in the vocals as the instruments swelled in the break.

Derrek frowned.

“I’ll have to get them later.”

He then began removing his shirt.

Keirn grabbed his hands, wrestling to keep the stained wool in place.

“Would you stop!”

“The wax should be ready by now,” Derrek said, slipping his hands free and tossing his jerkin nimbly aside.

“Look, you may be jealous of another bard getting the lead performance for the Duke but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin this. Especially when we haven’t even received compensation yet!”

Derrek paused with his belt in his hand. The woman’s voice burst forth and he dropped his pants.

“Probably best to do it now,” he said, shaking his boots free. Keirn growled, snatching for the discarded trousers as the bard quickly hopped to the candle stand in nothing but his linen braies. There, the blonde man dipped his fingers into the cooling pools of wax and plugged them deep into his ears. As Keirn rounded on him with trousers held menacingly in one hand and belt in the other, the bard danced effortlessly about his wailing arms before slipping behind him. There he plunged his dripping fingers into Keirn’s ears and the young man could immediately feel the hardening wax plug his ear canals and mute out all but the faintest echoes of the lingering song.

Keirn rounded on his friend, feeling a familiar frenzy drawing in his chest. But just as he was about to wield his friend’s belt as a whip, he caught a sudden shift of motion on his periphery.

He turned, watching as the Duke’s rapt attention turned to that of confusion. Then, the crinkles of his eyes wearing deep into his skin drew apart. His eyes widened and his pupils contracted in sheer horror. The honour guard standing by his side merely gaped in fear, their gleaming halberds dropping from frozen fingers and pattering against the stone floor in the barest audible din. Keirn felt their motion instead in that dampening silence. All about him, a perceptible change had overtaken the crowd. The courtesans and guests seemed to draw back from the room, pressing against the walls before turning and fleeing towards barred doors.

But all entrances to the throne room had been sealed by request of the Duke. The mob merely pounded useless against the wood.

Keirn wasn’t entirely sure what it was that drew his attention back to the centre of the room. But as he turned he could feel a sudden burning wave of heat blast against his face. And what he saw caused his heart to stop.

There, standing upon the raised wooden step was a towering horror. Keirn wasn’t even sure what it was. The creature wore the body of a human, bare chested but with thick irons wrapped about its arms and dangling from large wrists. The chains pulled taut as great iron collars shackled monstrous canine creatures that snapped about the monster’s thighs. But both man and beasts were much larger than anything… human.

The creature raised its head, a burnt stag skull with faint brands scorched into the bone resting upon its sinewy shoulders. From the darkest pits of its sockets burned an undying red light like stoked embers. A dented and torn scale mail skirt hung limply about the creature’s waist, coated in dried blood and flecked with rotted pieces of fur and flesh that gave a nauseating scent of death.

Finally, a pair of great eagle wings sprouted from the creature’s back. But these weren’t majestic appendages of beautiful array plumes but a bloody and broken mass of torn skin and protruding bone. Great splotches of featherless skin stretched over the scarred heavenly remnants. Burnt pink sinew flexed beneath skin that cracked and bled with each shift of the cracked stumps.

Through the thick wax, Keirn could hear the hollowest echoes of screams.

The creature raised its arms and the four front hounds bound forward. The chains about its forearms unraveled as the beasts bore across the flagged floor faster than any worldly predator. Before anyone could react, they had descended upon the petrified Duke, curved claws longer than daggers tearing through cloth and flesh in mere seconds.

All the Duke’s guards merely watched in unmoving fear as their liege was torn to misting ribbons before them.

Keirn felt something strike the back of his head and he turned to see Derrek practically naked and staring uselessly at a pillar through his darkened glasses. The minstrel made a gnawing gesture then shrugged his shoulders.

“Now’s not the time!” Keirn shouted.

Then he realized Derrek couldn’t hear him. The blonde man merely smacked him again and repeated the gesture.

But the distraction had shaken Keirn from his inaction and he could feel the pressing need to do something and quickly. He grabbed his friend by the wrist and pulled him away from the throne towards the guard room. He didn’t know what the bard was planning but the quest seemed to unshackle his mind and give him clear purpose.

Course, Keirn had no idea how he was going to get through the frightened mob.

Yet, as Keirn hurried towards the side entrances, he noticed the gathered audience turning almost as if they were directed. They all peered back to the centre of the room where Keirn could hear only the faintest of whispers mingling with the ravaged slobbers of those great hounds as they persisted upon the feast laid before them across the throne.

Whatever distraction beheld the others, it made pushing past them with his blind, naked friend in tow easier. Keirn descended on the door, trying the handle and feeling it catch against it’s latch.

“It’s locked!” he cried. Uselessly.

This deafness thing was going to take some getting used to. Keirn turned to Derrek for more guidance but the bard merely repeated the bone-gnawing gesture.

The temperature in the room rose even more and Keirn could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his neck. He raised his hand to wipe it away and noticed a further change overtaking his entranced neighbours.

The attendants clutched at their ears, pressing back against the walls or collapsing against the floor with mouths agape as if their voices could drown out whatever sound plagued them. Some began to writhe in agony while others drew whatever item or weapon they had at hand. Thus, armed they struck out madly about them, hitting and stabbing whatever their weapons found purchase in.

And in this monstrous crowd, while dancing from wild swings and pulling his blind, naked friend to safety, Keirn remembered his sister. With stilling heart, Keirn realized she was probably still at the Duke’s side where those beastly hounds ate. The young man turned, ducking beneath the slice of a blood speckled halberd while pushing Derrek towards the back of a pillar recently made vacant by the cowering courtesan who was pulled to the ground by those that had been cut down but still clutching madly for reprieve.

But the bodies of the deranged proved too effective a barrier. He heard not their footfalls as they collided unaware into him. He raised arms against lashing nails and blades, each bit stinging and drinking the slightest droplets of blood from his flesh. He’d barely moved a few feet through the writhing mass before he felt his wrist grabbed. He turned to see Derrek still standing with one arm raised to gnaw and pulling anxiously towards the barred door.

At that moment, one of the standing guards blades caught against the thick wood bar, splintering the mass with more strength than seemed possible. With his steel hands, the guard pulled the pieces apart, ripping the door wide and fleeing into the hall as his frenzied compatriots shuffled, bit and clawed afterwards. It was as if a floodgate had been opened and Keirn felt himself being pulled along. The only anchor in the crush of bodies was the soft touch of his minstrel friend still miming the meal they’d enjoyed the night prior.

As they passed beneath the frame, one sound seemed to worm its way through the wax stoppering his hearing. But it wasn’t a piercing shriek or scream. It was a soft sob or remorse.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 2 >

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The Noble Truths (Vacay Post 2)

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Day two of my exciting remiss adventures leaves you with something a little different. Awhile ago, I made a post about the short creation history of a shared world that Derek and I are/were working on. I teased that I may give a bit more detail and for you, lucky reader, I fulfill that promise.

Yes, this is a Plemora post – the unfortunate world created from Derek’s own typos. It is a world that I find quite fascinating. It is really the first ‘alternate reality’ world that I created. Generally, I prefer fabricating my own reality where I’m given unfettered license in developing the people, history, science and understanding of everything. The one thing I enjoy about the fantasy genre is the complete artistic freedom you’re granted by your readership. They are, initially, willing to accept just about anything whether it be talking hamsters or entire cities powered by nothing more than bottle souls.

But Plemora doesn’t try that. It draws its fantasy from the unknowns of our understanding. It leans heavily on our past and our world, teasing at the familiar and lulling its audience into a sense of false security before completely upending all expectations. In a sense, it’s based on Lovecraftian horror. It draws on the areas of the unknown, filling them with horrors and wonders beyond our comprehension. But for these entities to work, it must create that initial familiar element. Yes, it is a world that unabashedly takes place on Earth around our proximate time.

It also is designed within the confines of a game system. Today’s particular element was developed from the initial musings of player ‘classes.’ I wanted to develop within the world a system of unique play experiences that would give players and game masters the freedom to play whatever sort of story they desired. The initial creation was focused around the demon ‘half-breeds’ of people suddenly ripped into a greater understanding of the world than they had before the moment of their ‘curse.’ However, there were other entities and peoples stalking the shadows and moving before the masses who had no idea the true nature of those that walked amongst them.

Usually when one talks about classes in a role-playing game, they are looking at something like a profession. Thieves, wizards and fighters are really just a representation of a character’s training before the start of their grand quest. Whether they be pupils or self-taught, it codifies a vast array of experiences and distills into into common attributes shared amongst its members. I didn’t want the same for Plemora and, given its philosophical bent, I settled upon the idea that class was a representation of belief. Ultimately, no one knew the true nature of universe and why there were demons and other planes of existence. But everyone had their own explanation.

What follows is a few of these ‘noble truths.’ Which one the player belongs to would ultimately shape how he conceptualized the world around himself and thus explain how he fueled and believed in the powers he wielded. What follows is pulled from my notes on the world, so some of it might be formatted a little strangely. Given that it’s from my notes, some concepts may not have the most clear classification yet, as well.

a-concise-demonology-L-6mdlMp

The one interesting thing about history is sometimes you don’t have to do the work in making the weird. Actual magic and demonology is far stranger than anything I have ever created and something I can heavily draw upon for this world building. It helps a creator be a little educated in a lot of things.

The Noble Truths

 These philosophies act as a lens, colouring everything which a person sees and believes. Thus, it would be impossible for a person to be “multi-classed” as these theologies are almost completely incongruent with each other.

Daemonkin are a special kind of class. Completely at the mercy of Enlightened individuals, daemonkin don’t have to follow any of the Noble Truths as their powers derive from the essence impregnated into them from someone or somewhere else. Daemonkin are not really a class onto themselves but generally do not hold a class, as an Enlightened individual would not want to have a daemon within them and would be strong enough to reject the parasite.

Daemonkin are essentially the hosts of a greater Enlightened entity who has been weakened and infects an individual in order to survive. Consequently, being a Daemonkin prevents an individual from adopting a class so long as they are infected. Their powers stem solely from the belief of the entity residing in them and they feed upon their host preventing the ‘body’ from achieving its own, separate understanding so long as the stronger consciousness resides within. The Daemonkin essentially feeds her parasite too much energy to elevate beyond the plane of the mundane but the parasite grants her the powers and possibly knowledge to interact with the worlds beyond our own. Curing a Daemonkin of their daemon would, theoretically, place the host in a greater position to achieve Enlightenment but since they rely on the parasite as a crutch it could, paradoxically, make ascension even more difficult than an unaware individual.

 

The Noble Truths

 

title

Title page of Iconologia by Cesare Ripa (1603)

The Magus

The magus is privy to the most startling Truth than any other class. The Magus has awakened to the great potential within himself, realizing that every individual carries a spark of the divine within themselves. This spark can be honed, trained and strengthened. Through this spark, the individual creates their reality as they see fit. The stronger the spark, the greater their reality bends to their whims. In essence, there are billions upon billions of realities, one for each individual. They are as real and tangent as every other – to an extent. The stronger the individual’s spark, the stronger their own vision is. Through training, focus, meditation and ritual, a Magus can strengthen their spark and gain more control over their reality while shunting away those that conflict with their own. Their greatest difficulty is when their realities overlap with others. For a Magus to exert his will in these circumstances, he must be able to overcome the conflicting rules to his own desires. The overlaps are like a wave, and each builds upon itself. Since unenlightened individuals tend to share similar beliefs and congregate together to survive, a Magus has the hardest time enacting his will in these circumstances. The unawakened naturally form a strong, coherent understanding of their own shared world.

The Magi are aware that these change depending on the nature of the shared community. The realities of North America before the arrival of the Europeans was much different than that after contact. Thus, Magi must not perform “magic” before the unenlightened. But magic is merely what falls beyond the accepted outcome for the immediate community. In Medieval Europe, old Magi could prey on the superstitions and ignorance of these isolated communities. Peasants are farm more willing to believe in wicked individuals capable of twisting a lost farmer’s form into that of a toad than the modern, science driven communities of the present whose shared beliefs deem such a power impossible.Of course, the strength of these shared visions diminishes with the less numbers that are present to view it. A Magi performing before a single, average person will find the antagonistic belief of the unawakened much weaker than if she were surrounded by a group of her friends. So easy is it to prey on the insecurities and self-doubt of the few compared to the many.

Furthermore, even many Enlightened individuals’ realities are so strong that a Magus must bend to their will. While most Enlightened understand and accept magic as a truth, some truly alien entities can be so powerful in their own right as to crush the Magi’s exertion before its very presence. Ironically, the mere sight of these entities are often so strong as to completely shatter the beliefs of the unawakened that it can open many to the possibilities of Enlightenment and allow the Magus to exert before those witnesses.

A Magus has unlimited power, as long as he is able to overcome this force (probably going to be called the Collective Unconscious). Due to a very self oriented bend; the Magus probably relies heavily upon Jungian concepts and themes to supplement his Noble Truth. Magic isn’t impossible before the unawakened, it just relies on how creative and insidious the Magus can be in working his will within the expectations of those around him. Given their focus and typical organization of knowledge, the Magi are perhaps one of the most dedicated Truths to Transcendence.

 

 

1gates06

Detail of the Gates of Hell by Auguste Rodin (1880-1890)

The Demon

Demons are almost a catch-all. They are the Enlightened that know there is something ‘else’ yet don’t ascribe to the conventional wisdom and organization. They believe that the other Paths are ‘lies’ and only a means of controlling others or exploiting them. They either achieved enlightenment through individual means (e.g. witnessing angels and demons fighting and being ‘open’ enough to accept what they were seeing, discovering long lost knowledge and accepting that ancient wisdom etc…), rejecting some other path (e.g. the proverbial ‘Fallen Angel’, disgruntled Magi apprentices, a martial artist that forsaken his master etc…), by making pacts with higher energy beings (e.g. Faustian approach) or any number of similar methods. Because of the numerous ways for them to achieve Enlightenment, the other Truths find it exceedingly difficult to control their numbers and accounts for why Demons have existed since the beginning of time and still thrive today (as the Atheist or Technocrat gains power). They are the undisciplined. They are the reason that every Noble Truth exists. Their Truth, though, is the most startling Truth for the other paths; that their path is unneeded. They are the embodiment of the unknown and the chaotic. They are the personification of entropy, existing without reason and taking their entire lives. For them, the Truth is themselves. The universe is an uncontrollable mess where only the strongest, most clever or traitorous can hope to survive. For that is the Demon’s only purpose: to survive. Thus, Demons are hated by everyone.

They are seen as trouble and most often are. They live in a dog eat dog world, with everyone after them and no honour among their fellows. They are the most numerous Enlightened, and often are the ones that will prey upon the Atheists. However, Demons are the least likely to Transcend, as they have no structure and no order to allow them the growth to achieve Transcendence. Some manage to, however, finding wisdom and knowledge in the untrodden Path that is unavailable through the other structured Truths.

Draper_Herbert_James_Mourning_for_Icarus

Lament for Icarus by Herbert James Draper (1898)

The Angel

And here is where my notes become date. I changed the name of this group and shifted them beneath the Daemonkin banner. I’m including them here as a slight reminder of the origins and because they have a neat interaction with the fundamental principles of the world.

This philosophy stresses a strong hierarchy with clearly defined roles. Whereas the typical Daemonkin feeds by taking the energy of those around them, an angel is granted their energy from a higher being. In turn, the angel directs his faith and belief to this higher power who is granted the power to give to the angel by someone further above them. Essentially, an energy pyramid scheme based solely around a trickle down effect. Initiates are thus extremely numerous and extremely powerless. These could be considered the average belief in the faith structure. They’re mostly the foundation which supports the whole organization. Each Initiate provides limited power but has almost no connection to those above them. Individually, they are forgettable but in great enough numbers their combined contribution is staggering. Right above them are the Disciples. Most of these people are about as remarkable as the average Initiate though they are far more devouted to their cause. This greater devotion provides just enough belief to register on the higher powers map. At any time, a greater power can infuse a Disciple – basically inserting themselves into these devotees and creating a Daemonkin. But since this higher power in turn is connected to an even greater being above her with an even deeper connection, there can be a far stronger flow of energy between the higher planes and the lower.

Consequently, the appearance of an Angel is typically a momentousness event. A single Angel can take on scores of Daemonkin without alone as they are beings used to dealing with the likes of Archons and Demons. But this direct flow of energy is extremely taxing to pump so much power to a lower plane and their physical presence is temporary at best before their benefactors must ‘turn off the tap’ so to speak. What rare communication with these beings has provided little insight into their structure beyond the basics, however. What lies at the top is a mystery and many suspect the Angels don’t even know themselves. Disciples and Initiates claim that their power is evidence of a true God and that they are blessed by this entity. But the Enlightened disagree and many whisper that the true head is nothing but a monstrous Demon with unheard of power and influence. Perhaps even the creature known as the Demiurge himself.

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The Return of Marcus Sextus by Pierre-Narcisse Guerin (1799)

The Atheist

And here you can see where my naming scheme started getting lazy.

An atheist is a person who doesn’t believe in a Noble Truth. Their strength lies in their power of Discord. Every unenlightened has a level of Discord. The stronger the discord, the less effective any Enlightened abilities have on that individual. This discord manifests as skepticism. An atheist puts their belief not in any path, maintaining that the only real Truth is a lack of Truth altogether. For Enlightened, the typical atheist is nothing more but wasted energy. Due to their inexact, uncertain and contradictory beliefs, none of the Atheist’s philosophies can be considered a Truth but the stronger they adhere to their own views the greater their Discord grows. Examples of powerful Discordians are: scientists, philosophers, leaders, Eris Discordians (who are well aware of the contradictions and chaos inherent in their philosophy and yet still worship it. They are probably some of the strongest Atheists, often can exert power rivaling that of an Enlightened.).

 

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Portrait of Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler by Pablo Picasso (1910)

The Technocrat

This path is almost an extension of Atheism. It is the dogmatic belief of the scientific community in no ‘greater’ or ‘higher’ authority. No Gods or Kings, so to speak. The only thing that exists is what one sees with their own eyes, and yet the Technocrats are so close-minded that their ‘selective vision’ will only see what concurs within their own theories. However, they have grown very powerful over the years, easily surpassing the other great Truths in number and influence. This truth lies in the power of observation, in fact and knowledge. It is the certainty which experience of the senses brings. Their truths are easy to comprehend and easier to demonstrate. Thus, their principles have become the standard for the modern era. But they diverge from atheism in one important aspect.

The ideal scientist should be an Atheist, open to new ideas and concepts no matter how incredulous it seems. An Atheist could accept that the corners of the map could truly be where monsters lie. But the Technocrat is more the conservative, dogmatic and emboldened by his own belief and faith in his methods. For the Technocrat, there are no other possibilities than his own. No alternatives are to be considered. In an ironic twist, Technocrats devotion can strengthen their own creations, making things that should not work to and thus proving their hypothesis and reinforcing their faith. So strong is their belief in their right that some are able to lock down or disrupt other creations, making other machinations dissipate or crumble, disproving rival hypotheses and leaving theirs dominant. It is like a greater Tesla/Edison rivalry but over spirituality and belief. The winner doesn’t so much as disprove his rivals theory as alter reality so it can never be true.

 

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Unio Myst by Johfra Bosschart.

The Gnosis

The most elusive Truth. Gnostic Truth maintains that some harmony or unity is to be found amongst the disparate and contradictory paths. To them, each represents a piece of a greater puzzle with Transcendence just another component and not the goal. Much of the Gnosis belief lies beyond a language of theology or philosophy and places great importance in experience. The current world known to many is flawed simply because it was created by flawed hands. These imperfections, they say, are what gave rise to the other Truths which became focused on their own element at the exclusion of the others. Other Truths have come and gone, falling before the strengths of others or forgotten for new beliefs.

But the worship of a piece is shortsighted without ever considering the whole picture. The Gnostic seek to find that final unifying element that will bring all together. For it is their belief that we are all parts of a greater, fractured whole and only through true unity can this broken existence be properly mended.

The Castaway One (Vacay Post 1)

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It’s that time of year again. It’s a time when forgotten bulbs burst forth from neglected soil and hope filled trees push out encouraging little leaves. It’s a time when the days become longer, warmer and inviting. People break open the closets, replacing the thick coats and wool sweaters with shorts and light t-shirts. And it’s a time when my family realizes just how dull it is to be home and begins planning exciting adventures elsewhere.

That’s right, I’m going on vacation. Actually, by the time you are reading this, I have already started. My family unit is wounding its way along the great Canadian roads through untamed wilderness and soaring mountains lured on with the promise of fresh lobster and ancient history. This leaves me with a bit of a quandary since I will be unable to truly update the blog in my absence. However, the power of technology and Derek’s own programming where-to-all has created a system that lets me post from the future. Well… the past really. So here is the first of my vacation snippets.

This is actually a short that I wrote for a small competition online. It was a weekly or monthly competition that gave the candidates a theme or two and a limited time to write whatever possessed them within the word count. I don’t remember the word count, but I do remember the theme: ‘derelict.’ The bonus objective was ‘anonymous.’ What I created came about after one night’s work. Not a great deal of effort pumped into it which probably explains why I lost. However, the open format and lack of real rewards did give my a chance to write something a bit more experimental. I would wholly recommend any would-be writers to participate in these sorts of things. It gives you an amazing opportunity to try things that you may never have before and can really pull from you a piece that is surprising because of the constraints. My initial idea was to try and explore what derelict truly meant. My initial reaction was to think of a ship, beached upon a shore with rust creeping up its long hull and eating into its dark innards. But I began to wonder, ‘Can a person be derelict?’ And what followed from there is what you will find below.

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Derelict ship for Turok 2. Copyright Acclaim or whoever.

For a Piece of Night

1.

What use does the sky have for stars?

 

She holds them to herself, jealously guarding them as if disaster would fall should one slip away. The tighter she clings, the easier it is for the smallest and dimmest to spill through. Does she notice they’re gone? Does she even care?

When the last one falls, will she even cry?

I had dreams of holding a star once but I can’t see them now. They aren’t mine to hold. They never were. Even those that she forgets are too far for me.

But I want one.

It is petty of me to think so. I should be happy with what I have. But I am not. I never was. I think of all the stars she has and can only wonder why she can’t spare one. I need one. But I can’t have one. She wouldn’t even give me one if I asked. She doesn’t care. Why would she when she has her own?

The drip of the faucet returns me to my room. Each slow drop patters against the steel basin, cracking its spine in its last descent. I wonder if it would hurt – to pitch yourself towards the steel and the beams. If you closed your eyes, would you even realize you are falling?

I roll on my mattress and stare at the clock.

Twelve o’clock it flashes. It has for the last three days. That was when the power went out and the lights grew dim. The clock shouldn’t even be flashing but I put a battery in it to make it glow. However, I never reset the time.

I just want to see it shine.

My room is so dark without light. Only the dim red flash of the clock fills it. Though there is my bracelet. The lights on those are too dim to brighten my room. Neither of them are substitutes for a real star.

The patter of each droplet’s final scream drags me to my feet. My shoes are by the door and I don’t even bother tying the laces. They’re still damp and the water squeezes from the soles when my toes squish against the fabric.

It’s too cold for them to dry. I could leave them behind but I don’t want to cut my feet outside. They are damp and make my skin clammy. However, they are better than nothing.

I should be happy with what I’ve got.

I don’t even lock my door as I leave. There is nothing out there that can’t come in. Nothing that hasn’t come already. What good are locks when feet can break the bolt and bend the frame?

As I enter the empty hall, I think about the dripping faucet. It’s better than thinking about the stars. At least I can envy the water. Its journey is done. It doesn’t have to wait anymore.

Not me. I have to walk through the darkness. Each day is the same. Each step is the same. Each flicker of a dying bulb, echo of a grinding girder and creak of shifting metal is the same.

There is nothing separating today from the last. If I closed my eyes, would I even remember what day it was? Would I even remember what this place was?

I don’t think I could. I know there was once people and light. I haven’t heard from anyone for hours. Not since I last went to sleep. I heard earlier someone’s feet pounding frantically above me. Round and round. Just like the others right before they fell silent.

And now, it is quiet and it is dark. I can’t hear them now. I can’t see anything now. Not without a star.

And so, with fingers gently scraping the slick walls for guidance, I step carefully over rubble and head into the gloom.

 

2.

I killed myself today.

Even then, I couldn’t do a proper job.

I stood before the crashing waves and rushing water. I knew the pressure would be enough to mangle limbs and shatter bones. It would be brutal, violent and harsh. The clear blue of the ocean would turn a sickly red as blood was pummeled from veins and muscles.

At least it would match all the other crimson pools dotting the halls.

I could feel the cold of the steel rail in my hand. I could feel my breath catch in my lungs. I could feel the wet spray as the water tore through the metal and churned in an ever frothing pool below. I stood, prepared to pitch forward like a droplet returning to the primordial ocean.

But my fingers didn’t unravel. They clutched to the rail, betraying my own desires. I wanted to let go but they didn’t. They held until the cold steel burned my skin. I was forced to step back to the catwalk. I held my hand and it glowed so bright before me.

My traitorous hand.

The lights on my wristband still blinked fluorescent green in the darkness. One flashed with each beat of my heart. It blinked rapidly matching the fluttering of that weak muscle in my chest still thrashing with life.

I attacked the band in my anger. I scratched at the metal clasp, tearing at it until my skin broke beneath and my blood stained its surface. At last, the protective clasp cracked and loosened. With chipped nails, I wrestled it from my wrist.

The pain was excruciating. Tiny holes over thick blue veins welled with fresh blood as my body rushed to fill the cavity. Freed from my arm, the lights slowed their blinking until they dimmed and died, the wires hanging uselessly from it.

I threw it over the ledge. I watched as it tumbled and fell, landing against the waves and tossed in their grasping fingers. The froth rushed up, grabbing it and slamming it repeatedly into the metal wall. Finally satisfied, the waves dragged the bracelet down into the depths.

It was the fate I deserved but was too cowardly to take. Though I still drew breath, the result was still the same.

I had died. No one would come for me now.

I stand over the pool, watching the water continue to rise. I already regret what I did. It was stupid. Did I think I was being altruistic? Did I think I was being brave?

Or was I afraid that no one would come anyway? It was only one bracelet. Who would care about one bracelet? If they hadn’t come for the others why would they come for me? I was a nobody.

Everyone that was anyone had grown quiet long ago.

The well would soon be full. The water rushed in with violent consistency. The others whispered that it would eventually stop. That it had to stop. But none of us deserved a star. The water would make sure of that.

It wouldn’t be long now anyway. The echo follows me as I slowly make my way up to the higher levels. I am like a rat seeking higher ground, drawn to a distant glow of salvation. The corridors are damp from the mist. It is so cold and wet. You can’t smell anything but the oil and the ocean. Eventually that rising pool would submerge everything in its crushing embrace.

It would do what I could not. I should have just jumped and ended it quickly.

At least now no one would trouble themselves by coming for me.

 

3.

Why is the human heart so frail?

I’m so lonely now that the end is coming.

Not that it wasn’t lonely before. Little has changed in that regard. I sit at the chair like I always have, one leg pulled up to my chin. The lights of the console bathe me in their artificial light. With all the others down, I find them almost blinding now.

Even though the main generators are down, the reserve power kept this console going. It glowed constantly in the gloom, like a subterranean candle calling me to its side each day. The others refused to come in here. They thought I was stupid to come here.

They were probably right.

I can barely remember them now. I didn’t know most of them before, but the others in this room have left me so quickly. I remember Tim sat in front of me. He had curly hair and a splotchy beard. It wasn’t flattering; however not many of us shaved down here. He didn’t talk to me. But, I often caught him glancing in my direction whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.

He was sweet. I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t think I ever want to know what happened to him. I never saw him after the incident. There weren’t many that were around once the water arrived.

I have the headphones pressed against my ear and all I hear is the empty crackle. It’s been like that every day. Every day since the power went out.

Before it had been different. Before, I had heard the voices. It was my duty to listen for them. I never spoke to them. I wasn’t allowed. But I listened to them and connected them to those they had to speak to. I was told that one day someone would call for me. Who had told me that?

Had it been Tim?

No one ever calls for me. Especially not the one I looked forward to most. Why would she? She has everything. She doesn’t need me. She has all the hopes and dreams. She has ambitions. She doesn’t need to be down here digging in the dirt beneath the waves.

Why would the sky ever speak to the earth? She has all the stars from the family and I am fortunate I can just see her with them.

I suddenly remember when mom died. I remember feeling so sad, like someone had ripped something from my chest that I never found since. I know I lay in my room for days, crying into my pillow. Why haven’t I cried now?

And did she ever cry? I think she did when she held mom’s necklace. Was she sad then? Did she miss her then? She held up that necklace and it shone like a string of tiny stars. She always wanted them. She always held them close. She promised me one, once.

But when mom died, Father gave her the stars.

I can hear the water now. It won’t be long. I wondered what I would think about when it came. I’m glad I didn’t think about the others. I’m glad I didn’t think about what happened or the men that came into my room after the incident. I’m glad I didn’t think about my trying to keep them out and them breaking down my door with their feet to get what they wanted.

I’m glad I didn’t think about what things would be like had that great rock not punctured the hull. There was no use in wondering what the future would be like. I would never have one. Not after mom died.

I sit at the console, turning the dials and adjusting the frequency. There is only crackle. There has only ever been crackle down here.

I draw my legs tightly beneath my chin. I can still feel the water sloshing between my toes in my damp shoes. I wonder what it will be like when it’s over. I wonder if I’ll finally stop feeling so alone.

I close my eyes.

There is a pause–an unexpected silence. I hold my breath. Had I just imagined it?

I wait frozen on my chair.

I hear it again. It’s soft and indistinct but it causes my heart to race. I reach for the dials, turning them slowly.

“Echo One. This is the HMS Ansun. Over.”

It repeats.

I reach instinctively for the microphone; my finger darts for the switch. But I pause.

“Echo One. This is the HMS Ansun. Is anyone there? Over.”

I can hear the water getting closer. I can feel the cold of the deep rushing up from the sunken levels. I can feel the tireless march of oblivion thundering towards me. I move my hand, snatching the cord of the headphones and pulling it loose from the console.

I no longer hear the crackle.

I lean back, clutching the end of the headphones. I stare at the metal stub as if it has turned on me like all the others. Had I really heard the voice or had I imagined it? Was this how it was for the others when their footsteps made those frantic circles?

I close my eyes and wait for the water.

I had always wanted a star. But they were not mine to hold. They were hers and she had forgotten me down here in the depths.