My Writing Process: Something Different

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

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

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

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

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

Here is my character sketch for Walter Samuel Schroeder:

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

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

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

Walton Samuel Schroeder II
“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”
A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was the response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the other. They searched for some unforgiving tell.
Neither could be more unalike. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin that seemed cracked and split from the long years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie – a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared any time the man’s ire rose.
Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had a fearsome reputation on the plains as he did at the table. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did passed judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging sack by his side.
Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.
But every caravan needed its mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.
And Walton Samuel Schroeder II looked the fool.
He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.
On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. Elegant curving patterns of the western peoples depicted stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.
Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.
And Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always washed away to be the same.
And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.
“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage ain’t getting shorter. You’ll be putting down that hand either way but if you be parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”
He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.
Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.
He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.
“I ain’t be aiming to wait for this wine to get better.”
Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.
He played his hand.
With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines.
It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt the young man to himself for a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer’s hand but revealed the gambler for the cheat he was.
And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.
Schroeder set down his cup.
“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.”
Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood holding, offering his foe an apologetic shrug.
“Perhaps next time.”
The young man began to collect his ill gotten gains.
But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.
“I want to see the rest.”
“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”
Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.
“Show me.”
His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from his gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.
Schroeder coughed.
“Very well.”
The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He turned and coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head back.
Schroeder turned back, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the three remaining cards, slowly turning over a seven of swords.
“And the next.”
Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning over a six of coins.
“One more.”
At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors eyes and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.
“The coup de grace!”
Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his ally who rubbed at the sting where the card struck his skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.
“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”
He tossed a handful of coins at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck.
Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol chased after him.
“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”
The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap bouncing in his pack, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step but nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”
She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stain wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.
A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hat in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.
Schroeder took to his heels once more.
Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting out upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the rail, attempting to gauge his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.
The crash behind him was all the motivation he needed. As raised voices echoed out the corridor, he put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests gave a great shout and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on the knees. And he’d just purchased these trousers.
He cast a quick look skyward.
Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.
The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.
But now things had gone too far.
A few of the patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their own pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasure night of cards.
Meyer ducked behind the rail, returning what fire he could. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as the horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.
Bullets struck tables, splintering debris in worrying close proximity as he slid his hat. He paused before one table still upright, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim stem of the crystal glass. He brought to wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.
He motioned to pass on but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.
The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.
A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcement to the confusion and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table to gauge the development. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought in the firefight.
“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”
Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the rail works, running own the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.
The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.
It was seconds before some embittered separatist cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well to do red suit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the wood about him.
And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jangle for going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. The rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.
A bullet sang past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium had taken over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his foot caused the boat the slam loudly against the deck.
Eventually, the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.
As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with great deep purple bustle that seemed to shimmer in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.
“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.
The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.
“You may, good sir.”
She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.
“Take this end, I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.
“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.
“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”
“Why delay?” Schroeder smiled, stepping to the rail. She gave a brief smile as she placed her hand on his chest.
“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”
She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.
“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”
And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like an intoxicating wine about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.
Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.
“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”
But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.
“That was custom fitted!” he shouted.
A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced back at the mayhem overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath and plunged into the waves.

It’s a Trap! – Part 4

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Oh my goodness, I completely forgot to post yesterday!

Errr… there is no man behind the curtain!

—————Break —————

“Come with me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I?!”
Jeremiah stabbed the crackling logs within the fire pit. A swirl of embers twisted upwards, dancing briefly like small fireflies before burning their little bodies out in a bright flash of light and heat.
Jeremiah lifted the lid of the pot suspended over flames. The fresh squash was beginning to cook nicely and the heady scent of herbs filled his nostrils. He stirred the mashed vegetable with a long ladle, hopeful to not burn it to the bottom this time.
Keirn sat at the table, still dressed in his travelling garb. The shadows from the fire played across his eager face, ringing an almost hungry expression in his eyes. But it was not food that his friend sought. There was something else behind his sudden return and Jeremiah was suspicious of some further play behind his request.
“I have to wonder over your insistence in remaining here,” Keirn said, thrumming his fingers against the table. “It must be awfully lonely now.”
Jeremiah turned towards the pegs by the front entrance. Most lay empty now. His brothers and sister had long since moved out, having met spouses of their own and having houses of their own to tend. The only cloak that didn’t belong to him had remained unmoved upon its peg for quite some time now. And yet, even though its owner was never coming back to claim it, Jeremiah couldn’t find the motivation to throw it away.
And it wasn’t particularly out of some grander fondness for his mother. He liked her well enough, but to him she had been a bit of a tyrant. The youngest of four and the third brother to boot, he offered little to the household and his lineage other than another mouth to feed long after his mother cared for rearing young.
At least, young at his age. She was far fonder of babies than children and the moment his brothers started having some, any positive attention Jeremiah hoped he could still get was quickly transferred to them.
But despite her growing neglect of her own child, Jeremiah still remained in her home even after her very health began to leave. And when the gods came to claim what was left of her, that cloak remained. Jeremiah had such plans for it, but any time he took it from its hook the empty void it left just came to reinforce how quiet the house had become.
“I have plenty here,” he said, stubbornly stoking the fire. “Master Beadell says that my training has been coming along really well lately.”
“Master Beadell is old and senile. The old fart is lucky if he can remember which foot to properly put in his slippers.”
“All the more reason for me to tend the apothecary. And maybe in a few years he’ll name me…”
“Name you what? His successor? He keeps forgetting his wife is dead! I’m pretty certain that place is going to his son and no matter how many years you put in it won’t change that fact.”
“Look, not all of us can just abandon everything we know to wander off into the horizon on some silly sense of adventure. Some of us have people we care about. And people that care about us!”
“I know you and Amber are through,” Keirn said flatly.
“What? But how-”
“Well she’s hardly here tending to your hearth,” Keirn said, pointing at the pot now giving off a steady stream of blackened smoke. Jeremiah cried out, leaping to the flames and dragging the smoking pot away between a pair of large iron tongs. “Also, I saw her earlier with Cairen behind the temple in a most… how do you say… un-priestess like fashion. That girl does seem to have quite a fire in her, though. She should really have worshipped a Vanir.”
Jeremiah dropped the pot on the table, cursing as he quickly removed the lid. He wetting his scorched fingers as he surveyed the damage. Keirn leaned forward, pulling the nape of his cloak out of the way as he inspected the contents.
“Don’t worry, I prefer meat anyway. And it’s not like we could have bundled that up to go.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Why not!”
“Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying?!”
Keirn waved his hand.
“Those are just lingering doubts. Everyone has them. Come, it’ll be exciting!”
“I can’t leave the house unattended.”
“Sure you can. Just inform my mother. She’ll keep an eye on it. It’s not like she has anything better to do.”
Jeremiah shook his head at his friend’s blatant disregard for anyone’s feelings.
“There’s nothing for me out there. Everything I want is here, in this village. I still don’t see why you need anyone to go with you. Or why you left the Academy in the first place.”
“The student life isn’t for me,” Keirn dismissed. He leaned forward. “Look, Jere, I need you. I need you to do this for me.”
“Why?”
“Well… because… because…” Keirn looked about the small room for some answer. But there was nothing in the humble dwelling to assist him. A simple hearth filled the space between the larder and the large table. A small cleaning basin was set to the side and was surrounded by various drying herbs cultivated from the tiny garden in the back. Across from them lay Jeremiah’s apothecary supplies – the tools and containers he’d been stocking up with his pay from the rare peddler that stopped in the village. Finally, a large straw bed lay before the stairs that descended into the small cellar where most of the food and wine was stored.
“Haven’t you always wanted more. More than this?”
Jeremiah lifted a careful amount of squash to his lips, testing to see if any of it was salvageable.
“No.”
“Not even once? Never have you woken from your sleep and turned over to see the separator between you and your mother’s bed thinking that there was more to life than this useless little village and its useless little routines? What life really remains for you here: one of endlessly toiling at a business that will never be yours, waiting for some lovely maiden to walk by to come and warm your bed in the hopes that perhaps in her arms you’ll find some solace that lets you sleep?”
“Why do you even care!” Jeremiah shouted, tossing the ladle angrily towards the water basin. He thundered to his feet, stomping back to the hearth and upending the contents of the pot into the fire.
“Because… unlike this unsympathetic village… I need you.”
Jeremiah turned towards the other man.
“You having a laugh?”
“No, I mean it.” Keirn’s voice grew soft – almost vulnerable. “I can’t do this on my own.”
“Why not?”
“At the Academy, we were taught to recognize the limits of ourselves. I know I can be a little… brisk and that sometimes my actions may need a more moderating hand. I’m no valiant knight, Jeremiah. But you, however – you are.”
He looked up at his friend, the flames reflecting brightly in his eyes.
“You care and that is a powerful thing. People see that in you and that can be a great strength. With a little refinement and a little direction you can be the very thing people look up to. The person people turn to when in need. A kind face whose honour holds him to a higher calling than the petty schemes of the rest of us rabble.”
Something stirred within him at those words.
“You really think so?”
Keirn nodded.
“Of all the village it was you who spoke to me in the glade. All the other children were content with calling me names or throwing rocks at my head. Adults turned a blind eye or sneered when I passed. But not you – you sought me out even after I mocked you and turned you away. Day after day you came, sitting on that rock despite what I did. Even when I sought further refuge, you came and you waited.”
Jeremiah felt his face flush at the memory.
“How did you know?”
“Because I didn’t leave. I stayed in the trees. I… wanted to know if you’d still come even if I had left.”
Keirn stood, crossing the room and resting a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder.
“I need you Jere, because you’re the only friend I have in this rotted village or anywhere else. Come with me and leave this empty place behind.”
That night, Jeremiah went into the basement. Behind barrels of stored cheeses and pickled vegetables was one particular chest. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, abandoned in the darkest spot. Abandoned but not forgotten. Jeremiah fiddled with the rusty latch, finally opening the lid with a terrific groan.
Inside lay an old sword and a suit of worn armour. Jeremiah stared at those treasures of a man he’d never remembered. A man his mother refused to speak of and whose last belongings his siblings shun. Jeremiah took that suit and sword back upstairs and spent the rest of the evening checking the straps and latches and polishing the metal.
The next morning he greeted his friend, shifting uncomfortably beneath the unfamiliar weight of the strange metal suit and shouldering a bag filled with what little belongings he couldn’t leave behind.

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

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 5 >

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It’s a Trap! – Part 3

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< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 2

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

So here’s part 3 of the D&D story!

—————Break —————

Amber gave the rod a gentle shake. In the dim torchlight, it glowed golden and twinkled from the priceless gems inserted in its tip. It was almost three feet in length and slender in girth. But it looked undeniably valuable – a relic from a bygone era and almost forgotten by all save the most devious.
“What shall it be then? Should I just let this slip and fall into the empty void much like our relationship?”
“I can’t believe you’ve had that all this time,” Jeremiah said. “We’ve been risking our lives searching this forsaken place and you’ve just been quietly carrying it in your pack. How typical.”
“Please, you’re nothing more than common grave robbers,” Amber scoffed. “This place is sacred to one of the blessed Vanir. I’ve been sent on a holy intervention to preserve its purity.”
“You’re one to talk about divine sanctity!”
Amber shook her head.
“I knew it was a mistake coming. I should have left you all to be buried here with your misplaced greed and heresy. I thought maybe we could rekindle that which was lost. But it’s clear to me what you are and what you’ve always been – selfish, self-loathing denouncer of the gods.”
“Gods damn clerics. Will someone just shoot her already?!” Keirn cried.
Jeremiah felt a pang strike his heart. This is not what he had envisioned. This is not how he saw his life unfolding. He was meant for simpler things: a small farmstead and apothecary in town, a roasting pheasant over a fire spit and a loving wife to return home to in the evening. Even with her face contorted in anger and spite, he couldn’t help but see that first beauty that had made his mind blank and heart stop.
With great reluctance, he drew his longsword and pointed it towards the woman.
“Drop it or I’ll drop you.”
Amber laughed. It was a shrill sound devoid of any mirth.
“And now the coward finds his spine? Spare me the dramatics, Jeremiah, you were never good at them.”
“I’m not the same man you left.”
Curiosity coloured her features as she re-appraised the armoured man. For but a moment, Jeremiah considered whether he was capable of running her through. It shouldn’t be difficult. She had only the barest of leather protection padding her simple travelling clothes. And it wasn’t like she would be trained in the use of her walking stick to defend herself. No, she was the daughter of a priest with little knowledge than some outdated religiosity and the most effective methods for gutting a man’s heart.
She took a step back, her boots pressing slowly against the tile behind her.
“Then go ahead, love, show me how much you’ve changed. Run me through on your blade. Let my blood stain your hands and this temple. Leave my body as some forgotten sacrifice to this nameless deity!”
She leaped from tile to tile, picking her safe path across the board. Jeremiah just watched her go, watched the bob of her fiery hair as it trailed behind the priceless artefact they were tasked with salvaging. Only three columns from the end, she turned back to smile wickedly at his frozen advance.
“You see, you may put on armour and play a warrior but you’re still that lost silly boy from the glade. A sword doesn’t make you a soldier. A codpiece doesn’t make you a man.”
She turned towards the exit, pumped her arms, and leaped the last few rows. She fell short of her target, landing heavily against a pair of runes that crumbled immediately beneath her weight. She scrambled for the ledge, the rod slipping from her hands and rolling across the floor with a clear ringing tingle. She pulled herself up the ledge, brushed dirt off her clothes and retrieved the rod.
She turned back to the company, giving them a soft wave as she moved towards the exit.
“Do pass on my regards to Alfather. However long that may take for you to run out of food. Or for our friend to come through the door.”
The pounding on the lowered door reminded them of the company that awaited them in the dark. The company that had only begun stalking them when they ran into the fiery priestess. Amber bent to crawl through the gap on the other side, but as she extended her arm to scramble through Keirn gave a great shout and released the stone in his grasp.
The door smashed to the floor, a great clatter indicating the hidden lock slid into place. The pulleys and chords overhead shifted and groaned as the change in position was transferred across the room. Amber cried, looking up at the network of balances before trying to squeeze through as quickly as she could. After a few seconds of realizing she wouldn’t make it in time, she pulled herself quickly back as the exit slammed before her face.
“What did you do that for!” Aliessa cried. “Now we’ll be trapped!”
Keirn glared at the other woman, his face flushed a deep red as he gripped his knees panting for breath.
“If we’re… going to die… then she’s going with us.”
Amber drew to her feet across the room.
“Figs for cods! Have you any idea what you’ve done, you muck sucker?!”
Kait raised her brows.
“Quite the mouth on the priest’s daughter,” she muttered. “Honestly, Jere, I have no idea what you saw in her.”
Jeremiah sheathed his sword.
“It matters not. What’s done is done.”
He watched Amber slap the rob against her palm to remind them she still held the artefact. But Jeremiah knew it was an empty display of rebellion. There was nothing to be done about it for the moment.
Derrek gave a spurt and spasm on the floor. Aliessa stirred, holding his golden head gentle as he slowly lifted himself to his elbows with a cough. He looked curiously around the room before turning to Keirn.
“The door’s closed.”
“We had some… complications while you were out.”
Derrek struggled to his feet, Aliessa helping as best she could. He leaned heavily upon her as he looked over the tiled board from this new perspective. His eyes settled on Amber and he gave a crooked smile.
“Oh good, you’re still here. Keirn would have been so mad if you’d left with the rod.”
“You know she had it?!” Aliessa exclaimed.
“Of course. It’s the only reason she came here.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“I thought the rest of you knew.”
Derrek blinked at them. Jeremiah sighed, shifting his feet beneath a clattering of metal rings.
“Can we just get me across this damn thing?”
“No point now with the doors closed,” Derrek said, pointing to the pulleys above them. “The counterweights are situated in small alcoves in the adjoining rooms. You can see the holes where the chords diverge there and there. Without someone to displace the weight on the other side there isn’t anyway to open them.”
“Can’t we just lift them?” Keirn asked.
Derrek shook his head.
“They’re weighted down to prevent precisely that. You’ll notice there are no handles or locks on these doors. Rudimentary precautions probably installed to safeguard against temple thieves.”
“So… us,” Kait said.
“More of the temple-temple kind. What with the war between the two divines, some clergy turned to their own number to steal into rival temples and snatch their holy relics. Helped shift the balance usually in favour of the Aenis since the Vanis were so unlikely to take such actions. Or so they say.”
“Whole bunch of nonsense,” Jeremiah grumbled. “And now we’re all going to starve to death because of some foolish belief in sky wizards?”
“At the very least it seems pragmatic,” Kait said. “I mean, it stopped us from stealing.”
“Which brings us back to the original problem. Any idea how we can get out of this, Derrek?”
The bard looked at the sorcerer while he considered his words.
“I suppose we could wait for whatever is still prowling these corridors to smash down the door.”
The pounding had subsided for the moment, but Jeremiah wasn’t a fan of facing some fantastic beast with the strength to tear through the thick stone containing them inside. Especially given the limited terrain they were offered with the tiled floor taking up much of the room.
Not to mention the large holes now spread across its surface because of their attempt to cross.
“Honey, you can’t think of anything else?” Aliessa asked.
“Well, there is one other option we haven’t considered.”
“What’s that?”
“We jump down the hole.”
Keirn laughed. Then abruptly stopped.
“You’re serious?”
“It has to go somewhere.”
“But what if it’s a deadly pit filled with sharp spikes!” Kait cried.
“I guess we can wait then,” Jeremiah said. “Who shall start splitting the rations.”
Keirn sighed.
“Fine but we throw her down first.”
Keirn pointed across the room at Amber.
“No! I won’t do it!” Amber screamed
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
Amber held the rod out over the hole.
“I’ll drop it!”
“Then you can pick it up again when you land,” Keirn said. He took the tiles slowly, trying desperately to remember which ones were safe from the earlier crossings. As he got near Jeremiah, the other man couldn’t help but speak.
“I don’t think this is a really good idea,” he whispered.
“Are you volunteering?”
“What if she dies?”
“Then we know it’s not a valid route. Gods, you two were just shouting how much you hate each other a moment ago.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean that I wanted to see her dead!”
“Can we possibly put this to vote?” Aliessa called.
“Oh, good idea. All for?” Derrek asked, immediately shooting up his hand. The woman at his side gave him a horrifying look.
“I, personally, am not comfortable with this,” Kait said from her tile.
“Do you have a better course?”
“No, I just wanted to say my part.”
“What is this?!” Amber cried as the last objections were raised. Keirn continued his approach and she stumbled back. “You can’t be serious about this!”
“Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse.”
“I knew you were trouble!” Amber shouted. “The moment that whore of your mother came to the village, we knew you were no good. My father was right, only rot grows from spoilt earth! The whole lot of you should have been strung up in the town centre for the crows and maggots!”
“You know what, I’d like to change my vote,” Kait said.
Keirn paused before the last three rows, readying his jump. Amber raised her staff, pointing it aggressively towards the sorcerer. Undaunted, he jumped the distance, landing upon the other side. Amber gave a great shout as she charged forward. Keirn merely crooked his lips before side stepping her clumsy lunge, grabbing her stick and knocking her to the ground.
She coughed up some of the ancient dust, rolling on her back and glaring up at him.
“Know that the gods will thrice curse you for your transgressions!”
“Says the girl who snatched the holy relic,” Keirn said. “Speaking of which, want to hand it over before you’re sent in. I’d hate for it to break and the entire point of this stupid adventure ruined.”
“Never!” she spat.
Keirn shrugged and merely whacked her with her stick. She cried out but refused his demands. So he struck her again and again. This continued for a bit, with Keirn pausing after every strike to ask for the relic but Amber refused to acquiesce. After enough beating, however, she eventually cried out.
“Fine, fine! I can’t believe you all just stood there,” she hissed, struggling to her hands and knees. “In my mind, you’re all culpable for this.”
“Yeah, yeah, save your sacred indignation for a captive parish. The rod please.”
Keirn held out his hand. Amber’s face contorted into a horrible mask of fury and malice. Keirn just waited and she finally slapped the rod into his outstretched palm.
“I hope you’re happy.”
“Not yet,” he said as he began prodding her with the butt of the staff towards the pit.
“Know that if I die, my god will strike you down for your impertinence.”
“Amber, dear, you’ve been wagging that threat for as long as I can remember. If I was going to be punished, it would have been a long time ago. Not quit stalling and jump into this dark and potentially lethal pit.”
She stood at the edge of the broken tiles, looking into the gloom. Her hands fidgeted, clearly anxious about the possibly inglorious end that faced her. She looked to each gathered face, quietly pleading for someone to take her side or stand in defence. Aliessa merely turned to the ground. Derrek seemed honestly curious about the outcome of their little test. Kait glowered back at the other woman.
Thus, it was with a heavy sigh that Jeremiah finally stepped forward.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun. But this can’t continue.”
Keirn rolled his eyes.
“You can spare your conscience, she was going to leave us all for dead.”
Jeremiah frowned.
“That’s not how morality works. It doesn’t bend to whatever is convenient to you. It’s wrong to force her down the pit and I won’t let you.”
“So what then? Should we send you instead.”
“Yes.”
Keirn laughed then stopped abruptly.
“Oh, you’re serious. Was there some sort of crazy draught that I missed this morning?”
“Of course I am serious! You’re not forcing her down there.”
“Aren’t things over between you two?” Derrek called from across the room. “Might as well just dump her!”
Aliessa slapped his arm.
“There will be no dumping!” Jeremiah cried. “If we’re so determined to have someone go down, than I will be the one.”
Silence fell between everyone gathered as Jeremiah looked to each challenging them to contradict him. Keirn merely shrugged.
“Fine but I really think this would have been best for you – you know, emotionally and what not.”
He removed the staff from the small of Amber’s back and the girl waved her arm angrily at the retreating stick. She brushed her clothes and stepped back from the pit making sure to fire one last withering look at Keirn.
Jeremiah made his way slowly to the other side, pausing before the jump over the last three rows. Amber sheepishly stood across from him, looking down at her hands in what he could only assume was a mix of awkwardness and shame.
“Look… you really didn’t have to step in on my behalf. I do appre-”
“Stow it,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve had your maiden act before. This isn’t for you.”
Amber sneered and shook her head.
“Of course it isn’t!”
She stomped off to a corner to hunker down and sulk. Keirn took her place, holding the staff out for Jeremiah. Jeremiah stretched, taking a hold of the opposite end. He then jumped forward, clutching the staff tightly as the other man pulled him forward. His feet struck the tiles, each crumbling beneath him, but the momentum generated by the two brought him tumbling to the other side.
“Thanks.”
“I still think we should toss her.”
“I’ll pretend that’s out of some misplaced concern for my well-being.”
“Also, she’s a thrice cursed brat.”
Jeremiah stood to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands and carefully approaching the edge. Not many of the tiles were broken on this side and it seemed the pit just yawned down into endless nothingness. A soft cloud of dust rose from Jeremiah’s hurried crossing to the other side. He poked at one of the nearby tiles, listening as the pieces tinkled as they fell through the gloom. He counted the seconds, straining his ears for the telltale sound of them striking something underneath.
“Second thoughts?”
“All the time.”
He poked at a few more tiles, widening the hole for him to fall down.
“Look, if we’re going to go through with this foolishness, we can at least not be stupid about it. Take off your armour.”
“What are you on about?”
“Trying to not get you killed,” Keirn said turning to his sister. “Kait! Toss me your rope!”
She sighed as she stood and began the acrobatic technique of searching her numerous bags without falling from her square. While she was busy with that, Keirn lent a hand in unbuckling the straps keeping plates of Jeremiah’s armour on.
“This is looking in pretty rough shape.”
“We haven’t really had the chance to fix it. Or buy a new one.”
Keirn held up one piece with a clear cut run right through it.
“Does this even protect you anymore.”
“It’s not always about protection,” Jeremiah replied, snatching it from his hands and placing it gently on the ground next to its kin. He looked at the makeshift suit spread before him. “Sometimes, it’s just about the image that you portray.”
“Oh really?” Keirn asked motioning for Jeremiah to lift his arms as he helped slide the thick chain shirt off. “And what image are you looking for? Hedge knight?”
Jeremiah didn’t respond.
“Truly? But you… you are…”
“Am what?!” Jeremiah growled.
Keirn backed off.
“You were just so reluctant to leave, I guess. I don’t know. I always assumed you were resentful that I dragged you from your home. That I convinced you to leave everything you enjoyed for this dung heap of a life wandering aimlessly from town to town.”
Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest. He tried to force out the denial of his friend’s words but nothing seemed to come. Instead, he just unstrapped his scabbard and placed his sword at the foot of his equipment.
“Here it is!” Kait called, tossing the snaking rope towards the men.

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

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 4 >

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It’s a Trap! – Part 2

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< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 1

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

—————Break —————

The village of Galt was peaceful. Perhaps that is what drew so many people to it. There was nothing remarkable in its countryside. No fabulous ruins of an ancient civilization with legends of promising forgotten treasure lured adventures to the hills. No strange arcane towers jutted from the wilderness begging people to wonder what occurred within the sequestered walls. No castle of a feudal lord broke the horizon reminding the peasants of the divine protection and the weekly tribute demanded of them from some absentee ruler.
For the villagers of Galt, there was nothing but placid farmland and serene wilderness branching out in all directions. Nestled among the distant woods and sloping vales lay other quiet settlements. Possibly as content as Galt but never as pleased.
The villagers always maintained some extraordinary tranquillity welled up from the land like some miraculous brook they all savoured. But they needed no ghostly lights or monuments to highlight it. They had the very villagers themselves to attest to this strange power.
For whoever set foot in the small village found it almost impossible to leave. Travellers were rare but rarer still were those few that could resist the pleasant charms and carefree spirit of the village. And no suspicion or doubt clouded the minds of the residents. They welcomed each wanderer as if they were some lost kin. And that hospitality brought more to roost than not.
Jeremiah knew his family came from elsewhere. That much was certain with his family’s darker complexion and thicker frames compared to these pale, slight people. But Jeremiah could count the number of times his strangeness was remarked upon and usually such taunts were hastily reprimanded by the offending youth’s parents.
Jeremiah remembered little of where he did come from. The youngest of his kin, his recollections of that early time were little more than some shaky visions of a covered cart and the whiff of some peculiar roasted meat. His mother never spoke of that place and his eldest brother always hushed any questions of their origins.
He was told, time and again, he was a member of Galt. And for the Pitmans that was enough. Jeremiah had far fonder memories of being educated in the local town hall than whatever place actually gave birth to him. He could recall sermons in the tiny parish and of rolling down green meadows surrounded by colourful flowers. He loved the two hounds his mother let him keep, the poor pups found one sunny afternoon lost in the wilderness.
Jeremiah took an interest in the power of plants and herbal remedies. And while the situation that spurred his study of salves and concoctions were tinged with bitter emotions they landed him a respectable apprenticeship with the local apothecary. And there was this lovely girl from the parish who made him smile and feel all funny in his stomach. They laughed and played beneath the maypole and frolicked in the quiet groves.
But that all ended when he arrived.
There was nothing auspicious about his entrance. Much like others before, he had come quietly in the night. Found sleeping in his mother’s arms as she appeared humble before a homestead pleading for a safe place to sleep. Perhaps the only peculiar note was the scar she bore down her neck, a long and old wound that hinted at a past to be fled.
But who in Galt didn’t have some ancient spectre they wished to be forgotten. So the mother was welcomed and found the perfect place to raise her two children that was both understanding and secure. Her eldest was a girl with long brown hair and inquisitive eyes. She seemed to take to the village and its ways quite willingly, laughing and playing with the other children.
But her brother was the odd one. A dark shadow seemed cast over his demeanour. He was quiet and reclusive and sneered or turned away those that approached him. Only his sister seemed to pierce that shield he’d raised about him. He seemed to loathe the village and everything within. He was the single black spot on a sunny day. He was the dark cloud that hovered in the horizon as a portent of an encroaching storm. He was trouble and Jeremiah would often wonder what cruel twist of fate bound his and that boy’s destinies together.
For the children Kait and Keirn were the village’s small trouble that they wished not to discuss. Their pivotal years were filled with whispers and gossip. Never before did Jeremiah hear of questions or concern over a strange arrival. Where did this family come from and why did they come here, people whispered. None would dare finish their thought or voice that one idea that every one shared.
What would it take to get rid of them?
For even if the children were peculiar, it was the mother that kept the villagers at bay. Jeremiah had little interactions with the elder Faden but she was a formidable woman. It would have been nothing for her to take control of the village, assert her will and have all people bow before her directions. But while she unnerved and cowed even the boldest man, she kept to herself. Only when her children seemed threatened did some dark fury bubble just beneath her eyes.
And none dare raise a weapon against her. For one doesn’t receive those scars by toiling in noble’s fields.
It was at Jeremiah’s mother’s insistence that the boy approached the lad. She seemed convinced that all the other boy needed was a friend and with that small gesture the entire clan would ease gently into the simple village life. Their first interactions were brief but it was his mother’s vow that dark night that convinced him to get close to the youth.
His persistence was rewarded. But only just. While the young Keirn did finally allow the other boy into his life, Jeremiah always knew he was kept at arms length. He didn’t recall his own past, but he wondered if the other boy did. And if it were those memories that forced him to shut all others out.
But time passed and the boys grew older. Then, out of the blue, Keirn announced he was leaving for the strange Academy. Few knew what that meant, they were just happy to see one of the Faden clan leave. Jeremiah felt sad and even slightly betrayed by this sudden proclamation. But he was one of the few to actually see the youth off. He could still remember his sister quietly weeping as her brother shouldered his pack and headed down that trail with nary a look back. Everyone, including his sister, felt that this was the end of him. He’d gone and would never return.
And for that year and a half, the village seemed much like Jeremiah remembered. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. Kait took the post at the town hall, schooling the younger children in their letters and numbers. Jeremiah spent much of his time with that red haired beauty.

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

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 3 >

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A Difference in Levels

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Last night I had an opportunity to curl with the manager of my club. Wow!
She is very, very good. She is, in fact, the person that teaches most people when they come to the club for lessons. I have also attended her lessons and spent the entire game trying to recall every pointer and direction she ever gave me. I desperately wanted to impress this person – viewed by many as one of the best curlers in our club.
This is not to diminish the skills of the other two players on the team. They threw shots I could only dream of – take outs the likes of which you see on TV. It was daunting, but also so wonderously incredible. I got to experience high level curling first hand. I was there to see the constant communication between the front end and the house. I was part of the amazing shots that resulted in a 7 end game with a final score of 11 – 4.
That it was a contrast to my usual social leagues could not have been more obvious. These women had skill and knowledge of each other only gained through years of experience. I even got to ask some questions that have always confused me; like what is the difference between control and normal weight. (Answer: normal refers to your normal take out weight and control is a little lighter.)
As for my own shots, well, I curled better than I had in several weeks – making one shot in two (generously). I don’t think I embarrassed myself for a beginner with three years’ experience. They even chanced a take-out for my last shot in the seventh end; which happily I made.
I was so nervous and so excited at the same time. I was terrified of messing up horribly and wonderstruck at how good the others work. It was both scary and amazingly fun. And for all I was worried, the others were very nice, friendly and encouraging. Even the club manager, who was skipping that night, as she teased me about the importance of lead rocks. I guess leads really do set up ends – at least when playing with skilled people.
It was totally exciting and an absolutely fabulous experience that I will remember for a long time to come.

Olympus Has Fallen Review (Olympus was Ballin’)

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So, this weekend I saw Olympus Has Fallen. Which is unfortunate since I was planning on doing some more rambling on world creation. Instead, you get a shitty review. Here’s my Olympus has Fallen review.

olympus_has_fallen_500x250

But, Kevin, what is Olympus Has Fallen I hear you say. Is it some interesting movie dissecting the decline of Grecian cultural hegemony over western development? Why are there so many American flags being waved. And is that Morgan Freeman? I love that guy! I hope he plays Memnon.

Well, my beloved readership, Olympus Has Fallen (abbreviated to OHF which should be easy to remember since its so close to Oh F@#$!) is Gerard Butler’s grossly self-indulgent, narcissistic, fantasy indulgence centering around the ridiculous modern ubermensch and the failing of the outdated classical action hero trope in carrying current cinema. But that’s a bit long of a tag line so it’s normally billed as a story about the White House being taken over by terrorists.

That sounds like it could create a compelling story right? A movie that examines the frailty of the American illusion over its own supposed invincibility. Gosh, post 9/11 America has become really self critical and introspective has it not?

No, no it has not. OHF is easily the blandest, driest and boringest movie I’ve seen all year. Granted, it gets that through sheer convenience of being the only movie I’ve seen this year but I have high hopes for the new G.I. Joe flick. Suffice to say, the movie is more than deserving of its rotten status on review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes. Don’t expect this to be winning any awards. Don’t expect it to win anything period. I was literally bored ten minutes into the movie.

And let me tell you why.

The narrative, story and characters of this movie are about as cliched and one dimensional as you can possibly get. If you’re worried about spoilers well… you shouldn’t since this movie is about as predictable as the outcome of the Trojan War. Now, I could probably write thousands of sentences on how this movie is bad (I know my family has listened to just about as much Saturday afternoon) but I’ll try and keep with the initial stumblings of the film and not even touch the some of the more ludicrous elements that most viewers will probably notice (Cerberus and Dylan McDermott).

This movie is bad right out the gate. The story opens one blistery winter evening up at Camp David where we’re treated to some nonsensical moment where Gerard Butler and Aaron Eckhart are rolling around in some sweaty embrace that’s suppose to mimic boxing. No doubt this moment was meant to establish the close bond between Butler’s secret service agent and Eckhart’s President character. Perhaps we were meant to see these two at their most intimate time, when both their guards were lowered and they had shed all pretenses of job and protocol so they could express their own deep seated worries and fears.

Well, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s… something about Butler teaching the President to stop sucking at boxing. He gives him some times to improve his game but if you think this is foreshadowing a moment where Eckhart is going to knock some jerk out then you’re going to be sorely disappointed. In fact, this entire Camp David scene which ostensibly is suppose to be introducing us to the major players is nothing more than an enormous waste of twenty minutes. The only thing established in this time is that the secret service are incompetent drivers and could never survive in Canada. If the President had hired some Mounties to be his chauffeurs then maybe his wife wouldn’t have taken a forty foot plunge off the world’s flimsiest bridge.

At least the cars don’t explode when they crash against ice.

So, here the audience sits, twenty minutes in and the only thing of note is that the First Lady has died in a car crash. What does this have to do with terrorists and the White House? Absolutely nothing. Because if you think this moment is important in developing some deep character conflict between the President and his secret service agent then you’d be wrong. Because all that’s changed is that Butler has been moved to some cushy job at the Treasury since he reminds Eckhart “too much about that one time at band camp.”

The best part, is that the entire twenty minutes is literally recapped in the next scene when a bunch of secret service agents walk into a caffe where Butler is on break to explain that he doesn’t have a job with them anymore because the First Lady died eighteen months ago in a terrible car accident. Look, if you’re going to summarize immediately something that’s juts happened, why bother showing it in the first place?

On top of which, none of this matters for the overall narrative other than it delays Butler’s arrival at the scene when the White House inevitably comes under attack. So we’re twenty five minutes into the film and already you know that it’s going to be a stretched time sink padded with pointless moments because the writers and director really had nothing to tell with this film.

Speaking of a waste of time, cue Butler’s contrived marital troubles with a wife that thinks he “works too hard” and a man that is sad because he can no longer tell the brat of the most powerful man in America to stop playing violent video games. Wait, isn’t this the exact same conflict that the First Lady and the President had before the First Lady’s inappropriate bridge jumping exercise? How astute of you!

Which brings us to the boring ass characters. There is nothing to any of these people parading across the screen. I challenge any viewer to try and describe the characters without referring to their job. Because at most you might get one or two lines about how everyone seems whiny and that’s about it. These people have the emotional complexity and depth of second grader’s family portrait. And yet, oddly enough, the movie tries so hard to get the audience to feel some capacity of sympathy or emotion towards these beautiful, rich, white folk whose biggest troubles is that their husband missed the latest weekend barbecue and can’t remember who Patty or Paula is married to.

All this, and we haven’t even touched the silly terrorists yet. At any rate, we’re now thirty to forty minutes into the movie with the only established fact being an unnecessary job promotion for Gerard Butler that he’s going to just leave anyway to rush headlong into the White House to save the President. So, what was the point in having all this time wasted? It certainly wasn’t because the terrorists plot was so well co-ordinated that if Butler was there then he would have surely been killed. I mean, the first phase of their plan was to fly a heavily armoured military craft over DC and miraculously not get shot down before gunning its stupid escort and opening up a whole bunch of Gatling fire onto the unsuspecting tourists strolling through the National Mall.

Of course, our heroic Butler is the only one who can run through this gunfire while surprised men and police officers are mowed down like it’s the last charge on Vimy Ridge. He even has the time to rescue a woman and her little child by tackling them to the asphalt before sprinting to the White House before the airplane is shot down overhead, taking out the enormously phallic Washington Monument in its descent. There, he nearly foils the terrorists plans to irrevocably mar the cast iron fence before that’s blown up. But while he now runs through the gap in the fence, he has the opportunity to casually shoot the only two female Korean terrorists in the head before reuniting with the secret service on the steps of the White House.

Basically, this is a long winded way of saying that Butler is the only one capable of doing anything. This becomes painfully obvious as he’s the only one to survive the next wave of spawning baddies like the producers already had plans to turn this into a video game before rushing up into the White House’s interior to be the only man capable of finding the wayward President’s son. And, by now, I’m sure you’ve figured out he’s also the only one to single handedly rescue the President and kill the main baddie after single handedly disposing of the automatic, highly advanced and secretive turret the White House had installed by didn’t have the foresight to use when it was under attack (but the terrorists knew how to operate in order to shoot down the only back-up he was going to receive).

Needless to say, it’s all a little eye-roll inducing.

Which brings me to my original point. The biggest problem with OHF is that it didn’t know what it wanted to be. It tried taking itself far to seriously and realistically to be considered a throw-back to the bygone era of the 1990s action hero but had too much nonsense to be considered remotely logical even within its own narrative. I mean, three quarters of the way through the introduce an almost James Bond-esque plot contrivance because it seemed that the producers almost feared the audience wouldn’t care about troop movements in the Korean peninsula (or the life of a very bland President which was probably accurate).

So what could it have done? Well, first, suck less. Second, ditch Gerard Butler. No one cares about your Mary Sue superman that is the only bad enough dude capable of rescuing the President. I’d cut most of the pointless nonsense surrounding the First Lady’s death which, by the way, never once came into play (the briefly hinted emotional distress that President and son had over not yet getting over the grief was completely brushed aside by the end and never mentioned again). What I would have done was had four lead secret service agents who end up being the leaders and key players in the defence of the White House. Have most of the movie revolving around the attack and resolution of the assault on the building. Instead of having the terrorists “win” and then squat on the property for so long, have these four agents working together and with the Pentagon to try and stave off the assault and, ultimately, bring about the conclusion. Between the four of them and their different circumstances you could easily fill a movie with compelling situations and challenges. Have one agent end up holing up with a bunch of staff and tourists who then has to decide between abandoning their post as this groups sole defender for serving the greater duty of trying to rescue the President. Have another agent with the President holed up in the bunker doing her best to try and keep channels of communication open and the President alive while enemies close in on all sides. Hell, if we’re so hell bent on having the little brat play any role in this, one of the agents could be his personal detail and spend most of the time trying to evade the captors and get the kid to safety.

Between four different agents you can have four more compelling individuals and perspectives to detail one single ‘day of hell’ that could bring about that touch of humanity that Butler’s wooden acting could only dream of.

Also, can we have some female secret service agents? I’m sure they exist.

In total, I’d give this three Morgan Freemans out of ten illogical consistences.

It’s a Trap! – Part 1

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Well, it’s been almost a week without me actually posting some writing so here’s some more D&D action I did in between big projects.

Sources close to me have said this piece is particularly good for reading in airports.

—————Break —————

“By the hells!”

The resounding crash broke the dampening silence. Anxious breaths drew as the others watched helplessly while their friend tumbled forward. Fingers splayed out and arms waving madly, Jeremiah grasped frantically for some handhold to halt his descent. The floor beneath his feet crumbled like dry autumn mud shaken loosely from a farmer’s boot. His body slammed against the tile before him and his dark fingertips dug tightly into its ridge. With feet dangling helplessly beneath, Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief as he noticed he was now hugging a large embossed tile with a symbol that vaguely resembled a stylish Fe rune.
“Are you alright?” Aliessa called after everyone realized that Jeremiah was not, despite initial appearances, plummeting to his death.“FINE!” Jeremiah hissed between gritted teeth. His face was red from the exertion as he tried to pull his large frame from the small hole. The chain links of his shirt bit into his flesh as he pressed as much of his weight on the portion of himself not suspended in air.“Hold still, I’m coming,” Amber called.“No, don’t!”“Now is not the time for heroic machismo,” Amber sighed.Jeremiah jerked his body to the side, swinging one knee above the old clay tile. With better leverage he was able to roll uncomfortably on his back. There he lay, taking in slow, sweet breaths while waiting for his hammering heart to calm.“You know, you could have just waited. I would have helped you.”“I… didn’t…want to …can I have a moment, please?”
“So because of your stubbornness we should all wait on you?’“I just about died!”“Oh, and now that’s our fault?”“Please, people! I don’t think that this is really the time,” Keirn called.And he didn’t think he had to quantify that statement. The sorcerer stood by the peculiar cog-work door they’d passed through, holding tightly to a thick cord that kept a large, smoothed stone aloft. They had realized, just moments before it was too late, that the strange mechanism was connected to its twin on the far side of the room and set to trigger if they didn’t keep it suspended. So while the young man was tasked with keeping it open on his end, the rest of the group was trying desperately to get across the curious floor to stabilize the other.At this moment, only Amber was close to getting across and she had now retraced her steps to continue her argument. Kait was a third of the way, a few strides from Jeremiah’s near misstep. However, she refused to move any further without assurance that there was an actual safe path. In the interim, she had hunkered down for a long wait, somehow managing to sort through her packs to produce two needles and a ball of yarn despite being restricted to a three by three square of floor. Now she looked like a little princess on her throne of travel bags.Derrek had climbed one of the cracked pillars bordering the room. Perched upon its broken centre, he surveyed the rows of etched runes like a master strategist overlooking his army. Beneath his guidance, the group had managed to so far strand three of their number across the incomprehensible runes. The tiles were arranged in nine columns that covered most of the room making it impossible to skirt the puzzle. And the numerous holes along the edges of the room suggested others had tried.“Fine, let’s just get across this damn thing and get out of here,” Amber said. She turned, her red hair snapping like a vicious fire in her wake. Without a second glance back, she stomped across an Ur, Tyr and Eh rune before stopping and looking back at Derrek. “Where now minstrel?”Derrek leaned as far as he could over the broken marble lip. ‘I believe if Jeremiah takes the closest Rad then you should be able to proceed.’Jeremiah looked over the tiles around him and sighed once he spotted the elusive letter.

“I hate when you have to jump for them.”

Jeremiah wasn’t entirely sure how this puzzle worked. Derrek had gone on a long explanation that involved a fair knowledge of pressure plates, distribution of weight, leaded balances and an advanced grasp of machinery that no normal person would be expected to understand.

Needless to say, the rest of the group were putting their lives in Derrek’s hands. Jeremiah didn’t understand how the seemingly bottomless pit played in but his current grasp of the situation required the spelling of some bizarre ancient phrase so that they weren’t riddled with arrows from the walls, crushed by boulders in the ceiling or possibly both simultaneously.

“Stop complaining and just do it. You don’t see anyone else whining about their part.”

“Anyone else? So far I’ve been doing most of the work!” Jeremiah cried.

“Oh, is that why I’m further along then?”

“Derrek’s been giving you the easier path!”

“Everyone, QUIET!” Keirn shouted. The room drifted slowly back to its initial silence. It was easy to forget that this place served as a tomb, not only for the original worshippers but also the countless treasure hunters that had high hopes of obtaining golden statuettes, rubies the size of hams or whatever else drove the crazy fools into these dark caverns.

“What is it?” Kait anxiously called.

Keirn silenced his sister with an impatient wave of his hand. His biceps were bulging but he was more focused on peering out the doorway, eyes trying to pierce the encroaching darkness just beyond.
“Did you hear something?” Amber shouted.“Odd, I haven’t detected anything,” Aliessa said, gliding up to the other side of the door. A brown and orange tabby pranced just behind her. Its ears pricked as both pet and master rested at the edge of the door, the wizard holding her torch high overhead.‘What part of the word QUIET, do you people seem to struggle with?’ Keirn hissed. He leaned over, snatching the torch from Aliessa’s hands and pitched it quickly down the dusty hall. A few rats scattered, squealing indignantly as they scurried from the flaming stick’s tumbling cinders. The torch clattered against the floor, rolling a few extra feet before resting in a pool of inky nothingness.“I’m not getting that,” Aliessa whispered.Keirn ignored her as he shifted his weight to relax his tiring muscles. The aged pulleys groaned with the shift in direction. Everyone waited for a few minutes, each expecting a telltale scratch, clank, hiss, thump or thud to herald impending danger. They began to grow restless when nothing continued to happen.“Can we get on with this?” Amber commanded.Derrek looked over to Keirn, but when he didn’t receive any angry glares, he resumed his directing. Kait’s needle returned to their gentle click, click, clicking and Jeremiah and Amber continued their disgruntled silence.“Amber, if you can step to that Fe and Jeremiah if you could step to that Sigel…no wait!”Jeremiah shouted in surprise, falling backwards as the tile crumbled beneath his foot.‘Are you trying to kill me?!’

“Sorry. Does anyone remember the name of the ancient god who rides a boar?”

“Well it doesn’t have a Sigel!” Jeremiah shouted.

“We can see that,” Amber sighed.

“I thought this was supposed to be in some dead language anyway,” Kait said.

“It is.”

“Oh.”

“Freyar,” Keirn called.

“How do you remember that?”
“Am I the only one that’s been paying attention to the murals in this temple?!”
“Once you’ve seen one naked man drawing, you’ve seen them all,” Aliessa shrugged.
“Ah, of course. Jeremiah, if you could go to the Eh to your right then.”
“Derrek, dear, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Aliessa asked returning from her vigil and standing at the base of Derrek’s pillar.“Well, not really, but we’re doing pretty well so far,” Derrek casually replied. “Amber if you could take that second Fe.”Jeremiah frowned. It would be just like the bard to bumble them into even worse trouble. Jeremiah dropped to his knees, pressing on the adjoining tile with his hand.“Oh don’t be so ridiculous!” Amber shouted. “Just jump to the next letter!”“I’m so far the only one that’s almost died. Twice! What if he’s wrong? I won’t have anywhere to go from there.”“Oh, you make it sound as if it would be a big loss.”“It kind of would be!”“Well, I suppose if we’re talking about pure mass, then yes you would be a big loss.”“Look, I’ve put up with just about enough of your…”“My what?!” Amber shouted. “You think that this has been easy for me?”

“Well…yes.”

“Well, it hasn’t. It’s always been about you and I can’t stand it anymore.”

“About me? I gave you everything you’ve ever wanted. Whenever you needed me, I was always there for you!” Jeremiah yelled.

“Precisely! You were smothering me!”

“Smothering you?!”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t ever give me my own space. Sometimes I just wanted to spend some time alone. Was that too much to ask?”

“What about all that time you spent at the temple? Or with your friends?”

“I wasn’t alone then; I was with other people!”

“I can’t believe you are blaming this on me!”

“Well it is your fault!”

“I have a feeling we aren’t talking about the spelling anymore,” Kait muttered. Her needles kept their rhythmic clatter as she watched with anxious interest at the pair’s bickering. “Is this how Keirn and I sound?”“My fault! You refuse to take any responsibility! You’re too busy playing the poor victim!” Jeremiah screamed. He took a few steps towards her, despite the frantic calling from Derrek and Aliessa.“My fault, that’s rich. You never tended to my needs! You were so clingy and insecure that you never listened to what I wanted!”“What you waaaa…!” Jeremiah hollered as he stepped through another false tile.“Serves you right!” Amber shouted as Jeremiah scrambled to catch onto solid ground.“Hells! Can someone give me a hand?”“Oh, so now you want my help? Why don’t you do it on your own!”“Why don’t you cross this damned board on your own then if you’re so bloody independent!” Jeremiah grunted, scratching his fingers deep into the aged clay.“If I knew what I had to spell, I would. But here, why don’t I spell your path for you!” Amber shouted back. She stabbed at the tiles around her, “A S S H O L and over there is the Eh!”The thunder of the crumbling tiles beneath the jabs of her staff filled the air and drowned out the frantic calls from those gathered at the edge of the puzzling field. The shattered pieces tumbled wildly into the empty pit beneath.

“Well, let me show you yours! B I T … does anyone see a C?!”

“You broke it earlier,” Kait whispered.

“Oh, that’s just clever. You think you’re so damned smart don’t you!” Amber called. She threw her bag to her feet, scrounging around in it until she triumphantly pulled a long thin golden rod from within. She held it over the crevice she had just broken. “Why don’t you just admit that you never loved me – that you care more for this damned thing then you ever did for me.”

“This is why we discourage dating within the company,” Keirn growled. He pulled heavily on his chord, grunting as he dragged himself over to where Derrek had discarded his crossbow. Shouldering the heft of the stone’s weight over his shoulder, Keirn snatched up the weapon and began to leverage it towards the middle of the room.

“What are you doing?” Aliessa called.

“Ending this.”

“You can’t shoot her! She has the relic!”

“My aim isn’t that bad,” Keirn replied.

“No, Keirn, wait!” Derrek called as he began scrambling down the pillar. However, the loose marble gave out beneath his feet, and he tumbled the last ten feet before landing heavily upon his back. Aliessa gasped, rushing to her beloved’s side.

Keirn ignored his friend’s plight, steadying his aim as best he could while sweat beaded from the extra exertion of holding the stone at this new height. However, as the crossbow’s latch clicked, there was a more distinct echo that rang through the open door. Both Keirn and Jeremiah turned to the dark hallway and Jeremiah realized immediately the torch had gutted out.“By the gods!” Keirn shouted. The darkness seemed to quiver as the shadows gave birth to indistinct shapes. Keirn released his chord, the pulleys screeching as the rope ripped from his hands and the counterweight stone crashed loudly to the ground.There was a loud grinding as the stones shifted against each other and the entrance slab dropped from its raised alcove above. Before it smashed to the ground and locked into place, the sorcerer snatched another stone, lifting it as best he could and halting the door a mere foot from trapping them within.
Overhead, the complicated machinery ground and clanked as the exit shifted to match its twin’s position.“Admit it, Jeremiah, you never really cared for me!”“What are you, crazy?” Jeremiah called back.“ADMIT IT!”“Kait… don’t let… her drop it!” Keirn shouted.However, Kait sat paralyzed as the chaos ensued around her. Her fingers still held the yarn in mid stitch. She turned to her brother, who madly motioned towards the fallen crossbow with his reddening face. However, a ferocious pounding erupted from the other side of the door and the massive slab shook as some terrible force attempted to bash its way through.“Wha…what do you want me to do?” she asked.“Anything!” Keirn gritted. “Shoot her if you must!”“Oh… Oh! Oh no. No no no no no… I couldn’t.”“Aliessa!”

“Derrek … Derrek, honey, wake up!”

“Aliessa!”

The wizard ignored his calls and looked Derrek over for serious injury. Her feline paced up and down the length of his body, dainty nose sniffing gently at the delicate man sprawled awkwardly upon the ground. From the long sleeves of her short jacket emerged a brilliant snake that seemed to wrap lightly about the man’s wrist while flicking its tongue softly over his vein.

“KAAAIIITTTTT!”“Oh… Oh no. Oh no. Oh no,” she stammered, the yarn quivering within her hands.

“I can’t believe that I ever loved someone so … selfish… so vain!” Jeremiah shouted. “It’s clear to me now that you never cared for me like I did for you!”

“You are impossible!” Amber screamed, raising her voice to be heard over the banging upon the door. She still held the rod threateningly over the precipice. “Do you want me to drop this? Don’t think I won’t!”

“Then drop it! You have no power over me anymore!”“By the gods,” Keirn sighed. “We’re all going to die.”The rope to the counter weight began to snap from the strain.

Continue to It’s a Trap Part 2 >

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The Black Dragon of Death

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Back in the day, my brother was busy creating a fantasy world of dungeons, dragons, and interactive computer worlds. It held the working title of KOS, which didn’t stand for anything as far as I know. It was a world inhabited by heroes typical of many adventuring games. Besides being the first, and likely only, reader of this now ancient project I was involved only in the production of poems. Ideally, epic pieces that would capture the reader and enhance the flavour of the world. I didn’t get far with this project, however, digging through my remaining scraps I have dredged up this piece. It was to reflect one of the legends in a world dominated by heroic deeds – a celebration of one of the original six – at least that was the intention.

The most revered
The one they feared
The Black Dragon of Death

He rose up high
Into the deep blue sky
The Black Dragon of Death

Two eyes burned red
Filling all with dread
The Black Dragon of Death

Snout and body long
Emanating an eerie song
The Black Dragon of Death

Black scales of steel
Cold and hard to feel
The Black Dragon of Death

With fiery breath
Sharp claws of death
The Black Dragon of Death

To hunt and kill
And eat his fill
The Black Dragon came

At his sight
People fled in fright
When the Black Dragon came

All challengers tried
And all did die
When the Black Dragon came

He swung down low
His sharp teeth to show
The Black Dragon came

But from the east
From a land of peace
The Lone Rider came

On a stead of white
Riding hard that night
The Lone Rider came

Long back hair braided back
Her face set for attack
The Lone Rider came

She was a girl still young
When the battle begun
The Lone Rider came

And at the youth
He looked bemused
When the Lone Rider came

So he changed his goal
To the brand new foe
When the Lone Rider came

His eyes glinted bright
As he charged with might
When the Lone Rider came

He held back naught
As the two foes fought
When the Lone Rider came

The Rider in turn
Would quickly learn
From the Black Dragon of Death

For he had great power
As she fought that hour
The Black Dragon of Death

Her horse was lost
As from it she was tossed
By the Black Dragon of Death

The talons cut sharp
And her flesh they’d part
By the Black Dragon of Death

In the hour late
She nearly lost to fate
By the Black Dragon of Death

For her it looked ill
As more blood did spill
By the Black Dragon of Death

But a stab true and fierce
His armoured hide pierced
As the hands of DeHett

With a blood curdling cry
The Dragon would die
At the hands of DeHett

Writing Writers

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So, it’s Monday. And I don’t have anything to say. Quite the conundrum.

So let me just update what I’m doing!

I’m currently working on my next project – tentatively titled The Clockwork Caterpillar Affair. It’s a work in progress. However, I find that I’m absolutely rubbish at coming up with titles. Sometimes, I create a story only because I’ve come up with a great title for something. And if I don’t have a title but a story, then I can’t seem to create anything decent to call it.

Which I suppose brings me to the creative process. How someone writes and creates their stories is a deeply personal affair. Some people meticulously research and plot, creating complicated word webs of ideas and relationships that they distill into a narrative. Other people will have a scene and possibly a character and just jump in, letting the story essentially write itself.

I lean more towards the ‘by the seat of my pants’ approach than the planning. My story of Thyre came about after a long walk in the countryside when I got the ludicrous idea of combining Scooby Doo and Batman in a Victorian steampunk setting. That’s all I had, just some smattering of mood and styles that I thought would be really entertaining to create. From this little nugget of inception arose the characters. I had to turn Scooby and the gang into something my own that I would enjoy writing.

So, humorously enough, the original Thyre had a loyal hound that would bound around with the group on their adventures. Needless to say, this lovable little pooch didn’t survive the first draft and is barely a footnote in the final creation. Which is probably for the best because we got the far more lovable Count Theodosius (who is still somewhat of a dog). But the hound isn’t the only character to receive substantial rewrites.

The “Fred” of the group is now the haunted Jarret Renette but he didn’t start out as the wounded soldier alienated from his own home and country. In fact, Jarret was originally a rather well respected member of the aristocracy and rubbed shoulders with the Prince in lavish gentleman clubs. However, I really struggled writing his character and creating something interesting to hook the reader into his troubles. He was too smart, too handsome and too well placed for any of his issues to really resonate. As the author, I couldn’t stand writing him so I can’t even imagine what it would be like for the reader.

Curiously, the great revamp of Jarret happened after my return from Japan. I remember riding a bus to visit a friend and looking out over the Canadian countryside and thinking how odd it all seemed. It was, at the same time, comforting and alienating in its strange familiarity. It was then I got the inspiration for a returning soldier looking out over a land he fought for and feeling completely disconnected from. I think the first chapter really captures that reverse culture shock and suddenly I had my new hero.

The cane and limp were added for flavour but imbued a certain interesting juxtaposition in Jarret’s struggle. Here was a young man so used to being able bodied and strong now reduced to a cripple. He had defined himself as a man of sport and strength and would have to reconcile his new reality with that outdated self perception. The added bonus was that he was dressed as my classic hero – so sure of himself and his strength – and yet he was now physically outclassed by even a lady of leisure. There is more I could discuss on this aspect but I’ll save that for another time.

So that’s my old novel, what about my new project? Well, it came about by visiting a museum. I was with my friend and his girlfriend and laughed to myself when she got very excited over the train display. My sister often goes on about how fascinating trains are and to find another woman to share that interest struck my funny bone.

But as we poked about the old engines, I began to have some ridiculous thoughts. What would it be like to live on these old machines? Was that an old style bathroom? Could these be used as a facsimile of ships? Could we have train pirates?!

And thus, the Red Sabre was born. Unfortunately, unlike Thyre, this story didn’t come with five templates to create characters with and so I’ve been reduced to another creative method to begin this work. But I’ve rambled on enough for today so maybe next time I’ll detail how I went about assembling my crew for the Clockwork Caterpillar.

Writing Serial Killers

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I’m feeling like giving a break to our intrepid readers. There’s been a lot of bards and sorcerers and what not, but I felt I should share some more thoughts on writing in general. Today, I want to tackle serials and the impact this format of story-telling has on your narratives and characters.

I’ve been giving some thought to the serial nature of writing, not least because my D&D stories are essentially that. I’ve taken a rather peculiar approach to it – one that I’m not sure could really be replicated and certainly not in another medium. But before I get into that, I want to talk about serials people are going to be far more familiar with: television shows.

Now, the serial format isn’t particularly new. Radios had their famous series and even before that papers and magazines were bringing readers monthly updates for their favourite characters. Some classic literature was originally published as monthly serials. Pride and Prejudice is the first that comes to mind and probably explains partly why Austen adopted the letter format. However, television is easily the king of our generation. Most shows are serial by the nature, with mini-series and made for television movies the only thing I can really think of that don’t quite fit the category. Watching television, I’ve noticed there’s really only two prominent styles.

The first is the series that tells an overarching narrative with each component fitting comfortably within its thirty to sixty minute time slot. These shows generally have an overarching premise or focus on character development. Twenty-four is an obvious example, with each episode representing one hour from a rather action packed day. Each episode builds on the last, often requiring a quick “Previously on…” segment to remind its viewership what occurred before.

Running counter to this style is the episodic, slice-of-life, return to normal style of show that’s almost ubiquitous in sitcoms. Here, the emphasis is on some quirky situation for that single episode and the emphasis is shifted away from the narrative and to character interactions. There is little theme or connectivity between episodes and the characters are pretty immutable once they’ve been established. These shows are immediately evident by having quick opening segments that will immediately familiarize the audience succinctly with the primary actors. Typically, there will be a shared location that most of the cast convenes on that they can use to draw out these interactions. The Big Bang Theory is a prime example and Sheldon’s apartment serving as the de facto ‘hang out’ for the gang.

Now, from this break down, it should be rather obvious the biggest difference between these two approaches. The first has a story it’s going to tell and places that narrative first and foremost to its audience. The second cares less about the narrative and is more concerned with interactions amongst its characters.

So what does this mean? Well, probably a lot of complaints for different series will arise from these different aims. Sitcoms are notorious for the ‘return to normal’ in that, at the end of every episode, nothing is lost and nothing is gain. Sheldon and Leonard are generally the same from episode to episode and season to season. Contrast this with, say, The Walking Dead, where you can’t even be assured that some of the primary actors will even be in the next episode. The benefits of an unchanging format is that it makes it incredibly easy for people to jump into your show. There isn’t a rich history or story for them to catch up on. Most interactions will be evidently explained in that one episode and after watching a couple, a new viewer will have as good an understanding of the show as someone who’s been watching from the beginning.

The biggest problem with this format is stagnation. It’s very easy for characters to slip into caricatures – to boil down their personalities to a simple trait that can be expressed in seconds but depriving that character from any deep or intricate development. Since there is no grand narrative, these shows often become a bunch of stock characters parading through samey situations parroting the same contrived jokes and interactions from episode to episode and season to season. This immediate accessibility breaks down to shallowness and two dimensionality. Look at any sitcom in its twilight years and most you’ll find are poor shadows of their original selves. Like the Simpsons. It’s awful.

How can this be avoided? Well, for one, a creator can be wary of the first signs of this stagnation and end it before the show has truly jumped its shark. Alternatively, they can always start introducing elements from the other format – creating a continuing narrative that will fundamentally change the nature of its actors and premise. But this runs its own risk of alienating the audience.

What’s my solution – to try and avoid this type of serial altogether. My D&D stories follow a narrative – well a timeline at any rate. In my mind, different stories fall at different points in the characters lives so I know that they’re changing and if I’m successful, the readers do too. I already have some grander story arcs that are often alluded to in the passages that provide me the freedom to explore a grander story should I choose. Finally, I have new characters constantly coming and going. While this mostly reflects the changes in the inspiring people’s lives it also helps keep things fresh and exciting. But I know that my characters change. The challenges they face at the start of their journey are not the same that they encounter later on. And while some troubles haunt them for a time, as they grow and mature so do their personal conflicts.

Sadly, this post is getting quite winded now and I’m trying to not spew too much rubbish on this blog at once. I never really got to go into the weaknesses of the first type of serialization. Nor address series that mix the two styles and the benefits of that approach. Perhaps I’ll pick it up in another entry. But for now, I’ll leave it at that.