A History of Britain – Documentaries

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Recently I have been had the pleasure of watching A History of Britain. What I like about this 15 part series are the narratives of each episode which set out to tell a story and the language with which it is presented. Perhaps it is because it is a BBC production the narrator was allowed to use more advanced language then is often found in North American documentaries. I certainly find the episodes filled with information and witty commentary. I also appreciate it the way the series moves from the very earliest times of the Roman invasions to modern, post-world war II. My largest criticism is the shortness of time spent on the very earlier periods. Though I understand the reasons, the time constraints, I would like more information for these early years. I would love more details about the way people had lived their lives during the various periods of time. However, no series can include everything in a manageable amount of time.
In contrast to the linear production of A History of Britain, Mankind: The Story of All of Us is disappointingly jumbled. Each episode is a haphazard collection of moments that seem unrelated by theme or time. This recent documentary, of which I confess I have only watched two episodes, is difficult to follow and seems to say very little. It held such promise for me, tackling the world and not just one nation. But the presentation of its story, sloppy, disjointed and difficult to follow, does little to engage my attention. For this I am deeply disappointed.
I would love to watch a series, and I am happy to watch a lengthy series too, that covers history of mankind from our earliest records. I think it would be hugely interesting to look at pivotal periods of time and investigate not only what is happening in one corner of the world, but how contemporaries worldwide are living. So often, I pick up bits of history in isolation and certainly my history is heavily focused on Europe. Yet, China has an equally long and complex story to share with the world. It has influenced Europe over the ages. I would love to know what was happening in that distant land at the same time various acts are playing out on the European continent.
While they may not have yet produced the documentary I truly wish to watch and while the library may not have every interesting historic show in its collection, I have found a website full of promising titles that will allow me to continue my historic studies in pieces.

Playing God: Fantasy World Creation and Race

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Let me begin this short rant with a quick plug for my friend Derek’s posts on this website elsewhere.

He has a far more indepth and expert examination of fictitious worlds and creation than I could ever hope to achieve. Discussion about his own topics is what actually inspired me to scribble my own thoughts today. Specifically, I want to address world building in a general sense and possibly detail my own methods for creating fantastical worlds.

Fantasy fiction, I believe, poses one unique problem not truly present in any other genre of speculative fiction. To my knowledge, no other genre offers nearly as much possibility or limitless imagination primarily due to the audiences looser expectations towards the realities of the world. General fiction almost universally takes place on Earth with its implicit histories and social constructs. The most ‘world building’ an author is required for these stories is generating their main characters with believable histories and motivations.

One step further from general fiction is science fiction. But most Sci-fi is a speculative look at a future impacted by whatever technological advancement or theory spurred the idea for the author’s narrative. The world building is more substantive than just fabricating the main cast but requires the author to adapt and change her societies to this new dominant invention. However, once again, the general assumption is that advancement of life followed a remarkably similar thread to our own history.

Space operas and fantasy fiction, however, can take place on different planets or dimensions with truly unique and strange people or races. There is no assurance for the reader that the development of the society and structures to the point where the narrative occurs is anywhere close to something from our own lives. Star Wars, for example, has an entirely different history completely void of planet Earth and it could be reasonable to believe that the humans of that universe aren’t actually “humans” at all. Likewise, Middle Earth is truly a world far removed from our own with a past very different to anything we’ve ever experienced (even though Tolkien envisioned Middle Earth to be the lost mythological age of our own world).

This leaves a prominent issue for fantasy writers. How do you create a world that people can understand and relate to while still being believably fantastic? I mean, one of the huge draws for these worlds is that sense of wonder and exploration of visiting places far different from our own. We don’t want to recreate, verbatim, medieval Europe when we could just place our stories in medieval Europe. Tolkien is really the founding father of modern fantasy, so it’s no wonder that his approach is so widespread. Tolkien’s solution was to base the underpinnings of his world on real life mythology. Elves and dwarves were not raw creations of his imagination but legendary figures and beings from earlier cultures. By adopting these figures as real, he was able to shorthand a lot of his world’s creation by invoking those myths.

So successful was this method (coupled with his staggering detail in breathing life to his world) that most fantasy writers just shorthanded their own mythos from Tolkien himself. This perpetuating of the same ideals led to the common tropes of the genre: underground dwelling dwarves with big beards and bigger tempers, lofty elves of a dying or lost age removed from the petty squabbles of other nations and peoples, barbaric orcs obsessed with warfare and conquering and the rest of the lot. One could argue that Tolkien was too successful as fantasy stories became less and less about adopted medieval Europe and its superstitions and more about following the founding father’s exacting footsteps.

Which is a shame, since there are so many other nations, mythologies and legends that could be used as genesis instead. This leads me to my own D&D stories. They began as a simple thought experiment, “What would it be like if my friends and I were born in a universe like Dungeons and Dragons.” Course, obvious obstacles like copyright infringement and my own personal enjoyment for world building insured that this wouldn’t be indulgent fan fiction but a universe of my own. And as my collection of shorts grows and grows, I’m forced to consider the world they inhabit and the rules that govern them.

Some of these decisions were made early on. I knew I wanted to avoid the same old race wars common in generic fantasy. To address the over saturation of dwarves versus elves, I elected to remove race entirely. My envisioning of the race dynamic was to re-purpose the long beards and pointed ears that distinguished the fantasy peoples and instead dress the diverging elements more in cultural clothes and beliefs. Thus, my barbarian Orc is a large, dominating man that absolutely denies his ‘barbaric’ origins (Andre). Likewise, the peculiar half-elf Aliessa is rarely even mentioned as such for in my mind being called an elf is an insult and the powerful wizard commands far too much respect for such things.

But since race is more cultural than physical, it is really easy for the boundaries to be blurred or outright ignored. Most people seem to not care about where someone comes from and pointing out racial differences is really unnecessary unless it’s strictly for the plot. Which is nice that I don’t have to describe a new character as “the dwarf” with all its Tolkien trope baggage and instead I can focus on describing my characters as individuals first and foremost. But that element of race can always be brought up later if I decide it would make a compelling story. The mere presence of race, even if it isn’t a sticking point for most, lays the foundations for future conflicts if I so choose.

I have no idea where I was going with this so I’ll just wrap it up for now.

Balls – Part 8 of 8

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< Return to Balls Part 7

I know you’ve all been awaiting with bated breath for this. So I’ll just skip right to the main show.

—————Break —————

“Congratulations contestants. We are now on the final portion of the Bard’s Challenge. This is perhaps the most important portion yet! While the wizards in their towers think they alone can use the arcane sorceries, we bards know this is not true. For what could be more trivially useless than the practice of magic itself! But us minstrels do not live lives of boring study and routine. No, our magic is that of the heart and the moment. Thus, without preparing the majority of the spell in the morning, our contestants have twenty minutes to make the greatest magical display using our secret reagent. Tobias!”
 The back curtains parted and the aid pushed a large table forward with a great white sheet covering it. He stood behind the table, reached for the middle of the sheet.
“Competitors!” he shouted in a valiantly courageous attempt. “I present to you… koe-chiap!”
“Koe-chiap?!” all three competitors shouted in unison.
“That’s right,” the administrator said, turning to face the crowd. “Imported from the mysterious distant west is this rare paste. Its use is not entirely understood but scholars wager it is part of some coming of age ceremony to test youth’s constitution and vitality. We’re told it’s a concoction of pickled fish and spices but believe it’s made from the ground pulp of a strange red fruit and horse manure.”
Derrek, Laara and Alec rushed to the table. Great bowls filled with the thick, viscous liquid were arranged in an eye pleasing manner. There appeared to be different colours ranging from a sickly purple to a bright green.
“You have twenty minutes, competitors! May the best bard win!”
Derrek grabbed a bowl, holding it in his hands and looking expectantly at the others.
“By the hells, what are we suppose to do with this?” Laara said. “We don’t even have anything to prepare spells with.”
As if on command, a few more aids came running out with arms wrapped about large woven baskets. They set each before the three competitors. Lifting the lids, an assortment of alchemical supplies and tools were shoved unceremoniously within.
Laara and Alec dove head first into the baskets, tossing alembics, pestles, mortars and flasks aside.
Derrek set aside his bowl, rooting from some ingredients to work with. He wasn’t entirely sure what sort of spell he could perform with this reagent, especially since he never heard of it before. He had learned a few cantrips at the College as most classes often awarded bonus marks to the students that could knick spells from the neighbouring Academy. Dating a wizard also gave certain advantages when it came to understanding the practice of magic.
 His digging eventually provided enough ingredients for a rudimentary summoning spell. Not the flashiest magic on the block unfortunately. Summoning spells typically involved inducing a magical compulsion in some poor chump to go and fetch the desired item for the practitioner too lazy to get it himself.
Derrek looked over to Laara and Alec. He knew nothing of his female adversary but judging by her confusion over the proper end of a burette, Derrek wasn’t too worried. However, Alec was laughing almost maniacally to himself.
It was a little disturbing.
“I’ve got this in the bag,” Alec whispered. He threw his materials in the ground in a great heap, falling to the floor and scratching a rough circle of chalk upon the stage.
 “Oh really? If I remember correctly you couldn’t even get the simplest light cantrip to glow.”
“Those are totally hard and you know it.”
“It’s lighting a piece of straw!”
 “Heh, you’ll see. I’m going to destroy this challenge and be named Seeker. And you know what the first thing I’ll do will be? I’ll make a doll of you and carry you around as my dummy. Then the realms will know how stupid you really are.”
 “That’s the most idiotic plan I’ve ever heard,” Derrek said as he lay his instruments carefully out before quickly turning to his rose thorns and mashing them in a mortar.
 “That sounds exactly like something your dummy would say!” Alec laughed.
“You’re the worst.”
“Hey, want to hear a joke?”
“Your bardic talents?”
 “Why do Derrek’s songs sound better by candlelight?” Alec upturned a pouch of marbles, watching them roll chaotically amongst the seals he had scrawled.
“It sets a sexy mood because I’m so gods blessedly handsome?”
“Because you can shove the wax in your ears!”
“That’s it?” Derrek asked. He began to scrawl his ancient runes upon the floor.
“Did you not get it? Need me to explain. Because I can explain if you need me to.”
“Explanations are the fastest way to ruin a joke,” Derrek said.
“Yeah, know the second fastest? You, and being dumb.”
“That’s two ways,” Derrek said. He began to roll his barley seeds in the mashed concoction of rose thorn, mandrake root and persimmon skin.
“Ten minutes competitors!”
“You know Alec, you’ve always been half the man that I am. If you want to just bow out now, no one would think less of you. In fact, they may think more.”
“You see this?” Alec asked, standing and holding his bowl of ketchup before him. “This is the image of your defeat.”
Then, without further provocation, he upended the contents of the bowl over his head. The liquid seeped over his hair and dripped down his great jowls. It fell in great globs upon his fancy clothing. The thick goop rolled over his eyes until he appeared as a great, squishy red grape.
He stood in the middle of his circle, unmoving. Derrek and Laara watched with anticipation. The seconds ticked by and everyone seemed to hold their breath.
A large glop fell upon the floor at Alec’s feet.
There was a soft pop once the substance hit the wood and the tiniest wisps of smoke curled from it. All eyes turned to the stage, where tiny burnt tendrils seemed to run from the scattered marbles as if they had given a small surge of electricity towards the foreign substance but too quickly for anyone to notice.
The glop fizzed a second time then fell silent.
“Was that it?” Derrek asked.
Alec stared at the drop of the floor while still blinking.
“I… guess? Can you still see me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Damn this useless charm! I was told it would complete whatever spell I attempted!”
As Alec ripped a necklace hidden beneath his collar from his throat, Derrek stood, dropping his small ball of ingredients into some purified water and mixing it quickly. Then he strolled over to Alec, careful to avoid stepping on his chalk outline and raised the container to the man’s lips.
“Here, drink this.”
Before Alec could protest, Derrek upended the contents into his mouth. Reflexively, the fat man’s drinking instinct kicked in, downing the potion in one great gulp. With the last drop from the bowl, Derrek quickly whispered the words of completion then attempted to think of some item he desired.
“Yuck! What was that?”
“Balls!” Derrek cursed. “I guess mine didn’t work either. I suppose koe-chiap  doesn’t make a good substitute for blood.”
“Five minutes contestants!”
Laara gave a shout of excitement, standing quickly to her feet.
“I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly to the judges. She then sang the softest of magical verses. Derrek recognized the incantation amongst the chorus. It was an old type of sorcery quite similar to the ancient skald verses. With the last word escaping her lips, a soft glow seemed to surround her. She looked surprised as she held up her hands. From the mystical light, a string of globes seemed to pull free, floating before her outstretched arms as if obeying her command. With a gentle flick of her wrist the orbs seemed to roll excitedly about her like pretty faerie lamps.
“There they are!” cried a voice from the audience. “Get the balls!”
“Balls?” Alec slurred, his voice suddenly heavy as if he were drunk.
From the audience four people emerged, rushing towards the stage. With amazing acrobatic flair they tumbled around, beneath and over the started crowd. Derrek recognized their flips immediately.
“Mikael?”
The flamboyant man himself emerged from the wings, his wind-and-fire wheels already in hand. He leapt to Laara’s side, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to display his trimmed and apparently oiled chest as he prostrated elegantly before her.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I’m afraid I must confiscate these!”
He punched her across the face, causing Laara to drop like stone to the ground. But as Mikael grabbed for the abandoned balls of light, they seemed to pop into blinding bursts of light the moment his fingers touched them.
“Those aren’t the real ones!” cried a voice from the audience. “Find the true balls!”
“Baaaaallllsss,” Alec slurred once more, stumbling over the stage. He landed, head first upon the judge’s table, collapsing it to the ground in a great snap of tinder.
Mikael and the acrobats turned to Derrek.
“So sorry, my friend, but it looks like we’re going to have to dance again.”
Mikael brandishes his wind-and-fire wheels, the clinking of the blades ringing clearly through the air.
“Can’t we just discuss this?” Derrek asked.
“Orders are orders,” one of the acrobats said.
“And don’t even think about escaping!” another called.
In perfect unison, the acting troupe flipped and rolled until they had him surrounded, their daggers and swords pointed worryingly at Derrek’s chest.
“I’m sure this is completely unnecessary. There’s no need to mess with this,” Derrek said, waving his hand over his beautiful face.
“Well, you seemed to suggest that you didn’t have the orbs when we drugged you,” Mikael said. “So, unless the potion didn’t work or you can resist the effects of a voracity divination…”
“Voracity divination?” Derrek muttered. “That sounds an awful lot like something a wizard would make. Where would you get that?”
“Actually, it was your -“
Before Mikael could finish his sentence, there was a terrific shatter as an enormous raven burst through the window. Following it immediately scampered an enormous newt and black cat. The creatures turned directly to Mikael, cawing, hissing and newting as they smashed through the hall.
The crowd shrieked at this final interruption, scrambling for the doors in a great, heaving mass from the enlarged menagerie.
As the critters descended, Mikael shouted, throwing his weapons to the ground.
“Mercy, friends! I mean no harm to you, cute creatures of the earth! Peace!”
But, the animals didn’t share Mikael’s passivity towards nature’s kin and they lashed out with talon, claw and newty mouth. Unable to morally defend himself from that which he felt need protection, Mikael screamed as he fled the furry, feathered and scaled onslaught.
The other acrobats, however, just looked at each other and shrugged before advancing on the bard.
“There won’t be any more convenient interruptions to save you now.”
“Stop right there!”
The treacherous thespians turned towards the doorway where a tall, eye-patched individual stood with a small contingent of thugs. They raised daggers and crossbows towards the stage as Dian stepped forward.
“Sorry for the delay,” Dian said. “But it took awhile to get past the crowds.”
“I thought the cat was with you,” Derrek said.
“Gorge? She’s back at the hideout,” Dian said.
“The cat is with me!”
Everyone turned to the back of the stage. Emerging from the shadows in a long white gown with a glowing staff in hand was a familiar woman.
“Aliessa?” Derrek whispered.
Dian, the thugs and the acrobats looked between each other, turning to point their weapons at as many people as they could.
Aliessa ignored them all, walking unflinching past the tide of steel. A soft glow seemed to pulse about her menacingly. Resistance parted before her and the wizard walked undaunted until she stood face to face with Derrek.
“It was you.”
“That’s right,” Aliessa said.
“But why? Why did you do it?”
“Before you continue, could you explain what it is?”
Almost annoyed, every party turned to see Marien crawl out from some overturned chairs. She was covered in bright red splotches, suggesting she didn’t fare the trampling too well. However, she held two blades menacingly between the thugs and the acrobats on stage.
“It was I that informed Marien that you have the Globes of Power,” Aliessa said, drawing herself erect. Marien ceased her advance just below the stage as the shimmering glow around Aliessa brightened menacingly.
“But why?” one of the acrobats asked.
“Because I knew she needed them to activate the talisman. In truth, I had hired their party to fetch the globes because it was our anniversary and we were supposed to spend it together. But that damnable party of yours wouldn’t leave you alone for three days. I had to be rid of them if were to celebrate!” Aliessa cried malevolently.
“But why tell her that?” one of the thugs asked, pointing to Marien.
“Simple. I knew Marien would kidnap Derrek in order to try and steal the orbs from him.”
“Wait, why did you want your boyfriend kidnapped?” another acrobat asked.
“I needed him gone from his room so Alec Carver could ransack it. I told the fat fool that Derrek kept his greatest stories with him in a journal. It would contain the best material of his travels that would fetch any minstrel worth his salt untold gold in any tavern he performed them in.”
“But why did you need Alec to steal Derrek’s material?” one of the judges who had remained behind asked from his hiding spot.
“I knew Derrek never kept such a journal,” Aliessa said, her voice dripping with cleverness. “He keeps everything as a jumble within his head. But Alec was too foolish to know this. I needed him to just make Derrek’s room appeared ransacked while Marien had him kidnapped.”
“But to what end?” the third acrobat asked.
“Because Marien would inevitably fail to find the globes on Derrek’s person. I had sold Mikael a potion, lying to him that the imbiber would be forced to tell the truth. That way, when Derrek said he didn’t know where it was, Marien would naturally think it was hidden in his room. When they returned to the inn, they would see the mess and think someone else had stolen the globes.”
“But you didn’t expect Derrek to go to the street gangs!” one of the thugs accused.
“No,” Aliessa whispered, her eyes narrowing. “Derrek was able to cure himself of the potion I fed him. With his mind cleared, he confronted Alec who almost revealed the plan.”
“It… it was you,” whispered Laara from the ground. “You’re the one that sent the giant bird.”
“If there’s one thing that foolish fat man is afraid of, it’s birds,” Aliessa laughed. “It was no big challenge, I prepare an enlargement spell every morning and all I had to do was cast it upon one of my pets.”
“But why?” the last acrobat asked. “Why all this subterfuge and trickery?”
“Because,” Derrek said with growing defeat. He turned from Aliessa, his heart heavy in his chest. He could barely form the words to speak. “Because it’s our anniversary.”
“That’s right!” Aliessa shrieked, lifting her staff. “Our anniversary!”
The thugs, acrobats, Dian, judge, Laara and Mairen looked confused.
Finally one thug raised his hands in defeat.
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t you see!” Aliessa shrieked. “This is because of this damn Challenge! You never planned on spending the weekend with me at all! You just wanted to be in this stupid tournament!”
“It was my dream,” Derrek whispered. “My dream to be Seeker.”
“It’s just a really bad copy of the Wizard’s Challenge!”
“Wait. Wait a damn minute!” Mairen cried. “All of this… all of this was to stop him from competing in this bloody competition?!”
“Yes,” Aliessa admitted, her voice dripping with acid and malice.
“No seriously!” Marien shouted. “THIS WAS ALL SO HE WOULDN’T COMPETE IN THIS STUPID CHALLENGE?!”
The woman gave off a litany of curses.
“What a gods damned waste of gold!” she shouted, stomping towards the exit. “Now I have some thrice cursed useless talisman and no fiery hells way of powering it and…”
“Wait!” called the acrobats. “Does this mean we’re not getting paid?”
They dropped their weapons, turned and slowly edged their way past the thugs. The thugs then turned to Dian who merely shrugged.
“I guess you don’t need anymore protection.”
Dian led the thugs from the hall.
Derrek turned to Aliessa.
“Well… now what?”
“I don’t know,” she said lowering her staff. The glow around her shimmered then vanished.
The hall fell deathly quiet.
Aliessa raised a hand to brush some loose hair from her eyes.
“I can’t, I can’t help but feel like it’s slightly my fault,” Aliessa whispered.
Derrek sighed.
“It’s just that this Seeker title really means a lot to me, Aliessa.”
“I know,” she said. “But I feel… maybe… maybe if I hadn’t supported you so much you wouldn’t have thought you could get it.”
Derrek nodded solemnly.
“And if I didn’t think I could really get it, I never would have tried to, I suppose.”
“I guess… I suppose this is it.”
“I guess so.”
Aliessa walked forward, lifting a hand slowly to Derrek’s cheek. She let her fingers brush his skin, to feel his warmth one last time. He reached up his hand, taking hers. He could feel how soft her skin was. As she drew near, he was reminded how heavenly she smelled.
They looked into each others eyes. Hers were welling with tears, the pain written plainly on her face.
“I won’t… I won’t say I love you,” she whispered, looking down and resting her hand upon his chest. “I promised I would never cry.”
“Maybe we don’t have to,” Derrek whispered.
“You’re right,” she said. She leaned forward, giving him a quick peck on his cheek. “Goodbye… my dear. Goodbye Derrek.”
“Farewell.”
They embrace. Derrek wrapped his arms tightly about her, holding her absolutely close. Despite her vow, he could feel her shudder in his arms and the soft dampness of her tears against his chest. But still he held her close as the sobs came until she could cry no more.
They released, but reluctantly. Aliessa hadn’t even noticed she dropped her staff. She sniffled back a few straggling tears and bent to pick up her weapon. But Derrek bent faster, grabbing it and holding it aloft for her to take.
She smiled weakly as she took it. She turned, walking slowly towards the exit. Her dress swayed with each rock of her hips. Derrek watched entranced as she glided away, like the phantom of a dream fleeing the coming morn.
“Will I ever see you again!” he called.
She paused before the door, looking up at him one last time.
“All you need to do is close your eyes.”
She opened the door and was gone.
Absolute silence fell upon the hall.
It was done. It was all done. Everyone had left.
Derrek was alone.
In one fell swoop he had lost his girlfriend and his chance at the Seeker challenge. He turned to Laara who still lay upon the stage. Whether she had fallen unconscious again or was merely acting so to maintain the gravity of the scene, he couldn’t tell. The remaining judge, in pure dramatic style, had also made himself scarce.
But surely, there would be no chance of him winning the title now. And though the winner of the first act was surely going to come down to subjective opinion, Derrek was positive he had lost the trivia contest by one point. And there was no way his spell would compete against Laara. She would no doubt be crowned winner so perhaps this was her way of repaying him back for being a worthy competitor.
Derrek turned towards the door, his body felt completely drained. He didn’t know what he would do now. He didn’t know where he would go. He had no direction, no aspirations and no future.
The world suddenly seemed bleak and drained of all colour.
But then, there was a curious shadow of red and blue that seemed to skitter across the walls. He paused amongst the wreckage of chairs and watched as the light danced and bobbed becoming brighter and brighter as it went. It seemed to be shining from the exit.
Derrek turned to see Alec burst through. Clutched tightly in his hands were two small glowing orbs that clinked as he moved.
“Balls!” Alec cried triumphantly as he held the objects aloft.
“Come back here you bastard!”
Alec turned then hurried towards Derrek, his flabby flesh jiggling about him like so much free jelly.
Just as the balls were pressed into Derrek’s hands three people burst into the great hall. The large, dark man had his great two handed sword drawn and a look of pure bloodlust in his eyes. Following him was a taller, sinewy, younger man carrying a thinner but more elegant sword in his hands while dark brown eyes filled with loathing searched beneath a mop of messy hair. Pulling up the rear was a woman who looked remarkably similar to the tall man, a bow drawn and an arrow notched between her fingers.
“Rutting swine!” cried the tall man. “Give those back!”
Alec cried, quickly ducking behind Derrek. As Derrek watched the group approach, the wrath in their eyes seemed to vanish and replace with confusion and a great deal of fatigue. Up close Derrek noticed they were covered in dirt and dried blood. Their clothes were ragged and matted as if they had been through some great ordeal.
There was a clatter as the great two handed sword fell to the ground in pure exhaustion.
“Derrek?” the woman muttered.
“Jeremiah, Keirn, Kait,” Derrek said. “You’re… you’re back!”
“And we have those damnable orbs!” Keirn cried, pointing his weapon at the globes in Derrek’s hand. “Let’s get those to Aliessa so we can finally be paid. I really need a bath and a nap.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be wanting them now,” Derrek said with a shrug.
Keirn stared at him unblinking, his brain slowly processing this new information. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees and cried with hands upturned to the ceiling.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

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This is all I have got

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I sometimes feel that my posts are barely footnotes on the bottom of a page in comparison the lengthy stories that keep going up. Alas, I am not that verbose. Also, I am in the middle of some scribblings so I thought I would share with you my latest words.

The following should be sung, like a lullaby:

Don’t fear your dreams my child
The amarok’s in the wild
Overhead the hunter flies
On golden wings she cries
So rest with me my child
Protected here from the wild
We are her glowing prize
Watched over with loving eyes
Wait for the sleeper my child
To drive the snakes into the wild
Know that when the fire dies
Once again the Phoenix’ll rise
*Note: the amarok is mythical/legendary beast from native american culture. Some describe it as a cross between a bear and a wolf. Others claim it is a dire-wolf of prehistoric times. I really like the sound of the word and think we need to move beyond the most typical of legendary beasts and bring into the picture some new favourites. With so little written about amaroks the possibilities for it are endless – in a story writing perspective. Also the name is cool as is anything that tries to be associated with prehistoric creatures like dire-wolves, sabre-tooth cats and my favourite – Terror Birds!

Balls – Part 7 of 8

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< Return to Balls Part 6

When it comes to the last portion of this story, I’m left with a difficult task of trying to figure out the bets way to split it. I hope this works.

————-Break————-

If Derrek felt entertaining a crowd in a tavern was difficult, then this was perhaps the most nerve-wracking, soul-wrenching experience he had ever endured. He was more accustomed to friends and a small campfires – a captive audience if ever there was any. But here, with so many eyes on him, the pressure to perform was like being struck by an enormous wave and dragged out to sea.
 For the first challenge, Laara produced her harp and let loose her tremendous musical skills. It was a moving piece; her instrument produced such clear and enchanting notes. Derrek recognized the composition as that of The Unicorn’s Last Folly. So evocative was her talent that Derrek could almost hear the narration echoing the tale like some ghostly spectre falling upon the hall. He was transported away to those hidden glades and the remorseful loss of the unicorn as it was driven over the cliff by the great bull. With the last pluck of her strings reverberating about the hall, Derrek could almost feel himself turning into the white surf of the ocean along with the fabled creature.
 Unfortunately, Alec was called next. Perhaps it was the judges punishment for Derrek breaking the rules as the administrator gave him an almost condescending grin as Alec took the stage.
 Derrek had played with Alec when he attended the College, and the man was a fairly accomplished musician in his own right. He was very good at picking up compositions and learning older songs. His biggest weakness was in the creation itself. He could reproduce, but his original work always fell short.
And there was no way that Alec could follow Laara’s symphonic performance.
The fat man strolled to the front stage and immediately demanded a person in the front row give up their seat. Once he was handed a chair, he sat down, taking his lute in hand and strumming a simple cord.
Then he began his oral delivery.
He wasn’t going to play at all. It was a beat telling of a tale with the lute used to accentuate his delivery. And Alec began to tell the story of the Defence of Balearis. Word for word, it was an accurate retelling of the kingdom’s stand against the Lich Lord’s forces and the betrayal of the Priestess of Treachery. The only details that were altered were the roles that Derrek, Kait, Keirn and Jeremiah had played. They were replaced for fictitious creations of Alec’s each delivered with convincing accents in the tale. It was, begrudgingly a most compelling delivery and a seamless blend of acoustic and oral components.
 The applause erupted at the conclusion and Alec smiled triumphantly as he tossed the chair recklessly off the stage before returning to Derrek’s side.
“Your turn.”
 Derrek stepped forward, his mind racing for what he would do. There were other tales he could tell but his whole style had been stolen! Even if the events were different the telling would be too similar and Derrek’s performance would be too derivative. Alec didn’t need to use all of Derrek’s material to sabotage him. He just needed to steal the soul of it.
He looked out over the crowd. That sea of faces stared back expectantly. It was an unsettling silence, where the lone cough would echo hollowly in the great space. Derrek just stood there, his mind unmoving as if all thought had froze within his brain. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t know what he could do.
He needed his muse now more than ever. He closed his eyes, silently pleading for her to come to his aid. He needed something, anything at this point. He couldn’t be known as the man that stood. This was his big moment and he was blowing it.
A soft tingle crept into his foot. At first, he thought it was just falling asleep. But then he was possessed by the curious sensation to tap it. Tentatively, as if he were lifting a naked toe towards some unknown pool, he lifted his foot and dropped it.
The sound beat back the deafening silence.
He tapped his foot again.
An otherworldly beat swelled within his chest. His second foot began to enter the fray. It was as if some alien force possessed his body, causing his limbs to strike out on their own. They moved in no determined fashion. This was not a jig or a waltz. His feet carried him across the stage in a pattern completely contrary to any folk dance or court saunter. His feet beat against the wood of the stage, creating their own tempo and orchestra to carry him along.
He lifted his hands, unsure what to do with them. He felt he should do something with them, leaving them dangling at his sides like two dead fish just didn’t seem appropriate. He reached for his lute to begin an accompaniment, but his fingers balked at the touch of the instrument. Instead, they took control themselves, spinning in great circles about his body.
Faster and faster he moved across the stage. His muse was in full control now and he didn’t question or resist. The audience sat in rapt silence, watching the young man as he writhed his way in front of them. A soft rumble began to reverberate within his throat, and Derrek opened his mouth to release the unearthly howl.
Faster and faster he spun in some discordant patter of feet and warbling voice. His arms were like thin branches of a willow tree, flapping violently in a tumultuous storm. The hall began to spin and blend before him, turning from concrete shapes into a haphazard mess of colours and contours before his spinning eyes.
And still he turned until the winds of whatever demonic force propelled him filled his ears and made him deaf to all other sounds. The constantly turning of his body covered his skin with an all-encompassing tingling that distorted the sensations of hot and cold. The sights before him melded into one single painting of great streaks and splotches.
And just when he thought he would be lost within those muted sensations, he suddenly stopped. His arms fell limp by his side, his voice seemed to crack and give way while his feet took root and refused to move.
He just stood there, staring dumbly at the crowd.
 The crowd stared dumbly back.
 Seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity before at long last some distance person began to clap. A few more added their slapping hands. Feeling as if they had missed something but not wanting to show it, a whole chorus of applause broke from the audience.
 The judges stared at Derrek. The young man gave a short bow and quickly hurried back to the other three.
“Wha-the hells was that?” Alec whispered.
 The administrator slowly took to the stage, calming the audience once more.
 “Well that was… quite the display of talent and ingenuity on the part of our competitors. However, traditional… and non-traditional… entertainment is not the sole purview of an accomplished minstrel. One must also be a well-spring of information and knowledge. They must carry the news of distant lands and be experts on foreign customs and rituals. A minstrel is akin to a walking encyclopaedia and to that end we enter the second portion of the Bard’s Challenge. Trivia!
“If all three competitors would come to the front please.”
It was clear that this was going to be a head to head competition.
“To the smartest goes the spoils,” Alec smiled.
“First Question!” the administrator barked. “Name the capital of the Akshari Empire!”
“What is Quarre,” Derrek said immediately.
 “How did you know that?!” Alec sputtered.
“We spent a short stint in its jail. Long story.”
“That is correct. Though, you really don’t have to phrase your answer in the form of a question,” the administrator said. “Next question! What is the name of the elongated zink otherwise called the Lizard!”
“A tenor cornett,” Laara said, her voice like the soft ringing of a dinner bell.
 “I’ve got this next one,” Alec said.
 “Next Question! What people would you find in the blasted far north, renown for their slavery and pit-“
“Baatez,” Derrek said. “Travelled with one. But you wouldn’t know that.”
“Next question! This instrument is typically made from the horn of chamois or goat.”
“Gemshorn,” Laara replied.
“Next question! What common ingredient is used to prepare the herbs in remedial salves and poultices?”
“Pig’s intestines!” Derrek shouted. “You never think how important it is until you don’t have any and
substitutes are a… tricky proposition.”
“Next question! This partsong consists of vocal musical composition and –“
“Madrigal!” Derrek and Laara shouted in unison. Derrek eyed Laara suspiciously.
“How do you people know these things?” Alec cried.
 It was clear where the real competition for this section lay and the two squared off. Derrek had the upperhand on the esoteric questions that left the sheltered Laara scratching her head. But she had clearly spent most of her time studying the musical theory and history during her training. If Derrek wanted to edge her out, he was going to have to beat her to the answers on those questions.
 The two of them began to answer so fast that the judges were shouting out the next question before the previous one was even answered. Back and forth they went, like a rapid match of Ulama. Alec was left staring dumbfounded, his head snapping between the two players as if they were swatting his eyes between his ears.
Laara and Derrek’s voices began to rise so loud that it drowned out the questions being asked until at last the administrator stood.
 “Final question! Name the famous beverage brewed in the Hills of Barrowfold which gave rise to this peculiar brand of music from its distinct tankards.”
Derrek and Laara looked at each other. Each one wanted to shout the answer, worried the other knew it, but hesitation held them back. Derrek aped three responses before he stopped to consider the question. Strangely, he didn’t actually know the answer.
 A tentative voice rose.
“What is grog?”
“Correct. And you don’t need to phrase your answer in the form of a question, Alec.”
Carver smiled broadly as he nudged Derrek in the side.

 “See that, I told you I’d get one.”

Continue to Balls Part 8 >

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Balls – Part 6 of 8

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< Return to Balls Part 5

I don’t like having two D&D stories running at the same time so I’m going to try and finish this one off as soon as I can. I think next week will bring about the exciting conclusion to our rascally bard’s tale.

—————Break —————

“Oh yes, I’ve made the trip to the Servinian Wastes. Remarkable land if I may say. What’s that? Why yes, I’ve spoken with the Countess of Calandria. Remarkable woman, full of spirit as they say. Excuse me? Rebellion? No… I really don’t know much about that I’m afraid. Spent most of my time in the castle.”
Derrek pushed his way through the throng, emerging from the crush of bodies to where Alec stood. Aspiring minstrels and bards had gathered about him, listening intently to the stories that sounded far too familiar.
“And what of the sunken treasures of the Jade Turtle? Were you apart of recovering those?”
“Derrek!” Alec cried. He shifted nervously upon his feet, his fake smile wavering. “What-how did you get here? I thought you wouldn’t be competing.”
“And why would you think I wouldn’t?”
“Oh, just, you know. You’re not a real registered member of the College or-“
“And yet here I am.”
“Ah, yes. Here you are.”
It was awkward.
Alec smiled nervously, grabbing Derrek’s arm and pulling him away from the throng of onlookers.
“Perhaps we could spend more time catching up!” he called. Once they were alone beneath an arch, he turned the unimpressed man.
“How are… things?”
“Why are you stealing my stories?” Derrek asked.
“Yes, that. Well, you see, I didn’t know you would be needing them. So I thought I would just… you know, assist myself with your material. Like a testing of it, if you will.”
“And yet, I don’t recall writing any of them down. You came to my room looking for my tales, couldn’t find them but there you stood repeating them nevertheless.”
“Uh. Right. Fancy coincidence that.”
Alec was swallowing quite voraciously. He looked like a fish dangling from the angler’s line.
“You’re not particularly clever,” Derrek said. “Nor is Mikael particularly traitorous. And I’ve dealt with Mairen in the past. She’s not nearly this subtle. Who is behind this?”
“I want to tell you, believe me,” Alec gritted. “But I made a vow of secrecy.”
“Believe you?” Derrek asked. “You were the one that got me barred from the College initially.”
Alec laughed nervously.
“Oh that. It’s so long ago. Water under the bridge and what have you!”
This was getting Derrek nowhere, save confirming his suspicions of some greater puppet master. What he need was a more direct tactic. He need an attitude that would cut through this nonsense. He needed Keirn.
Derrek closed his eyes, feeling the brush of his muse as he began to channel the essence of his friend.
His hand reached quickly for the head of his lute. A few quick flicks of his fingers to unlatch the concealed triggers and he produced a hidden blade, pushing Alec roughly up against the wall while the metal bit at his throat.
“AH! DERREK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”
“I don’t have time for this,” Derrek spoke, his voice dropping and turning husky. “Tell me everything you know or I’ll make the last song you a sing a requiem.”
He pushed the blade closer for effect.
“No! PLEASE!”
Derrek flicked the blade, producing the tiniest of scratches against the fat man’s jowls. He howled with the piercing cry of a dying man.
“I won’t ask again,” Derrek growled.
“ok…OK! I’ll tell you!”
Derrek pulled back the blade, looking left and right to insure they hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention.
Alec reached a hand up to his throat, rubbing the fresh cut. As he held his blood flecked fingers to his eyes, he began to swoon on his feet. Derrek grabbed him roughly by his ruffled, styled lapel.
“Look, I never wanted any of this!” Alec said, raising his hands in submission. “I never wanted you expelled. It wasn’t my idea. I was set up to take the fall. I was a patsy!”
“What does that have to do with my drugging and your vandalism?”
“I’m getting there!” Alec said hastily. “You see, they came to me. I didn’t go looking for them. They wanted to see your ambitions reigned in, checked. They didn’t want you to garner the attention of the masters.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know,” Alec said.
Derrek raised the blade warningly.
“I swear! I never saw them. They communicated with me only through letters.”
“Where? How?”
“Now, or when you were enrolled here?”
“When I was enrolled?”
Alec pointed towards the dormitories.
“I found them on my windowsill when I returned to my room at night. My door was always locked so I don’t know how they were getting there except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, one time I returned from my studies early. I had forgotten my coin purse and couldn’t really afford all the wine for the evening. When I opened my door, I heard a greater flutter and as I rushed to my window I saw the retreating back of a large bird.”
“And these same letters told you to ransack my room last night? How do you know they were from the same person?”
“The writing and paper were all similar. The writing itself was very elegant and flowing but it was the paper that mostly caught my attention. It was dried papyrus. Only, recently it wasn’t a bird delivering them but a cat.”
“A cat? What kind of cat?”
“Well, it was about yay high and…”
Before Alec could explain more a terrific scream filled the air. Both men turned towards the sky to find a large bird swooping down upon them. Immediately, Derrek dropped to the ground but Alec just shouted as the animal descended upon him. The fat man raised his arms to defend himself, but the bird struck with beak and claw, driving him screaming from cover and into the courtyard.
The creature hovered for a second, eyeing Derrek warily. It looked like a common raven but almost three times the size. Derrek tightened his grip on his blade but the bird merely squawked its disapproval before chasing after Carver.
Would-be bards and minstrels shouted in surprise and uselessness as the giant avian fluttered through their midst. Derrek jumped to his feet to give chase. However, the bird ceased its pursuit the moment Alec ran into one of the dormitories, barring the door from inside.
The beast gave one last caw before taking wing and disappearing into the sky.
Derrek approached the door, knocking loudly against the wood.
“Alec! Alec, I know you’re in there.”
“I’m not coming out!”
“The bird is gone!”
“I don’t care!” he screamed. “The moment I come out it will be back for me. No, they know I was about to tell you. I… I won’t cross them. I can’t!”
“You’ll miss the Challenge!” Derrek warned.
“So be it! I can try next year!”
Derrek sighed. That was always his excuse. And so long as Carver kept receiving money from his parents he never had to worry. Derrek sighed, returning to the courtyard. There was nothing left to do but wait for the Challenge to begin.
Despite the interruption of the giant raven, the contestants seemed particularly unshaken by the encounter. Some, in true bardic fashion, had already begun retelling the events to make them more dramatic. Personal flair invariably began to exaggerated the moment to a daring defence against a flock of mighty Rocs by a few brave souls.
Bards made the worst damn eyewitnesses.
However, it did leave the officials in a bit of a fluster and they approached the participants with wary glances to the sky. Three of them came to address the participants, bedecked in bright pantaloons, tunics, ruffles and the most extravagant hats money could buy.
“Very well, you have all been registered for this year’s Challenge,” the administrator called, gathering everyone’s attention mostly to his enormous peacock feathered chapeau. “As you all know, the Bard’s Challenge involves three main tasks. I just want to add that any suggestion we stole the layout from the Wizard’s Challenge are wholly slanderous lies by the wizards and the Academy in an attempt to belittle our process. For one, they don’t have a singing and dancing portion. Which is good for us, because it makes the Wizard’s Challenge mighty boring for others to watch.
“Second, our trivia portion bears no resemblance to their recitations. Once again, the Bard’s Challenge tests its participants on their ability to remember interesting tidbits or knowledge and, forgoing that, fabricating some entertaining lie that at least sounds plausible. The wizards, however, feel some misguided need to repeat arcane theory or mystical history or whatever nonsense generally drives students to fall asleep.
“Finally, while it is true that we both share a magic component to our respective Challenges, you can bet that the Bard’s Challenge shows more ingenuity and excitement. Mostly because we don’t tell you that there is a magic component. Ha! I want to see all those monologues you’ve been studying help you now!
“Above all, we hope that you perspective minstrels maintain to the tenets of the bardic way. Cleverness, wit and unwavering confidence! Very well, no more dillydallying. Would all the would be bards come this way!”
The administrator beckoned for them to follow and trudged off with most of the participants in tow. Only four stood back, watching as the administrator led the majority of them away. Derrek shrugged and turned to see what the other two would say.
Once the last of the participants following the administrator passed through the arch to the inner courtyard, a great portcullis came crashing down behind them. The stragglers yelped, turning towards the bars and pulling on them helplessly.
 “Very good,” spoke the female administrator. “The five of you…”
“Six!” cried Alec from his distant door.
“Six of you have passed the first test. We aren’t here to tell who is and who isn’t an artist. True bards and minstrels know in their hearts that they are so. Those poor suckers will have a full year of additional studies and lectures pay to hopefully learn this lesson for next year. Now, if you all will follow me, let’s get this competition underway.”
The woman turned in a flourish of rainbow scarves, clothes and ribbons, walking towards the main hall as bells hidden in her great woven hair jingled merrily.
Derrek looked at the other contestants curiously. All of them were unsure if this were another test. Derrek shrugged and hurried after her. Two followed suit with Alec tentatively emerging from his barricade and following at a distance. The last two remained behind, watching the man in pure green who silently appraised them.
Once all of them had followed the woman through the door, the administrator turned, jammin a heavy key into the lock of the door. The click of the heavy tumbler fell into place and she lowered a great plank of wood. She then turned to the worried four faces watching her.
“Very good,” she smiled. “You’ve passed the second test and to not suspect that the Bard’s College is filled with absolutely trickery. Every good bard and minstrel must trust both his instinct and others if she is going to get anywhere in the world. Perhaps those two will eventually figure out that the third administrator is mute and doesn’t have anything to say after an hour or two. Who knows, Gorbel sure does just love to stand and stare! Come along!”
The four of them walked after the jangling hair through the back halls of the Bard’s College. Memories returned to Derrek of sneaking through these passages during the night. He could remember the sounds of rehearsing bards’ voices filling the air during the evenings. As they passed closed rooms he recalled the hours spent in movement and body study as they learned the intricacies of uncountable cultures and their dances.
And all of that before he was kicked out and had to spend two years at an Academy.
“Hey, not bad. Final four already eh?” Alec whispered, nudging Derrek encouragingly in the ribs.
“Don’t think I haven’t forgotten you still haven’t told me anything.”
“Tell you what, you beat me in the Challenge and I will tell you everything I know,” Alec smiled.
“You’re just hoping you have to perform first so you can use my best tales,” Derrek grumbled.
“Here’s hoping this year is also done by alphabetical order!”
“Here we are!” the administrator called. She slammed another key into a wooden door, opening up the back of the main stage for the competitors. They each passed quietly through, gathering around her as she stood before the front curtain.
“Very well, before we begin I have to insure that you all have been registered of course.”
A young man came running from the wings, his face flushed and his breath heavy. He held out three papers to the administrator who took them with a smile.
“Thank you Tobias. Here we are: the last registrations of those who didn’t fail the first two challenges. Gorbel and Elcelsior were much faster this time.”
The administrator pulled a pair of jewelled spectacles from her shirt and looked over the papers.
“Very well, when I call your name please identify yourself. Alec Carver.”
“Present!”
“Laara Sinclair?”
“Here.”
 “Dirrek Ginmg… Gungm…”
“Derrek Gungrich,” Derrek corrected.
“Yes, of course. That’s it then!”
“Ummm, excuse me ma’am,” the fourth contender said. “But you haven’t called my name.
“And who would you be dear?”
“Dirrac Gilimari.”
The administrator flipped through her clearly three papers before looking back at the young man and smiling politely.
“It seems we’ve misplaced your forms, if you wouldn’t mind following Tobias here, he’ll help you get them sorted immediately.”
The young man nodded, following the flustered aid from the stage.
The administrator shook her head, a cascade of tinkles emitting from her hair.
“There’s always one every year,” she sighed. “No matter, hopefully next year he’ll remember to file his registration. I hope Tobias is gentle with pitching him out.”
The administrator turned, clapping her hands loudly. Immediately, the curtains were drawn back, revealing the grand hall in all its glory. Massive chandeliers hung from the great vaulted ceiling casting long shafts of light down through their tinted crystals. Enormous decorative banners and tapestries hung from the walls and balconies filling the massive hall with intricate designs and glorious pieces of colourful art.
Immediately, the gathered crowd began a thunderous roar as a hidden band struck up a celebratory cord. The administrator hopped forward, letting her dress, ribbons and scarves twirling about her as she twisted her ringing head. She immediately flowed into an elegant dance with her body moving perfectly in time to the music as if the two had become one.
As she finished, the applause seemed to swell to a thunderstorm and she stood beaming in the adoration, bowing deeply as whistles and flowers were sent her way.
“Thank you, thank you!” she shouted, raising her hands. She waited for the applause to die enough for her to speak. “Greetings honoured guests and welcome to the sixteenth annual Bard’s Challenge. We welcome with open arms our esteemed guests of Etreria to bear witness to the ultimate competition to name our Seeker of the Cord. This year, we have three very special competitors!”
“Let me first welcome Laara Sinclair! Esteemed daughter of the High Duke of Westermarch, Laara is an accomplished orator and harpist. Being the daughter of a High Duke, she has borne witness to many talented individuals coming through her halls but it was the charming smile and quick wit of Petrarchis that lured her into the dreamhalls of minstrelry. Hopefully her father’s knights don’t find her until she has successfully achieved that dream!”
The crowd cheered as a very stunned and overwhelmed Laara stepped forward and bowed meekly.
“Don’t act timid, we deduct points for that,” the administrator whisper to the girl. “Our next competitor calls the temperate steppes his home. Born of a wealthy merchant and apothecary, the ever pampered Alec Carver sought training in these illustrious halls as he had no other prospects for his future. Much to the dismay of his family, he refused to return to carry on any of their businesses, aspiring to become the biggest name in the land and prove to all the children at home who taunted him that he could amount to something!”
Alec strolled confidently forward as the applause, while continuing, didn’t seem as supportive as that of Laara.
“Be careful, for even the smallest of chinks in the mask of your confidence will break under the crowd’s scrutiny,” the administrator whispered. “Our final competitor is a surprising one since we have very strict rules against non-members participating. But after being what he considered unfairly expelled from the College, our dashing (and may I add gorgeous) Derrek Gungrich sought training at one of our rivals’ Academies. There he met another young man from his village and after only a year and a half at the Academy, they returned home to set off on grand adventures. Eschewing traditional classroom instruction and gathering worldly experience, Derrek travelled across uncountable lands and kingdoms until returning to the city of his true calling. Relying on the virtues of a true bard, he lied and trick his way into the final test where he hopes of finally receiving recognition for his artistic endeavours!”
Derrek was too stunned by the candid introduction that he simply stumble forward and gave as gracious of a bow as he could.
“Don’t think anything goes beneath our notice,” the administrator whispered to him before smiling broadly and applauding with the crowd.

“Let the Challenge begin!”

Continue to Balls Part 7 >

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The memory of poetry

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I was feeling a little at a loss of what to post. I have not story fragments to share at this time. I have no earth-shattering or witty comments on current events. Instead, I thought I would delve into my stored collection of poems.

It is amusing to look at work, largely forgotten by time. Most of my favourite poems date from University – my poetry phase. From those that I recorded, I have selected one that still brings a smile to my face as I recall both the poem and the washing machine that inspired its creation.

There are Spartans in My Basement

There are Spartans in my basement
I really do maintain
Though I haven’t seen them
I feel them now and again

There are Spartans in my basement
I feel them march around
For the whole house starts to shake
From the attic to the ground

There are Spartans in my basement
And what a noise them make
The rhythmic thumping of their feet
Is a sound hard to mistake

There are Spartans in my basement
And they seem to time it right
Only when we do our laundry
Do they come to march and fight

There are Spartans in my basement
And funny you should note
That they seemed to disappear
When our washing machine broke

There are Spartans in my basement
A new washer to see
I have a funny feeling
They’ve gained a new technology

There are Spartans in my basement
I think they now must fly
For helicopters seem to land
On our house when passing by

There are Spartans in my basement
Helicopters on the roof
And when we do the laundry
I know that I’ve my proof

Cry of the Glasya-Labolas

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Yes, I’m aware that I missed Friday’s post. But I do have an explanation. I am currently vacationing in the frigid Siberianesque land of Ottawa and didn’t bring my external hard drive with me. What I hadn’t considered at the time was the fact I kept all my writing on my external so I really don’t have much to post while I’m here.

My stay is also shaping up to be a little longer than I anticipated but I don’t want to go two days without posting something. And something more than “lol, no posts because I’m stupid.”

Now, I did just see Side Effects and thought perhaps I could write up a post on my thoughts for that movie. However, after discussing it with my friend, I really don’t see much point. At the end of the day, Side Effects is created to be solely entertainment with little thought or care for creating a believable world, characters, themes or narrative. Thus, any discussion about the unbelievability of the characters and the ludicrousness of the plot is a waste. The creators had no intention of making a sound story and deep analysis is really just a waste of anyone’s time.

So, suffice to say I wasn’t a big fan of it but given it’s premise (the possibility of a drug inducing someone to commit murder) was rather stupid anyway. I would have forgiven the movie that small element if it decided to be a more scathing criticism of the American Healthcare System, but it is very conservative in its views and by the end not only is the system itself not at fault but also it was the “wicked woman” who was bringing sin/evil/trouble to the unwitting and innocent male.

So it’s both highly favourable to a corrupt system and stupidly patriarchal in its social views. I much preferred Seven Psychopaths but that movie obviously won’t do nearly as well.

Instead, here’s the beginning scribbles of what I’m working on currently. Forewarning, it is in early alpha and extremely rough so don’t cut yourself on the edges.

—————Break —————

Cry of the Glasya-Labolas
The court thundered. The stone walls shook beneath the tempest of violins and drums as the commanding keys of the piano wove masterfully through the piece. But even the clarion of the trumpets and the gentle weep of the harp sounded little more than background chatter. For there was but one sound that cut through the minstrel band like the stampede of an unstoppable cavalry charge.
And it was produced by the smallest, least intimidating creature Keirn had ever seen.
She stood between the thick stone pillars of the throne hall. Dwarfed on all sides by the yawning arches of the audience chamber for the ancient keep. Even the thick tapestries and heralds hanging from the walls couldn’t dampen the pelting voice roaring from those thin vocal chords. A single, unassuming woman stood unmoving upon a tiny wooden block.
But while her feet appeared rooted, her arms twisted with each haunting symbol that erupted forth from her with a greater force then a storm whipped tide. It seemed inhuman the sounds that she twisted from deep within her breast. Had Keirn not been standing there to experience it himself, he would never have believed it to be true.
And neither could the assembled court.
Every onlooker watched in stunned muteness as the foreign words of this incredible singer drowned out all other sounds and thoughts from their minds. There was no doubt in Keirn’s mind. This was the most beautiful and elegant aria he had ever heard. Granted, he’d never heard one before, but even the Duke Hasselbach sat riveted upon the edge of his stolen throne in rapt entrancement.
And just when Keirn thought it couldn’t more impressive, a sudden string of notes he’d never imagined singable came bursting forth from her, directed right down the hall at the raised lord and his gathered attendants by two thin waving arms.
There was but one soul in the entire chamber that seemed unmoved by the piece.
Derrek Gungric, Keirn’s closest companion and minstrel had his back turned upon the performance and busied himself with a nearby candlestand. Through sheer apparent boredom, he passed the soft flame from one candle to the next, letting the wax drip in thick rivers down the sides until it pooled in the small holders.
“How can you not like this?” Keirn whispered. “I hate your music the most and even think this is damn good.”
“Heard it before.”
“Not like this,” Keirn said. There was no way in this life or the next anyone had heard something like this.
There was a collective gasp as the young singer stepped from her perch. She turned, addressing the courtiers to the sides and the guards standing before the massive barred doors. It was impossible to know what she sang but the delivery gave the briefest impression that it was directed at you alone before she broke the spell and turned to the next face.
It was impossible to look away. Until Keirn heard a strange rustling and quickly scanned around for the source.
Having exhausted his attention with the candles, it seemed that Derrek was now busying himself with darkening a pair of thick glasses with a large piece of charcoal.
“What are you doing?!” Keirn hissed, slipping as unobtrusively to his side.
“I can’t watch this any longer,” Derrek said.
“So you’re going to blind yourself!”
“That’s the plan.”
Keirn stood momentarily mute.
“We’re suppose to be guarding the Duke!”
“So?”
“How are you going to do that if you can’t see?”
“Shhhh!”
Keirn turned to the intruding voice only to be greeted with Jeremiah’s stern face. The larger man motioned towards the singer with a look of impatience. Keirn cast a glance back at the Duke who appeared to be completely oblivious to the disruption. He motioned to Derrek as explanation for his actions but Jeremiah merely waved his hand dismissively.
Keirn turned back to the stubborn minstrel. He’d already completely blacked out one eye. He sighed, turning from his friend back to the performance. Keirn would just have to settle with being extra attentive to make up for the lack of eyes from the bard.
Not that there wasn’t an already impressive show of force in the court today. Trained archers lined the galleys and four guards stood watch over every entrance. But the show of force was easily forgotten beneath the elegant woman before them.
Keirn then felt a tugging at his sleeve.
“What?!”
“Do you know where Kait left her bags?”
Keirn leaned in close to his friend as the singer hit another stretch of impossible notes.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“She looks like she’s having fun.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’ve already missed the overture. Besides, I’m doing you a favour by missing this atrocious performance.”
Keirn sighed.
“What do you need now?”
“The leg bones from dinner.”
“Of course you- what?”
“From the swine. You know, you said yourself it was the finest you’d eaten in weeks.”
“I’m well aware of what I ate!”
“SHHHHHHHH!”
Keirn grabbed his friend’s dainty wrist and pulled him from the throne dais. Once he was sure he was out of earshot from the duke, he turned upon the impossible delicate features of his friend.
“First, why in the blazes would you need those. Second, why are they in my sisters bag?!”
“Probably to finish her chime.”
Keirn merely blinked at his incomprehensible friend.
“You’re impossible sometimes.”
“So do you know where she left them?”
“I believe she was requested to leave them in the guard quarters just outside the hall.”
Suddenly, there was a pause in the vocals as the instruments swelled in the break.
Derrek frowned.
“I’ll have to get them later.”
He then began removing his shirt.
Keirn grabbed his hands.
“Would you stop!”
“The wax should be ready by now,” Derrek said, slipping his hands free and tossing his jerkin aside.
“Look, you may be jealous of another bard getting the lead performance for the Duke but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin this. Especially when we haven’t even been compensated yet!”
Derrek paused with his belt in his hand. The woman’s voice burst forth and he dropped his pants.
“Probably best to do it now,” he said, shaking his boots free. Keirn growled, snatching for the discarded trousers as the bard quickly hopped to the candlestand in nothing but his linen braies. There, the blonde man dipped his fingers into the cooling pools of wax and plugged them deep into his ears. As Keirn rounded on him with trousers held menacingly in one hand and the belt in the other, the bard danced effortlessly about his wailing arms before slipping behind him. There he plunged his fingers into Keirn’s ears and the young man could immediately feel the hardening wax plug his ear canals and mute out all but the faintest echoes of the lingering song.
Keirn rounded on his friend, feeling a familiar frenzy drawing in his chest. But just as he was about to wield his friend’s belt as a whip, he caught a sudden shift of motion on his periphery.
He turned, watching as the Duke’s rapt attention turned to that of sheer horror. The honour guard standing by his side merely gaped in fear, their crisp halberds dropping from frozen fingers. Keirn felt the motion instead of hearing anything in that dampening silence. All about him, a perceptible change had overtaken the crowd. The courtesans and guests seemed to draw back from the room, pressing against the walls before turning and fleeing towards the doors.
But all entrances to the throne room had been sealed by request of the Duke. The mob merely pounded useless against the wood.
Keirn wasn’t entirely sure what it was that drew his attention back to the centre of the room. But as he turned his face he could feel a sudden burning wave of heat wash over him. And what he saw caused his heart to stop.
There, standing upon the raised wooden step was a towering horror. Keirn wasn’t even sure what it was.
The creature wore the body of a human, bare chested but with thick irons wrapped about its arms and dangling from large wrists. The chains pulled taut as great iron collars shackled monstrous canine creatures that snapped about the monster’s thighs. But both man and beasts were much larger than anything… human.
The creature raised its head, a burnt stag skull resting upon its sinewy shoulders. From the darkest pits of its sockets burned an undying red light like stoked embers. A dented and torn scale mail skirt hung limply about the creature’s waist, coated in dried blood and flecked with rotted pieces of fur and flesh that gave a nauseating scent of death that radiated from the monster.
Finally, a pair of great eagle wings sprouted from the creature’s back. But these weren’t majestic appendages by bloody and broken masses of torn skin and protruding bone. Great splotches of featherless skin were stretched over the bloodied heavenly remnants.
Through the thick wax, Keirn could hear the hollowest echoes of screams.
The creature raised its arms and the four front hounds bound forward. The chains about its forearms unravelled as the beasts bore across the flagged floor faster than any worldly predator. Before anyone could react, they had descended upon the petrified Duke, curved claws longer than daggers tearing through cloth and flesh in mere seconds.
All the Duke’s guards merely watched in unmoving fear as their liege was torn to shreds before them.
Keirn felt something strike the back of his head and he turned to see Derrek practically naked and staring uselessly at a pillar through his darkened glasses. The minstrel made a gnawing gesture then shrugged his shoulders.
“Now’s not the time!” Keirn shouted.
Then he realized Derrek couldn’t hear him. The feminine man merely smacked him again and repeated the gesture.
But the distraction had shaken Keirn from his inaction and he could feel the pressing need to do something and quickly. He grabbed his friend by the wrist and pulled him away from the throne towards the guard room. He didn’t know what the bard was planning with the bones but perhaps he knew some sorcery to deal with this terror.
Course, Keirn had no idea how he was going to get through the frightened mob.
Yet, as Keirn hurried towards the side entrances, he noticed the gathered audience turning almost as if they were directed. They all peered back to the centre of the room where Keirn could hear only the faintest of whispers mingling with the ravaged slobbers of those great hounds.
 Whatever distraction beheld the others, it made pushing past them with his blind, naked friend in tow easier. Keirn descended on the door, trying the handle and feeling it catch against it’s latch.
“It’s locked!” he cried. Uselessly.
This deafness thing was going to take some getting used to. Keirn turned to Derrek for more guidance but the bard merely repeated the bone-gnawing gesture.
 The temperature in the room noticeably rose and Keirn could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his neck. He raised his hand to wipe it away and noticed a curiously change seem to overtake his neighbours.
The attendants clutched at their ears, pressing back against the walls or collapsing against the floor. Some appeared to writhe in agony while others drew whatever item or weapon they had at hand. Thus, armed they struck out madly about them, hitting and stabbing whatever their weapons found purchase in.
And in this monstrous crowd, Keirn’s sister was still. With stilling heart, Keirn realized she could still be standing at the Duke’s side where those beastly hounds still feasted. Keirn began to push his way through the crowd.

He’d barely taken a few steps before he felt someone his wrist grabbed. He turned to see Derrek still standing with one arm raised to gnaw. But there was something in his posture that seemed to suggest a great sense of urgency. It was hard to pinpoint what, but something about how he held himself seemed to indicate that if they had the bones then they would be able to get their friends.

Sticks & Stones

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The tournament of Hearts is on this week. For those unfamiliar with the sport of curling – this is the nationals for the women’s teams.

For those who have never curled, try not to judge the players too hard before you have spent two hours delivering and sweeping rocks yourself. It may look easy on TV but I can assure you – from experience – it is not. I am not referring to strength; anyone can through a rock the length of the ice. And many people can sort of sweep the rocks. However, it is difficult to through it exactly where you are supposed to and even more difficult to know how to call the ice and sweeping for the rock. Even sweeping is not as easy as it looks – you have to combine the right amount of pressure and friction along with a good sense of how fast that rock is travelling and where it will stop. Three years into the sport and I still struggle to make any of my shots.

However, even more interesting than playing the sport or watching the game on TV is learning about some of curling’s rich history. Recently, I was fortunate to talk with an older gentleman who remembers a time when teams played 14 ends (not the 8-10 ends common now) and other mostly forgotten trivia.

Curling was developed in Scotland, the home of golf. Like golf, curling started with 18 ends. Imagine going back and forth across the ice sheet 18 times. Currently teams will play 10 ends in just under 3 hours. Granted the style of game has changed some in that time. There are now rules about guards – mostly the first four guards cannot be removed. This has shifted the strategy of the game and the type of shotes. Previously most shots were take-outs, not draws, meaning the game moved that much faster.

The size and weight of the stones has also changed since its inception. At one time, stones ranged from 40 – 60 lbs – there was no set size. Now, of course they are uniform in size, weight and shape. Only a small running surface on the bottom of the rock is actually in contact with the ice. Further, and most interesting to me, the act of putting a spin on the rock was against the rules. Apparently, skips were expected to guess which way a rock would start curling (spinning and arching across the ice) by reading the ice and the rocks. To add a spin was thought to be cheating as you were directing the rock. Weird.

As the sport evolved, Canada developed its own style and Europe a slightly different variation. One of the big differences being the spin on the rocks. Now the rules are consistant – at least to my understanding.

Evolving along with the rules of the sport are the rules of the social aspect – which many consider just as important. Parts of the country, my club included, follow the social norm where the winning team is responsible for buying the first round of drinks after the game. It is expected that both teams sit together for some time after they play. Perhaps it is this attitude that makes curling so welcoming to beginners at all ages. I have met some players that started after they retired from work, while others have been curlings since they were children. It is impressive that the oldest curler at our club is 96 years young!

It is a great sport and still one of my favourites to watch. Go Ontario Go!

Dark Souls Review – Lore & Story

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“But then there was fire and with fire came disparity. Heat and Cold. Life and Death. And of course, Light and Dark. Then, from the Dark they came and found the souls of lords within the flame.”
– Dark Souls Prologue
 Dark Souls is an action/RPG hybrid from Japanese developer From Software. It is the sequel to the critically acclaimed and oddly punctuated Demon’s Souls. I did not play the first and only recently picked up this game as it finally saw a PC release. However, substantial word of mouth and numerous awards raised my expectations for the title. A number of glowing reviews highlighted its combat and story so I was eager to experience both.
Since my ramblings generally favour writing and storytelling, I’ll leave just a quick summary of the actual game. The combat is fun with an emphasis on a melee system that focuses on proper timing with your attacks, blocks and dodges. Bonus damage is awarded for successfully parrying and riposting an attack or if you’re able to manoeuvre and score a backstab against an incredibly small hitbox on your enemies. There is also an archery and magic system which isn’t nearly as intricate and mostly results in you running backwards while spamming your spells and hoping you have enough ‘casts’ to see you to your next bonfire where you can restore them.
Naturally, as an avid fan of Skyrim, I picked a sorcerer. This means I miss out on the varied combos and attack patterns of the different weapon classes and for armour have my choice of three dresses. On the plus side, bosses are incredibly easy since I don’t have to run my face repeatedly into their enormous weapons.
But Dark Soul’s story is an interesting beast.
Unlike most Japanese RPGs, Dark Souls does not rely on scripted cutscenes to tell its narrative. Most are used for quick little boss intros to highlight how much trouble you’re actually in. The only substantial story video is the very opening of the game which gives a rather long, rambling explanation about fire and undead that will mean absolutely nothing to the player on first viewing.
The rest of the story is told through really short descriptions given on items that you collect around Lordran.
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It’s a curious format that has received a lot of praise from fans. This puts the onus on the player to seek out information on the story and the world instead of heaping long narrative dumps every three or so hours throughout the game. It’s a style that could really benefit from the interactive medium that videogames inhabit. Traditionally, videogame narratives have striven to mimic the more cinematic approach popular with movies. This creates a disconnect between the game portion and the narrative portion of many games as developers will typically rely on animated cutscenes that remove the player’s agency in order to show them extravagant explosions or witty banter wholly out of the control of those playing.
The great thing about Dark Souls delivery is that it doesn’t interrupt the flow of the game. Players choose when they want to engage with the story by loading up their inventory and selecting through the menus to the item descriptions. It also provides an additional reward for exploration and discovery as the only way to gain more information on the narrative is to seek out as much equipment as they can which leads to investigating every nook and cranny of the level design.
And, because the story is delivered in these short, concise snippets much is left to the interpretation of the player to order the information they’re provided into a more coherent whole.
However, there is one major drawback. Because you’re limited by the number of items you have in the game, so damn little is actually established or said.
Now, you can communicate with the numerous NPCs spread throughout the world but most of them have little to say other than some cryptic statement on your current goal followed by the actors most hammed maniacal laugh. This leaves the player in a constant state of confusion since there is so little direction actually given – both for the overarcing narrative and even for current goals within the game. While it promotes exploration and discovery, what you’re left with is an incomplete framework in which to organize the information you gather.
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My issue with this system is that it’s really hard to judge whether Dark Souls has a good story or if it even has a story at all. Essentially, the narrative you weave through your own actions as you make your way through the forty or so hours to the ending is very rudimentary. You have to ring some bells for god knows what reason, get some giant bowel from some large breasted women for god knows what reason, then fill that bowl with juicy souls for god knows what reason. Nothing is every made clear and closing in on the final act I found myself searching online for videos to explain why I was doing all these unrelated actions. I figured the answer lay in those impossible ledges that I couldn’t be bothered finding a path to. So I was content to let more persevering souls explain it to me.
What I found, however, was a wealth of useless information and a sea of shaky speculation. It appears that nothing is ever really explained and most lore enthusiasts are left formulating their own theories on the elements of the narrative. Now, ambiguity is an excellent tool to engage your readership and used effectively can really drive home your themes.
Unfortunately, too much ambiguity and you stifle the discourse on your work. Most of the discussion on the lore of Dark Souls really focuses on minor elements. Almost every video I cam across discussed Lord Gwyn’s Silver and Black Knights, spending valuable time explaining that the Black Knights are not a separate rank but a portion of Gwyn’s soldiers who followed him into a confrontation and were permanently tarnished because of it. It’s a neat little detail but certainly not something that should dominate discussion. However, it’s one of the few details that players are able to ascertain with any amount of certainty.
Which is a shame because the discourse shouldn’t revolve around the fracturing of the Silver Knights or what religion Bishop Havel belongs to when there are such grander elements like the nature of humanity and the meaning of souls.
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This brings me to the goal of storytelling. At the end of the day, there is a story that you want to tell and most stories hinge on a theme or conflict. Fantasy stories are able to explore these themes and conflicts in novel ways by introducing us to worlds freed from the constraints and limitations of our own to further highlight your goals that would be either difficult or impossible if you were limited by accuracy and realism. Want to focus on the nature of good and evil? You can create a universal powered by the forces of these two ideas and shift your societies from the complex morality of our own lives.
However, for these worlds to be successful to your audience, you have to create some sort of understandable internal logic that your readers can anchor themselves within. You need them to be able to suspend their disbelief of all the fantastic elements you introduce in your fantasy world and giving them a consistent universe that works on rules and laws that the player can follow is the best way to do that.
Unfortunately, because Dark Souls is so vague and reticent in informing the player on anything we’re never given an opportunity to establish what these laws of the universe are. In the opening cinematic we’re introduced to a world that is suspended on giant iron trees filled with dragons and magic and undead. We’re told of Ages of Ancients and Fire but we’re never told what these descriptors mean. We know that souls are found in the Fire but we don’t know what the Fire is. We don’t know what souls are. We just don’t know anything.
And when given an absence of information, your audience is going to fill in the blanks. It’s only natural that we compose a narrative of the actions and events we experience. And what information are we going to draw upon than elements of our own lives? So the laws of Dark Souls and our own world begin to merge and intertwine in ways the developers had no intention because the players are given so little to work with.
Which brings me back to a point I mentioned earlier. There’s quite a bit of discussion over the religion that Bishop Havel belongs to but unfortunately this discussion is absolutely meaningless. In a world were souls are pulled from some inexplicable Fire, societies are built at the tops of enormous trees that have taken root in an unending lake of ash and some people are born with a sign that designates them as undead, how much weight can we put in understanding titles and concepts that share a name with real world counterparts? How do we even know that Bishop is a position in a church? It could be his first name for all the information we’re given. And what is a god in Dark Souls? Is it someone that possesses a lord’s soul? Is it one of the first people to have emerged from the fire? Is it just anyone that participated in the battle with the ancient dragons?
Without some sort of foundation for your audience to work on everything ends up being pointless speculation. I can’t really talk about this story with my friend since our interpretations of what the hell is going on are going to be so wildly different as we base our understanding on the narrative primary on our own imposed rules and laws than those established by the designers.
And all of this could be avoided and still keep the very simplistic story reminiscent of ancient legend and myth that I’m sure the developers were hoping to emulate. A few more narrative moments, some establishment of common concepts inherent to this universe and a tighter focus on the elements that the developers wish to explore would do wonders.
As it stands, we’re left as nameless wanderers through a world of fog and smoke with only tiny islands of information to find ourselves stranded upon.
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