Category Archives: Creative Stuff

This Is A Thing

So, I still do this. Honest. I’ve just been busy. Which is unfortunate because November is coming up and we all know how well that goes. Maybe because of my horrible neglect in October, I shall post in November. Maybe I’ll just post my rambling nonsense from NaNo. That sounds fun right?

Right?

 

II

 

I hate motels. They’re dingy pits filled with a perpetual smell of petroleum, ubiquitous and unidentifiable stains covering dated carpets and continental breakfasts solely composed of stale coffee and week old muffins. The only thing I ever like about them is they’re typically staffed by workers who are just as embarrassed about the place as the guests are.

The Dickie Bird Motel is such a place barring the staff.

The proprietor and, from what I could tell the sole worker, is a middle aged man who introduced himself as Emile Masson. Despite the name, I can’t get over his dark complexion and hair or his short stature. He has a splotchy beard and crinkly face that’s jovial but eerily out of place. He doesn’t speak with an accent, thankfully. And I am polite enough to not ask about his background.

“Around for another day are you?”

I blow on the lukewarm swill in my cup.

“Guess so.”

“Keep this up and I’d think you’d want to take up residence!”

He laughs at his own joke. I wrap up the half-eaten muffin.

“Seriously though, don’t get many people staying too long. Bit of a surprise is all, as most are just laying-over from the highway. Heading down south for those nice beaches. T’is a pity, I always say. We’ve got some perfectly fine surf here. But folks just want that sun, I suppose.”

“Guess so.”

My chair scrapes loudly as I stand and deposit the remains of my breakfast in the black garbage bag. Emile is moving about the tables, pretending to be cleaning. Hardly a speck of dirt on them as most guests have already packed up and moved on. Not that there’s any reason to hang around. The breakfast area is in the same foyer as Emile’s front desk and this motel is hardly sporting any pools or spas.

“I’ve got a few brochures of the area. Some fine old lighthouses dotted about. Get a few motorists that make a hobby of checking out historical places. Think we’ve got a few geocaches too if that’s your interest.”

He’s dead set on a conversation. My neck is still sore from his rock-hard pillows and lumpy mattress. The Dickie Bird is the only thing in the area with a decent recommendation online, however. Which worries me what the state of the Maryhill hotel would be.

“Not really here for sight-seeing.”

“Fishing is it? Didn’t think I noticed a canoe or anything on your car. A few rentals not too far out.”

“I’m actually looking for someone.”

Emile pauses in his housekeeping.

“Is that so?”

It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with this information. I can hardly blame him. I get a lot of those blank stares.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Maryhill, would you?”

His mood sours instantly. I watch as he turns instinctively from the window, suddenly becoming preoccupied with a spot on the table.

“You came all this way for that place, huh?”

“Not specifically. Got some word they were headed this way. You ever heard of the Pitch Dark?”

Emile is visibly shaken. He folds up his cloth and makes his way to the counter.

“You sure you aren’t looking for some fishing?”

I don’t know why I press. Maybe I feel guilty for his sudden change in disposition. Maybe I am worried about his brief look of horror. I reach into my coat pocket and extract a small photograph. It’s worn, now. The edges are bent. I place it on the counter and slide it across.

“These are my cousins.” I look him hard in the face. “Been gone for a few years now. Just up and left one night. Took their children with them and didn’t say a word. I’m trying to find them.”

Emile tries to keep from the photograph. His conscience gets the better of him. He picks it up, turning on the side lamp to look at it clearer.

“Cute girls.”

“Eleven and seven at the time. That one’s Madison. The other’s Zoe.”

He looks at it for a time. I can’t read his expression but it’s clear he’s wrestling with something. I pinch the photo, gently removing it from his grasp.

“I just want to make sure they’re alright.”

He nods, blinking as I put the photograph back in my jacket pocket.

“And you think they’re here?”

“As I said, I got word they were headed this way.”

“I don’t know much about… Maryhill.” He chokes on the word as though it’s poison to his throat. “Don’t have any reason to be heading that way, myself. Not a lot of people go there. Oh, she’s seen better days, that’s for certain. But there’s an unpleasantness about her that puts visitors right off. Been like that ever since I’ve worked here.”

“What of the Pitch Dark?”

“What of it?”

“You don’t know anything about that?”

“Only what I got on the news,” Emile says, nodding towards the small television in the corner. “Wasn’t a pleasant business, overall. Most are happy to have it go away and be forgotten. We still get a few curiosity seekers come through. Poking around for it and all that. For the most part, though, it’s come and gone.”

I shake my head.

“You haven’t really said what it is.”

“I wouldn’t know!” Emile says quickly. He looks around, as though he expects some phantom audience to be listening in on the conversation. “I just… heard the gossip and whatnot. Honest.”

“What was the gossip.”

“Not good.”

I can tell when things are heading in circles. I rap an anxious knuckle on the counter before realizing my options are exhausted.

“Well, thank you very much.”

Maybe it’s my tone, but Emile calls as I’m pushing open the door.

“It was an unpleasant sort of business!” I look back at him, door still open to the grey skies. “It was no family establishment, that’s for certain. They held midnight performances only… of a peculiar sort. I remember some of the people who’d come for them. You can tell the type. Strangers they were, in more ways than one. Most didn’t stay here though. Don’t rightly know where they stayed. They’d come for their shows and then… who knows.”

“What kind of shows are we talking about? Everything online was vague.”

“They wouldn’t post something like the Pitch Dark online.” Emile shakes his head as though to dislodge something from his mind. “Unwholesome. Debauched. Exotic-like. As I said, nothing suitable for a good family.”

“And now it’s closed.”

“That’s a blessing, it is,” Emile says. “Not sure why. Police got involved after some anonymous tip. Launched an investigation and everything. Their press release was brief. Said they found things. Disturbing things. Didn’t go into detail and no one pressed. So it just sort of… blew on by.”

“You haven’t seen a Volkswagen by chance?”

“Seen a lot.”

“Recently?”

“I don’t keep a car registry, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks.”

I make sure to sound appreciative this time. His reply feels genuine.

“Be safe.”

The Dickie Bird is placed along the highway and it takes me a good two hours of meandering country road to get back to dreary Maryhill. It’s still muted and lifeless in the daylight with its disquieting residents shambling along the paths. I don’t have much of a direction this time. I drive by the theatre but have no energy to search it. One look and the exhaustion of last night’s visit hits me like a pile of bricks. But I’m not looking for decrepit ruins today.

I need to find that car.

I spend the better part of the morning driving up and down those few streets. I keep telling myself that I’ll happen upon it at any moment. When lunch comes around, I stop at the smallest store I’ve ever seen. The clerk is sullen as he sells me some plain bread and a few over-priced fruit. Grumbles about the lack of fish and I can’t help but notice he hasn’t bothered to update his signs to reflect the lack of stock.

I eat in the lot beneath the local church. The bright red roof gives some life to the wretched village. But it doesn’t bring any comfort. I watch the sea churn its thick, dark waves. A few boats blink amongst the crests, near drowned in the carpeting clouds stifling the horizon. I find my heart racing just thinking of those desolate souls tossing back and forth. My lunch lurches in my stomach.

Maybe a drive will help clear my mind.

I put Maryhill behind me, following the languid road through the scoured rocky seaside. Though the town proper falls away, there’s still far flung homes scattered amongst the scraggly grass. It might have looked serene on a sunny day but to me it’s all desolation. Gives the sense of a worn battlefield than quaint countryside. I can’t help but wonder how much blood has been put into the earth but a glance to the dark waters makes me think it’s all gone to a different end.

I don’t think much of the outcropping when it pops up from the ground as I mount the ridge. The thick stone is smoothed and worn from weathering and has the appearance of a broken and hunched giant’s back. Nothing grows across his pale sides as the stone behemoth appears to be dragging his tired body into the hungry waves breaking across his neck. I wonder if it’s a lookout and briefly consider searching for a route up.

It’s then I notice the shack.

It’s a small, grey wood structure like something that has been washed out to sea centuries ago and only recently been tossed back. Its windows are dark, the glass rippled like a pond disturbed by an unseen finger. A multitude of empty drying racks dot the plot, the bare wood all that’s left of a long dead carcass picked clean.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/t/turner/1/103turne.html

The Shipwreck by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1805).

But it’s not the traditional architecture that makes me swerve onto the narrow path running towards its fastened front door. There’s a Volkswagen parked beside it. A Volkswagen with a familiar dint above the back right wheel well.

I’m rubbing my eyes as I come to a stop mere feet from the fender. My headlights pool across the metal, glittering off the flecks of sea spray and early drizzle. I open my door in a daze, the wind slamming me inside my car as I shake the eerie grip of delusion from my mind.

I can hardly believe the letters stamped across the licence plate.

BAHC-353.

I near slip on the moistened rock underfoot as I stumble from my vehicle still thrumming with its live engine. I have to touch it. I have to reassure myself that my sight isn’t deceiving me.

The metal is biting cold beneath my fingers. My breath fogs the glass. I press my nose against the windows but there are no familiar faces peering  from the interior.

I turn towards the rundown shack. My fist rings against the wood. The door nearly buckles from my greeting.

Perhaps it is the ferocity of my announcement but there’s an immediate answer to my summons. The face that peels the door away is a withered and creased thing half-hidden beneath a beard so ferocious and ratty that it looks like something had hooked on the man’s face and perished. It is impossible to age the man beneath the sagging cowls of his upper-lids and the splotchy skin pulled taut across his wiry frame. He could be ancient, some relic even older than his home spat from the sea. Or he could be a handful of years my junior, aged well beyond recognition from toils demanded by the small dingy clattering along the pier out the back of his abode.

“Who are you?”

It is not much of a welcome but a befitting one for a stranger clutching his coat and staring as hard as he can at the native.

“This your house?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Is that your car?”

This makes the bearded man falter. His response is noticeably less assured. “Yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“What’s it to you?”

I don’t know where the surge of adrenaline originates, but I grab the man fiercely by his frayed sweater and pull him from his stoop. His hands are upon mine, far stronger than I expect. We wrestle but briefly. My shoes slip upon the stones and sense is jostled harshly into my body as I bang against the unrelenting earth.

The man scrambles for some object to defend himself but his rusted hammer is no good against the weapon I wield.

He pauses as I hold the photograph aloft.

“Where are they!” I cry into the wind. The sea pulls hungrily at the photo. Water streaks my burning face but the ocean spray and mist refuse to reveal whether it is tears of rage or not. The fisherman lowers his tool.

“Get out before I call the cops!”

I stumble to my feet, my clothes heavy with the moisture they have stolen.

“Where are they!” I demand again.

The fisherman turns to his modest home but I stumble after him before he can shut the door.

“I’ll go to the police. I know they were here!”

He stands in his entryway, water dripping upon the naked boards.

“I don’t know nothing about them!”

“That’s their car!” I point, still reassuring myself that it rests in the driveway.

“I don’t know anything!”

“Where did you get their car? Were they here? Did you invite them in?”

“I don’t know nothing about no damn family!”

He turns, a flurry of emotion written across his face. He looks sternly in my eye. His hands ball into fists. And yet, the picture still shakes in my grip. He looks down on the faces as though transfixed by the frozen people trapped in their old frame.

My voice is hoarse as it struggles through my lips.

“Where are they?”

He holds one of his wizened hands over his eyes, rubbing something away. When last he looks at me, his face is drained. All that’s left is a crippling fatigue that sags his shoulders.

“I found it,” he whispers. The words are nearly lost in the wind. “I found it just up the ways. Headed into town. Just sitting on the side of the road there like a little gosling that lost her mother. Doors were all open. The light was like a beacon…”

He shakes his head again and waves towards the car.

“Not a sign of nobody, I swear.”

I shake my head. This makes no sense.

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“Have you seen this place?” the fisherman cries. “My hauls are empty. The sea’s been angry for years now. I haven’t… I have to eat. I have to eat! I can barely afford to keep my boat in repair. I thought… well maybe this was my time, you know. Old Maryhill’s supposed to bring about fortunes when the Lord is pleased and all. I figured maybe this was that sign. I swore if the owner ever came back, I’d be right as happy to return it. I would! But, well, no one ever came.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. I look about his property though it’s not like I’m going to find an open grave with my cousins all piled inside. I look the photograph over, wiping off what rain I can before putting it safely back in my coat.

“I want to look at it.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Of course.”

He takes only a moment, disappearing behind his door. He returns with keys jangling in hand. He motions towards the car but I hold out my palm. He looks at them reluctantly before passing them over.

I circle the car as I search for anything. I try opening the door but I don’t recognize all the keys on the chain. It takes a couple of tries before I get it unlocked.

The smell is the first thing to hit.

I don’t have a lot of memories of this vehicle. My familiarity has developed by pouring over old albums and photographs. But I’m certain I would have remembered the heavy stench of fish and rot that permeates it. I gulp what fresh air I can before climbing inside.

The interior is disgusting. Garbage piles on the passenger seats. Stains and grime stick upon every surface. I don’t want to touch anything. I poke through it anyway.

There’s little in the glove compartment that hints at any prior owner. There’s nothing of my cousins amongst the filth that litters the floor. Cigarette burns mar the dashboard but they never smoked. It wasn’t good for the kids. There isn’t even a CD in the tray.

Whatever was left of my cousins has been buried or removed by the slimy, greasy fingers of that man.

Yet another dead end.

I slam my fists against the wheel. The horn echoes the forlorn cry I cannot give.

No, I’m on the right track. I have to be. This is proof. This is what I’ve been looking for all these years. I pull myself from the car, breathing in the fresh air. I take out my phone, snapping a few shots of the vehicle. I make sure to angle my pictures to include the fisherman in them without him realizing.

“So there was nothing in the car?” I ask.

“No.”

He isn’t convincing.

“I want to see inside your home.”

“No way! Look, I’ve been plenty accommodating. But I really don’t know what happened to the last owners.”

I try to sneak a peek of his house as I hand back the keys and he locks himself inside. It’s not likely that he’d have something of theirs anyway.

I remember searching their home and noting much of the kids’ things were gone–as was the luggage. It is as though they packed up for an impromptu vacation. For this vehicle to be here, they had to have travelled a great ways with it packed to the brim. It’s simply not possible that he found the car without anything inside.

I make sure to take a shot of his house before climbing into my car. I’ll poke around the shops and see if I can’t find something of theirs. He probably pawned it and probably locally. He doesn’t seem the type to offload a bunch of stolen belongings without leaving a paper trail.

I’m giddy as I drive into Maryhill. Perhaps it’s the first time I actually face the village with a smile. It doesn’t last long. I’m across town in a few minutes before I even remember that I didn’t find any pawnshops in my prior searches. I stop in that sad little store where I bought lunch and get a confirmation. The closest one is a few days travel down the highway.

The wind is gathering more furor so I decide to call it early and head back to the Dickie Bird.

Preview – The Pitch Dark

I haven’t forgotten you. Though sometimes it feels like I have…

 

I

 

Five years of obsession and searching have brought me here. Five long years and I have a name at last. It’s not an answer but at least it’s a new question.

The Pitch Dark Theatre.

It’s not much to look at now. It’s one of those old, colonial types. Never really cared for architecture myself. That is more Therese’s thing. She loves old homes. Always going on about the Georgians, Gothic Revivals and Queen Annes. Yeah, this could be a Queen. Those are her favourite and this has vestiges of that gingerbready look. I have a feeling she wouldn’t be too fussed about this one, though.

It squats on the ridge like some fat vulture hungrily eyeing the street. Its long windows are boarded and shut to the crashing surf still audible despite the wind. Half the shutters have fallen off rusted hinges and the few that remain batter against the brick side. At one time it was probably fancy like a governor’s house or a hotel. It isn’t much now. The only sense of colour to represent its regal construction is in the blocky graffiti sprayed across its wall. But even that is sparse.

Few weeds sprout on a front lawn too dry to entertain grass for a spell. The barren ground is an oddity given the heavy clouds overhead. The smell of rot permeates the air and the boards sag underfoot. Paint peels and flakes but reveals nothing beneath other than more blighted black wood.

And then there is that damnable police tape snapping in the air. The edges are frayed. The words are faded. Someone put this up then couldn’t be bothered to return and take it down. It’s like the whole town has condemned the place, marked it off and quarantined it.

The message is clear: stay away.

But I can’t. There’s something about the name. I hold my phone before the facade, looking over what it once was. The Internet still has pictures of it back when Maryhill was proud of the monument. Bright cornerstones encased the red brick with inlaid terracotta panels and a large disposed set of windows with arched upper sashes and a gabled roof. Asymmetrical oriel windows pop from its otherwise flat side with impressive set ornamental frames that would have certainly been a big draw back in the day.

Now, they are more like pustulating blemishes bulging from the skin and ready to burst. Ornamental chimneys rise behind the single, oddly placed tower as though the roof has grown a row of crooked teeth. The whole front curves and buckles at irregular angles like the ground is trying to dislodge and pitch the entire misshapen thing into the sea.

And while it was bright and decorated in the photo, now it is all black. Thick, choking paint runs over everything, right down to the fish scale shingles so that a sense of form and depth is utterly lost amongst that unending nothingness.

I snap a photo anyway.

I take a look about the street before ducking beneath the tape. It is unnecessary but after five years of questionable searches and more than a few awkward conversations with local authorities, some habits are hard to shake. No one really walks by this old building though. I haven’t seen a single soul even look its way from the lower roads.

The wood groans as I pass. There’s no front door anymore. Pieces of scattered, broken wood are the only hints to the theatre’s final night. I enter the foyer without any resistance, picking a path amongst the construction half forgotten in the curved entrance. The hallways are open to me, all doorways eerily empty of their teeth. Wind whistles through the building’s vacated bones as litter and dirt spreads from the passing of rodents and birds.

I make my way forward. Despite the dirt, the only thing that stands out as peculiar is the walls. They’re covered in wide streaks of bright white paint. It seems like someone had come through with ambitious intentions despite the animals ruining the effort. Lines stripe the ceiling too, as though to scrub the offending black wholly from existence. As I proceed deeper, however, the effort dwindles. Solitary lines are all that remain until I step into a central courtyard eerily untouched by this mysterious renovator.

It’s a strange design. Where should lie the heart of the house rests a cobbled square with a covered walkway that circles its perimeter. There’s a visible chill in the air as numerous passages lead to this small, open space. Looking up, I can see the persistent grey sky heavy with rain clouds too full to break. Silhouettes of the square chimneys feel like a penning fence, their throats long drained of any smoke.

Without the mad renovator’s touch, the effect of that black paint is heaviest here. It oozes from every post, brick and stone. Only the single shaft of light overhead can penetrate that gloom. The air is thick as though it carries twisting chains that wrap about my ankles and wrists. The windows overlooking the yard are just as dark and unnerving.

But nothing is worse than that stairwell.

It’s little more than a slit in the ground like a tear in the very earth. Darkness almost bubbles forth from its gaping cavity and there’s an oppressive silence that deafens my senses. Looking upon that hole I’m unable to shake a powerful sense of dread.

Naturally, I turn and poke amongst the side passages.

I don’t know how long I wander. Each room I step into is just like the last. It’s as though I’m witnessing the frozen battle between two eternal forces. Black and white paint hangs from every surface. Where expensive rugs and ornate furniture should be there is nothing but those naked walls clashing in their two tones. The borders and mouldings are lost amongst careless brush swipes. It’s impossible to say who is winning.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/t/turner/1/100turne.jpeg

Fishermen at Sea by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1796).

And no matter where I wander, I always emerge in that dreaded courtyard. Even as I attempt to navigate myself away from it, the curious twisting corridors and small, numerous blank rooms always end by disgorging me into that pit of darkness. There’s nothing here on the main floors. I can’t even say that the place has been ransacked. It’s almost as though there was nothing ever here.

The fifth time I enter the courtyard, I look up to the sky to see it darkening just like the house. A shudder runs down my spine as my eyes are inextricably drawn towards those hollow, descending steps. I haven’t checked the upper floors yet and by now I’m not certain I even want to explore them.

I convince myself that it would be too dangerous in a building this neglected without a flashlight. I poke amongst the corridors until I find the one that leads out. I don’t even bother hiding my sigh of relief as I duck beneath the police tape and hurry down the path to the street. I pause before the driver’s door to look at the Pitch Dark Theatre in the deepening twilight. It’s like a shadow now but of what I cannot say–just a dark smear across a dark sky.

I get into the car and drive, thankful for the shine of my headlights.

It feels like another wasted day. It feels like another dead end. Nothing to show for my work. Nothing to confirm these nagging doubts latched in the back of my mind. I was certain this would be it. Looking at the building felt like I finally caught my break.

The rest of Maryhill is unremarkable colonial nothingness. It’s a village forgotten by time. The small, squat homes are bleak and lifeless. The few inhabitants on the street huddle against the terrible wind rolling off the waters, clutching their torn plastic bags as they shuffle for the recluse of their small lives. It’s a dead town at the end of a very dead trail.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time to give this up.

I’m turning the car towards the highway when something catches the corner of my eye. I slam the brakes and screech to a stop.

There, beneath the pale light of a local hotel is the worn, beaten Volkswagen with the telltale dent above its back right wheel well. I’m in shock as I fumble for my phone. I’m flicking between photo albums before I even realize I’m parked in the middle of the street. I signal and turn into the hotel’s parking lot, taking a space two down from the Volkswagen. I find a picture of the old car, parked beneath the cherry tree. It looks better then and not just because of the two girls sitting in its open trunk smiling for the camera. Their feet dangle over the licence plate but I can still make out enough of it.

BAHC-353.

I climb out, pausing just long enough to look up and down the street. Nobody wants to brave this weather this late in the evening. As I move around the car, I look towards the hotel entrance. All the windows are dark like most of Maryhill but a small, fluorescent Open sign flickers in the corner of the front glass.

I crouch by the back plate, wiping some of the mud away.

BAHC-353.

My heart is pounding. This is it. I look back at the hotel.

It’s a small place. Certainly less grandiose than the Pitch Dark Theatre. It’s covered in that quaint country white paint though the wind and sea salt has caused it to peel in places. The roof sags beneath its own dissolution. The curtains are frilled, stained and faded. Perhaps it would have been lovely back in the seventeen hundreds. Now it was much like the rest of the town–living well past its natural life.

I open the front door. The soft chime of bells ring overhead. The wind groans after me, causing small papers to flutter of a nearby stand. I slam the door shut, bending to pick up the mess I’ve inadvertently made. They are travel brochures though none of the pictures on them look like Maryhill. They’re all colourful villages filled with smiling people.

“Can I help you?”

The question is more accusatory than polite. A young girl sits behind an awkward counter blocking a half open door to the back rooms. An empty pot rests beside her, nothing in it except dry dirt and a wooden dowel to support the faded idea of a flower.

She’s a young thing, barely old enough to be working a counter and certainly not old enough to be working this late. Her eyes are cold and bored; it is the vacant stare reserved only for those in that obnoxious stage of teenhood where their minds possess the singular thought that they amongst all others know everything but can’t be bothered to share any of it.

“Busy day, eh?” I ask. It’s a lame attempt to liven the mood.

She’s duly unimpressed.

“Not here, no.”

“That your car out front?”

“I don’t have my licence yet.”

“It’s a guest’s then?”

“The hotel doesn’t have guests anymore.”

She keeps that dead stare and, though those empty eyes rest solely in a young thing’s face, I can’t help but shift beneath them. The floor creaks with my weight as I search for an unassuming route of enquiry.

“A co-worker’s then?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Look, I just want to talk to whoever drives that Volkswagen in your lot.”

She shakes her head, a few strands of dirty brown hair falling loose. She adjusts them before she speaks.

“There’s no car in the lot.”

I try not to grit my teeth.

“Yes, there is.”

“There isn’t.”

I look out the window. Even with the lacy curtains, I can still see the outline of the car sitting plain as day in front of the hotel. God damn kids.

“Look, it’s really important that I speak to the driver of that vehicle. So, either you tell me who it is or I’m going to knock on each of these doors until I find whoever brought it here.”

I wave my hand down the side hall where the guest rooms clearly lie. She shakes her head but says nothing more, looking down to the faded pages of a book behind the counter.

“Fine then!”

I turn but have only taken three steps before I hear that telltale thrum of an engine igniting. I look out the window to see the vehicle’s lights angling towards the street.

She doesn’t even look up as I wrench open the door and burst into the night.

I fumble my keys, half distracted watching the Volkswagen pull away. A light fog is rolling in from the sea and I’m just slamming the door as the first tendrils wrap about my car. The engine stutters several times.

Not now. Not today.

“Come on!”

But even as the car shakes to life, I know I’m already too late. The wheels squeal as I spin onto the road and tear down the street. I’m looking down every side lane as I pass but there’s nothing here now–only fog and darkness.

I circle Maryhill’s main road twice. It’s not that large. But there’s no sign of the Volkswagen. It’s like it wasn’t there at all. My stomach’s growling by the time I give up.

I have to pass the hotel on the way out of the village. I restrain myself from raising my finger. It’s not like she’d see it anyway.

I Made A Thing Part 2

So last week I showed off the second summoner for my custom Summoner Wars faction: the Sylvan Vargath. There were several design goals I hoped to achieve with this deck. I wanted to make a melee focused force that were hyper aggressive but did not rely on free units to score an economy advantage over their opponents. Instead, I wanted to try and create a more expensive troupe that was too tough to kill before they got across the board. Furthermore, I wanted them to balance on a very thin edge by getting a number of bonuses for being wounded even though that brought them closer to death. My final challenge was to wrap all these mechanics in a flavour that gave a wild and dark impression as though the force were fashioned from the rejects and outcasts of a fantasy society.

Andrasteia and her events represented the hard to arrange but powerful if you did concept. A number of her events require very specific triggers before they can occur with, perhaps, the Child of Nyx stealing the show as a powerful one attack, four wound conjuration that has the potential to do up to three wounds every Sylvan Vargath round.

Now we’ll cover the forces that work beneath Andrasteia. Here, the concept of fringe society is really pushed to its limits. And we’ll see the question brought up again and again: what is the price one is willing to pay for power?

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/h/haen/satyr.html

Satyr Drinking from Grapes by David de Haen (1597-1622).

Barbaros (1M-2W-2M-Untamed Heart) – 6

Untamed Hearth – When moving this Barbaros, you may move up to 1 additional space. If this Barbaros moved through 3 different spaces this turn, increase its Attack Value by 1.

Ah, the Barbaros. I thought this guy was going to be super underwhelming. It almost falls into the Plaid Hat “one card must be trash in every deck” design. However, the first game my sister played with the Sylvan Vargath abused the hell out of these guys. They are designed to be a 2 melee, 2 wound common for 2 magic. At six in a deck, you’ll be able to reliably find them in any decent amount of draws. But in order for them to be worth their price, these guys have to run otherwise you’re overspending two magic for some rather lackluster stats. In comparison, the Shadow Elf Swordsman is a 2 melee, 1 wound for one magic that can move an additional space. So how are these guys suppose to be any good?

Well, for one you will make them run and having multiple three space moving units hitting for two melee can get bewildering. They can block lanes or threaten summoners are just a slightly larger range. Most importantly, they’re fantastic targets for Andrasteia’s Shroud of the Mother since this can increase their movement by a really impossible to predict amount. Best case scenario is you summon a fresh Barbaros, play Shroud to hop that Barbaros to a unit two spaces in front of a mid-board Andrasteia then run him three more spaces to strike some backliner–preferably the opponent’s summoner. That’s five plus squares that can be achieved by as many Barbaros which qualify for the maneuver.

While I was rather unimpressed with them when creating them, I don’t think I would buff the Barbaros either. Sure, you have to work in order to make him not be an overpriced Guardian Knight but his unassuming stats make him easy for the enemy to ignore. He also needs, on average, three dice to statistically bring down and if you leave him wounded he can threaten a Retribution on his turn before running off and punching some sucker or a wall in the face. Or blocking for Andrasteia and turning into a Child.

Vates (1M-3W-2M-Blasphemous Rites) – 7

Blasphemous Rites – This Vates may move through other Units but must end its turn on an unoccupied space. If wounded, move 1 extra space and roll a die every time this Vates moves through a unit. On a result of 3 or higher, place 1 wound on the passed unit. Otherwise, place 1 wound on this Vates.

Yerp, that’s movement. Here’s two commons at two magic for one attack. But both focus on turning out extra dice through other means. I like the Vates myself, though they have a tendency for blowing themselves up on me than actually throwing out three wounds. Truthfully, it took a long time to create this common and it wasn’t until I decided that I wanted a deck that turned on abilities as its units drew closer to death that I settled on this design. The moving through units was important so a defensive player couldn’t easily block off their summoner from the Sylvan Vargath charge. At three movement, you have to stack your defenders quite deep to keep them out.

It wasn’t until I settled on the design I realized I’d just created a common Satara. And I love Satara and think she’s bonkers. So I added the self wounding for the failed attacks they get when they pass through units. It’s a gamble but one that can be quite painful if you’re lucky. Since the majority of units in Andrasteia’s army are melee, it means that the opponent generally gets to focus their attention at killing each unit one by one and the Vates being incredibly unthreatening without wounds makes them perfect targets for a Child’s range attack. Their three health makes them far harder to focus down in one turn if they’re fresh too. With seven in the deck, they’re kind of the bread and butter of Andrasteia’s forces though, despite my love for them, I find I don’t summon that many in a game.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/l/lotto/1/03rossi3.html

Allegory of Virtue and Vice by Lorenzo Lotto (1505).

Hamadryas (3M-3W-4M-Deep Roots) – 5

Deep Roots – Abilities and Events may not exchange or place this Hamadryas or enemy Units adjacent to this Hamadryas. When moving adjacent enemy units, they must move at least 2 clear straight line spaces away from this Hamadryas or they may not move.

This is the reason you don’t see many Vates. There is but one other common with the same stat and that’s the Swamp Orc Savager. Which is a pity because I really like the three attack, three wound line. It makes them hit hard but fall fast. Hamadryas having a confusing ability (sorry about that) which is designed specifically to feed of Andrasteia’s Inescapable Night. So what does it mean? Any enemy beside a Hamadryas gets caught in the tree spirit’s entangling clutches and must spend all of their movement escaping them or face that terrible three melee attack. These are the bodyguards for Andrasteia. Enemy forces trying to skirt around your army to strike your summoner get stuck against these tree spirits and in order to break free have to move out of position from hitting Andrasteia. Even worse, if they’re on the wrong side of the Hamadryas and within Andrasteia’s Night they can’t move at all because they lack the number of movement points to run away.

And this triggers on enemy units. That includes conjurations and summoners! Yes, Andrasteia can lock down an enemy summoner with a Hamadryas and Night. This doesn’t happen that frequently, that 3 wound stat coming in strong here. But given that these spirits are almost always beside Andrasteia, they’re the motivation the Sylvan Vargath outcast needs in order to have souls to entice those Children onto the field. A Hamadryas at one health is still a terrible foe and obstacle and your opponent will rather have the Child flinging wounds on the board than deal with this very effective blocker.

So what’s the downside? Hamadryas can not move with Shroud. Which is for the best as they could have had some crazy combo turns if I had not put this restriction in. However, it’s also a boon as it prevents tricky plays through Silts Cunning, Woeful Brother’s Swift Maneuver or anything else that shifts opponents. However, not all is lost as Hamadryas can be moved by Controllers, Brutes and the like. So Andrasteia has to be mindful that her defence isn’t impenetrable. It’s just very tough. And kind of scary.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/l/langetti/marsyas.html

Apollo and Marsyas by Giovanni Batista Langetti (1660).

Lycaon (3M-6W-8M-Cursed Blood) – 1

Cursed Blood – Once per turn, after attacking with Lycaon you may place 2 wounds on an adjacent Sylvan Vargath Unit you control and immediately attack with Lycaon one additional time.

So… yeah. This is a thing.

One of the original weaknesses of the Sylvan Vargath was I intentionally designed them to be poor against enemy champions. The first summoner produced so many wounds against commons that they could cleave through other common focused forces with great ease but a strong, tanky champion like Gror or Krung could really do some damage. I didn’t want to create a silver bullet with the second summoner but since Andrasteia doesn’t create nearly the same attack bonuses as the original summoner, I felt like there should be an option to deal with a single, massive target.

Lycaon is that answer. Six attack is pretty unprecedented. Lycaon can, with some luck, one shot the majority of the game’s summoners. But to do this, you have to maim a unit. Also, eight magic is a massive sink on par with the aforementioned Krung. Only Hellfire Drake is more expensive but there’s no way to reduce the cost of champions in the Sylvan Vargath like there are in the Fallen Kingdom. And you’re only getting six health for that investment as well. He’s probably the most fragile of the highest priced champions. I feel like he’d be rarely played and often for Hail Mary situations.

The other thing to keep in mind is that nothing in this deck is cheap. All the commons cost two or more magic and now they have one of the most expensive champions? There’s some tough magic management built into the Sylvan Vargath which adds an extra layer of complexity to an already complex faction. This is not a beginner deck and Lycaon is perhaps the most straightforward of the three champions.

Still… you can one shot summoners…

Diactoros (1M-6W-6M-Tranquil Envoy) – 1

Tranquil Envoy – When Diactoros is not adjacent to any Unit you control, reduce the Attack Value of all enemy Commons and Champions within 2 spaces of Diactoros by 1. A Unit’s Attack Value may not go below 0 from this ability. 

Alright, I really struggled with pricing this champion. His wording is designed specifically so he doesn’t make the first Sylvan Vargath summoner stupid broken. But since Andrasteia has a bunch of single units running all across the board on their own, keeping them away from the Envoy is pretty easy. So what does Diactoros do? He adds toughness to your army without actually adding health to your units. He shuts down sections of the board, stripping units of their ability to wound your forces.

I won’t lie, I have no idea of this guy is incredibly broken or not. He has a big question mark over him in terms of balance. He almost all but shuts down common play where I feel the majority only have one attack value. At six health, he’s incredibly difficult to bring down as well. The only saving grace is that he has but one attack value so if he does get into a fight with a tough opponent, he’ll probably fold… eventually. The range on his ability is also very strict because, once again, I’m unsure if it is even suitable for Summoner Wars or not. I think he hit the table once during our few playtests which is why I’m so unsure of him.

I do like the theme I built around him, however. He’s like the Sylvan Vargath peace ambassador that just happens to be bombing around the area when Andrasteia attacks. He’s not really part of her forces (he loses his ability if beside an ally) but all he wants to do is spread peace and tranquility so he doesn’t really interfere either. Just another outcast of society trying to change the world the best he can.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/g/gervex/satyr.html

Satyr and Bacchant by Henri Gervex (1852-1929).

The Horned Priest (2M-4W-4M-Presence of Cernunnos) – 1

Presence of Cernunnos – Instead of attacking with The Horned Priest you may target an adjacent wounded Common Sylvan Vargath Unit you control. The target Unit may move up to 2 spaces and attack with an additional 1 Attack Value. If it fails to kill an enemy unit, place 1 wound on it.

So we’ve gone from one of the most expensive champions to one of the cheapest. This is my idea of a hard “support” champion. Despite being a champion, The Horned Priest has statistics akin to a common unit. So what does he offer?

Well quite a bit, actually. And that’s partly because I discovered he was super over-priced the first iteration I did. Originally, he just let another common attack a second time with a free move but to give up his attack to do this proved to be incredibly useless. But with the additional 1 to the attack value, things get more interesting. First, he can push those Barbaros into their Untamed Heart territory through that extra movement. They can then be three attacks at over five spaces! He can make those Hamadryas suddenly hit for four dice. Wounded Vates can pass through even more enemies. He does something for every single common that he shouldn’t ever be a bad choice no matter what your board state is. Furthermore, he can hang in the back, constantly propelling units forward with two additional movement, encouraging them again and again to draw more and more blood for his mysterious unspoken deity.

Oh, and did I mention that he turns Vates Rites on if they fail to get kills so even if your target whiffs you’re still getting a bonus? And he opens up that boosted Barbaros or Hamadryas for a Retribution if they’re not killed on the opponent’s turn?

Suddenly, spending the four magic on him doesn’t seem so bad.

The one downside is that he only triggers adjacent enemies so placement does get tricky. But you aren’t forced to move his target so Vates and Barbaros can still hit for a decent two attack and protect the priest at the same time. And he turns Hamadryas bodyguards into little murder machines. He’s not really a game changer like most champions are, however, but I feel that plays better into a common focused deck. Your commons are suppose to steal the show and the Horned Priest gives them all the spotlight to shine.

And this is why I’m reluctant to improve the Barbaros even further. The deck really needs to take together all its pieces and, while on a card-to-card basis it may be weaker to similar offerings in other factions, as a whole it brings a whole lot more to the table. I think this is the direction to design a faction. Fill it with pieces that all work together so that a player is reluctant to deck build them out. While I have a reinforcement pack designed, I don’t know what I would replace. I would certainly experiment with some of the new pieces but it does leave a difficult question of what I remove for the new toys. This is in stark contrast to other factions like the Sand Goblins where you’re more than happy to drop all those useless Scavengers from your list as soon as possible.

So how does this deck fare? Honestly, it has lost more games in testing than it’s won. Granted, it has a small sample size and, more importantly, its facing decks that we’re far more familiar playing. It has a rather high skill ceiling for the game, however. More importantly, it’s fun and I can’t help but grin every time I pull off a new trick even if it doesn’t win me the match.

I Made A Thing Part 1

Late post because Rogers Internet is awful and was down all weekend. What can you do?

I was cleaning up some things and stumbled across my old Summoner Wars Alliances box. Yes, this is a Summoner Wars post but the rest of my work is rather disinteresting so deal with it.

I’ve been pretty quiet on this little board game despite spending quite a number of posts covering my thoughts and feelings on it. As it turns out, I was gifted a whole bunch of Netrunner for my birthday and, as such, I’ve been transitioning to picking up that little hobby. I suppose you can expect more discussions on that game design in the future… once I start wrapping my head around it. Alas, Netrunner is a lot more complicated than Summoner Wars so it might take some time before I feel I have any input to make on that game. But between Netrunner and the day-to-day business of life, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to focus on the Summoner Wars. As such, it has started to gather dust quite a bit sooner than I would have anticipated. Thus, imagine my surprise when I opened it up and recalled that I had been busy tinkering away on the little thing.

Thus to the title of this article–I’ve made a thing. Specifically, I’ve created a custom faction for the game.

This started with my misguided attempts to tweak some of the shipped products I wasn’t particularly happy with. Primarily, I was trying to adjust the Tundra Guild so they weren’t quite so disappointing out of the box nor as reliant on cards that I didn’t own in order to stand a chance. As I’ve mentioned before, Summoner Wars is a rather simple game with straight forward systems which makes comparisons between factions and mechanics a lot easier to analyse than in something like Dota 2. Speaking of which, that’s coming up…

Anyway, after coming up with my own variant of the Tundra Guild, my sister was quite eager for me to take a stab at one of her favourite factions–the Mountain Vargath. I don’t know why she likes the little blighters but their performance in our games had always been underwhelming. I wasn’t originally going to tackle the challenge but once I started tweaking the Tundra Guild I struck a wellspring of ideas and couldn’t resist toying with her request.

I’m not going to post the products of either of those, however. They ended up being sufficiently different that I felt it was more appropriate to simply go ahead and treat them like unique factions all on their own. So, I created a “reinforcement pack” for my newly christened Sylvan Vargath and even went so far as to make a second summoner. It is this deck that I wish to post because I feel that it has the freshest ideas as I was unshackled from trying to tweak existing mechanics and concepts. I was free to explore any design space I cared for and after playing with them a little, I think there’s something valuable in what I produced.

Do note, I have not sufficiently tested these cards to say they’re balanced. As mentioned, our interest in Summoner Wars has waned to the point that we don’t really play it anymore. Which is a pity because I think there’s quite a lot of opportunity available now that we’ve broken the gate on personal modifications and house rules that could take the game into really fascinating areas. Anyway, this is my disclaimer that I wouldn’t try and sell this deck in the state it’s in. There’s probably a bit more number tweaking left to truly align it with the rest of the game. But here’s what I made and my thoughts behind it.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/altdorfe/1/1satyr.html

Landscape with Satyr Family by Albrecht Altdorfer (1507).
Obviously, as a custom creation, I don’t have any art to go along with these cards so you’ll have to use your imagination. I did find art for the cards but that’s obviously under copyright so here’s more classic paintings!

Andrasteia (2R-6W-Inescapable Night)

Inescapable Night – Enemy Units that start their turn within 2 spaces of Andrasteia can only move up to 1 space on their turn.

Well, no better place to start the preview than the summoner herself. I designed Andrasteia with all the tweaks that I made to the original Mountain Vargath in mind. She was, from inception, a second summoner so a number of her design elements take into account the abilities and play style of that first faction. It may make explanations a little more difficult but I’ll try to be as clear as possible when explaining my thought process.

First thing to notice is that Andrasteia has the standard summoner statistics. If I had taken a census, I don’t remember it now but I wouldn’t be surprised to find the majority of the summoners in the game to have six health and two ranged attack. Normally, this wouldn’t be noteworthy except I want to draw specific attention to Andrasteia’s ranged attack. Since I was trying to create a faction that my sister would like, I was restricted into trying to create a deck whose primary strategy would align with her preferred play style. Which is to say, the Sylvan Vargath have to be a rush down deck. My sister likes moving pieces across the board and pummeling her enemy’s face. Unfortunately, this strategy is one of the weakest in the game. One of the more successful implementations of it is the Cave Goblin Frick. But he relies on zero cost commons and extra attacks to overcome the inherent advantage a defensive player gets with instantaneous reinforcement and superior positioning. I couldn’t just copy the same formula but I also had to make sure that I didn’t inadvertently make something that would be better at defence than offence.

Thus, I focused on the Vargath design of goats and came up with the idea of ‘The Herd.’ The way the original summoner works is by making a very tight, compact phalanx of troops that are so robust they can weather a passive enemy’s defence but were near entirely melee focused so had to rush towards them if they stood any chance of winning. In the original deck, there is but a single card with the bow symbol and it’s an overpriced champion. In this deck, I decided I’d give the sole ranged option to the summoner herself. Part of this bled from a thematic perspective. The original Sylvan Vargath are all about camaraderie and cooperation. Andrasteia, I knew, was going to be the faction’s dark half. She was the outcast and, as such, she would eschew all the noble ideals of her society. Whereas the first summoner wants honourable man-to-man combat, Andrasteia was all about pitiless results and brutal efficiency. Thus, she didn’t want to be in the thick of the battle like her predecessor but nor did I want her hiding in a corner either. I wanted her to be in the middle of the board, a design space wholly neglected at that point.

So how do I balance that? Well, giving her a ranged attack will keep her from the very front lines. But I needed something that would encourage her to creep out of the furthest row. Enter the Inescapable Night.

Phew, what an ability. To be honest, I’m not one hundred percent satisfied with it. The purpose behind it is to lend some sort of superiority when the Sylvan Vargath get into their desired board state. Specifically, once they’ve locked their opponents down in melee combat, they need some sort of bonus that puts things more in their favour. Typically, melee units have far greater attack power and health, so they’re more likely to win one-on-one engagements. Unfortunately, it’s rare that combat is ever one card against one. Part of the difficulty of a rush down faction is that ranged units will add extra dice against melee targets. Especially when you’re taking the fight on their side of the board and giving them more territory to maneuver in. This is compounded further by events and card abilities.

Inescapable Night toys with that. Units caught within that short bubble around Andrasteia aren’t going anywhere.  With properly positioned bodyguards, it makes it really difficult for opponents to flank or surround Andrasteia. It also–as the name implies–makes fleeing from her very difficult. In some instances, it becomes impossible. This is to play up the design idea of Andrasteia’s cruelty. So it’s trying to hit both flavour and design goals. Only issue is, I’m not certain it really makes it. The problem is, extend the radius on the ability and it will be too powerful. Make it too short and it’s nigh useless. I’m not certain there are enough spaces in Summoner Wars for Inescapable Night to hit that sweet spot. I erred on the side of making it too short otherwise the ability could win games all on its own.

This is certainly one aspect I’d like to re-examine and tinker with before I declared it final. But as a design concept–hindering the opponent’s movement in order to grant yourself an advantage–I kind of like. It also means that in certain late game match-ups, Andrasteia can be a titan on her own as weakened summoners will be unable to run away or attack from a distance in order to achieve victory.

But what good is a summoner without some events?

Pitiless Retribution (3) – Add 1 wound to every enemy Unit adjacent to a wounded Sylvan Vargath Unit that you control.

I feel that the most successful melee factions are ones that out wound their opponents. I suppose that could be said about every faction since wounds are the only way to win a game of Summoner Wars. More specifically, to overcome the positional advantage of ranged units, melee units should be able to wound on average more often than their ranged counterparts. The power of ranged units is that they get to–essentially–make a free attack against their enemy. If both cards are throwing equal number of dice, the ranged unit will win through greater successes because they’ll get more attacks to make. This arises because there’s no penalty to a ranged unit engaging a card in melee distance. Typically, ranged units have lower attack than their melee counterparts but with the numerous different cards released, there’s a number of factions that shore this weakness up rather handedly. Fallen Kingdom Warlocks, Sand Goblin Shamans and Javelineers are examples where this “balance” doesn’t hold. This wouldn’t be an issue if melee units had more tools and that’s where Pitiless Retribution comes in.

The Sylvan Vargath hold to the Vargath design of having hardier commons than normal. There’s not a single one health unit amongst the lot of them. This means they’re more apt to get into melee range (especially if you start to consider the reinforcement cards I created). Pitiless Retribution punishes every failed wound from the enemy. With three in the deck, you’re apt to draw one and, depending on timing and positioning, it can be quite a lot of free wounds. In practice, it’s closer to Greater Burn. You’re most likely to play it when you can achieve two wounds. Unlike Greater Burn, however, you can’t place them on the same target. Alas but another design goal was to push more towards common focus gameplay.

There’s a second element I want to draw attention to and that’s the wounded Sylvan Vargath trigger. Keep an eye on this as it’s a central theme to the Andrasteia deck.

Shroud of the Mother (2) – Any Common Sylvan Vargath Unit you control which is not adjacent to an enemy Unit may be placed adjacent to a Unit within 2 spaces of Andrasteia. 

Positioning, positioning, positioning. The first Sylvan Vargath summoner looked at being a good rush down faction by granting units extra movements over their opponents. I think every melee faction is going to need extra help in getting their forces into the enemy’s faces if they want to succeed. Shroud I wanted to tie into Andrasteia’s darkness and give some thematic idea that she’s pulling her forces through this malevolent night and attacking from all angles to confuse and disorient her prey. I also wanted to grant this ability as much flexibility as possible. It can be great for reinforcing a forward push with freshly summoned units (assuming Andrasteia is in that sweet middle board spot) or it can save stranded members of The Herd that may have been isolated–assuming they aren’t already engaging their opponent in mortal combat. Finally, it needed the added flexibility of transporting units right beside Andrasteia in case she does get surrounded by being in that dangerous territory close to her enemy’s walls.

With only two in the deck, however, it’s not really a card you can rely on. It’s tempting to carrying it in your hand but it can also doom you to stuffing your draw while you wait for the most opportune moment to play. I think this finicky aspect of it keeps it balanced despite it being a super charged Fall Back.

Outcast’s Mercy (1) – Do not play this Event during your Event Phase. Instead, when Andrasteia wounds an enemy Unit, you may play this event to remove up to 2 wounds from Andrasteia and place them on her target.

Yikes!

What I always wanted from Summoner Wars was for one off events to feel really “ultimate.” I wanted these cards which you can only ever have one of to really impact the game like your opponent just lay down his trump card. That’s not what we have, though. Instead, things like A Hero is Born are the sort of standard for single events. They’re basically auto builds since they’re so niche in their application that the one magic far outweighs whatever ability is lost from not playing.

Thus, Mercy is meant to bring that wow factor. This card is an auto two wounds (so a Greater Burn) plus a heal wrapped in one. I knew I needed some sort of healing, otherwise frontline summoners simply don’t stand a chance without a huge health pool. I do like that Summoner Wars is very strict about its healing options for summoners, though. Essentially, this is a game whose economy is in wounds. You have to have hard restrictions on who can abuse that. Most discourse circles around the game’s costs in magic but really, all magic is funneled towards creating wounds. Mercy gives you a four wound swing on the most valuable unit. It also, once again, strengthens Andrasteia’s late game potential. If the match comes down to a slug fest as Mercy hasn’t come out, you’ll probably lose the showdown.

It’s also an ability that does nothing if Andrasteia isn’t wounded. You need to be hurt in order to give hurt, reinforcing that theme again and again. This is a card that will stuff your hand because its potential only increases as the game goes on. Statistically speaking, you need nine dice in order to drop Andrasteia in one turn and those scenarios are very hard to create. But leaving a wounded Andrasteia is asking yourself to get a large blow back on the following round. I love when things can create hard decisions for players.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/r/rubens/32mythol/32mythol.jpg

Two Satyrs but Peter Paul Rubens (1618-1619).
I don’t like anthropomorphic creatures but I didn’t want to completely remove the connection to the Mountain Vargath either. I settled for a middle ground, creating my Sylvan Vargath as satyrs. This, naturally, necessitated naming them all with Ancient Greek names.

Glimpsed Fate (3) – Do not play this Event during your Event Phase. Instead, when a Sylvan Vargath Common you control adjacent to Andrasteia is placed in the opponent’s magic pile, you may place a Child of Nyx from your Conjuration Pile on that space if able.

Child of Nyx (1M-4W-Being of Night)

Being of Night – At the end of each player’s turn, place 1 wound on a Unit up to 3 clear straight line spaces from this Child of Nyx. If you cannot, place 1 wound on this Child of Nyx.

Yes, Andrasteia has a conjuration pile. Yes, I lied about Andrasteia being the only ranged unit in the game. Yes, the Child is amazing.

Honestly, this card seems bananas. Even looking at it now I still think it’s ludicrous. But I wouldn’t change it. It’s the strongest conjuration with four health but that is a hefty challenge to get it on the board. Just take a moment to appreciate all the triggers that are needed:

1. Friendly Sylvan Vargath Common – restricts mercenary usage and champions

2. Adjacency – only playable if you’re getting swamped or you’re playing with bodyguards thus positioning needs to be exact.

3. Opponent’s Magic Pile – this only occurs at your enemy’s behest.

Point three is really key here. Anyone that’s played against the faction before will have the prior knowledge to know that any wounded unit hugging the outcast is looking to summon in a baby. This can be played around. And since Andrasteia has no ranged units, the onus is on the Sylvan Vargath player to make the scenario too drastic for the enemy to not want the child to be summoned. However, since its ability triggers at the end of both player’s turns, you have that double edged sword effect. You can get two wounds from this guy on your turn–one of which can’t be avoided–but your opponent can arrange his units so you get hurt at the end of his turn. This guy is a wound spitter but he’s indiscriminate about who he spits on.

Also, since the unit has to die beside Andrasteia, there are a number of scenarios that can arise where Andrasteia takes the first wound from his appearance.

Obviously, it’s not all bad, however. Four wounds for no magic is a steal (well, one magic from playing the event I suppose). As I mentioned, he’s a potential three wounds per the Sylvan Vargath player’s rounds too (one for each end of turn and his own attack). A 3/4 for 0 is silly good. Also, those auto-wounds can really benefit you as well. Remember Mercy needs Andrasteia to be injured, so soaking a few of the Child’s hits is fine. You can also set up Retributions from units the opponent wasn’t wounding. We’ll also see another beneficial interaction in the commons where self wounds add more benefits.

Really, the Child brings home the whole deck’s design. It plays with the economy of wounds like no other and it generates those wounds at a ludicrous pace. But those trigger conditions are not to be underestimated. It is tricky getting them out on the board. And you really need to bury any delusions you have of three of these guys dominating the field. The event will clog your hand, especially if you’re trying to set up the other tricky to trigger events in the deck. Plus, these things do nothing against walls and will kill themselves after a certain number of rounds. They feel so strong when you pull them off but it doesn’t take long for you to realize the downsides of the card and how it can be abused by both you and your enemy.

Tune in next week to see the meat of the deck: the champions and commons!

Darkly Dreaming

Sadly, I have no interesting thoughts or musings to share with you today, world. I’m busy working, recovering from a rather eventful weekend and haven’t had anything noteworthy happen in the last few days to write some comment on.

I suppose I’ll wax on about my current work.

Accessed from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypnos#/media/File:Waterhouse-sleep_and_his_half-brother_death-1874.jpg

Sleep and his Half-Brother Death by John William Waterhouse (1874).

I’m picking away at a short story that was, ultimately, inspired by a dream. It’s a little trite, but every now and then I’ll have a narratively interesting and coherent midnight imagining that could actually be turned into a decent story. I think if we looked over the long history of the human race, we’d find that dreams are a common source of inspiration. There’s just something about the completely unhinged and unhindered way our minds work while in the throes of Hypnos and his three children that produces some wonderfully strange and bizarre ideas.

This particular idea seems appropriately spawned by a dream as well. I’ve commented before on my experimentations into the horror genre. As a classification of fiction, it has a rather curious relationship with science fiction and fantasy. It’s like that awkward half-brother that everyone isn’t entirely certain belongs but recognizes that he can’t be put anywhere else. One of my favourite horror authors is the much celebrated Lovecraft who, purportedly, got much of his Elder Mythos from nightmarish inspiration. My story revolves around similar elements of Lovecraftian horror. In particular, I always enjoyed Lovecraft’s masterful use of uncertainty and the disquieting effect the unknown can have on an individual.

There are short falls to his fiction, however, and part of that crops up in the aftermath of his exciting tales. While it’s a running trope in Lovecraftian fiction that relatives and like will usually take the the charge of a prior individual in the fight against the Elder Gods, this usually extended until the troubles facing the protagonists were solved. The colour out of space is banished. Unspeakable things are sealed away. Individuals are driven mad and locked away, the terrible artifacts or locations which became their undoing are confiscated or destroyed.

And the story ends and the world moves on. For all of the Cthulu Mythos’ intervening of concepts and beings, rarely do the personal mysteries or intrigues are ever examined further.

Ultimately, I was left with the curious idea of what it would be like to be one of these relatives waiting in the wings for their turn to be drawn forth by destiny to deal with the supernatural horrors pressing in from elsewhere. Only, their chance never comes because their kin did succeed in tying up those unsettling little plots on their own. Thus, the family is left with only so many questions and not a single answer in the desolate ruins of the dark battlegrounds on which an unknowable war was raged. They could feel something was certainly wrong, the disappearance of their relatives prime amongst this. There would be the ever present touch of things just being a little off. But, ultimately, there would be nothing to discover. For how could we hope to make sense of a Lovecraftian horror when even those that see them can not.

I’m not entirely certain if this story will succeed. Primarily, it has an unsatisfactory conclusion–something which shouldn’t hold a horror story back but… we’ll see. There’s no grand revelation. There’s no turning point for the protagonist where they learn of the fate that almost befell the world had their kin not given the most noble of sacrifices. There’s really… well… nothing. Nothing but a sense, a feeling. It’s that ephemeral sensation of the last disappearing gossamer threads of a dream which we dreamt so wild and vividly but is chased away by the searing light of the morning’s rays. We wake, having only the barest gasp of what was or could have been and by the time we can find someone to share these feelings with, we have already forgotten.

The Golden Jester Jabbers

Well, my month of Hel has ended and spring shines it’s welcoming, cheery light upon my workstation yet again. With a pile of work cleared from the timetable, I am now able to return to the blog and provided new, exciting content. To celebrate this occasion, I have decided to post an old short story from elsewhere.

It’s at least new to here!

This is another little short to further develop my character in Derek’s D&D campaign. Little did I realize that 5th edition includes a reward mechanic for this narrative nonsense I perform pretty regularly in my role-play groups. Every one of these little stories nets me an Inspiration Point. I don’t really know what the value of them is but I intended to collect as many as I can! As a quick reminder and overview, this is my ex-Cultist character Kaliban who was born and raised in the most generic fantasy world conceived by mankind. He, however, was lifted from that world and thrown into the most bizarre setting conceived by mankind as Derek loves running Planescape stories. It seems, poor Kaliban, has found some solace in the strange and overwhelming metaphysical planes by developing a rather questionable addiction to alcohol. Thus, whenever he gets a little too drunk, some unfortunate member of the adventuring party receives his unwanted affections. In this case, it is our royal half-genie Barou Nariah who, from my nearest estimations, is essentially a female Johnny Storm (the Human Torch) from Marvel’s comics. Also, she’s a princess. Or a duchess. Or maybe she’s just a snob. It’s sometimes hard to tell.

***

“You can say what you will about dwarven hospitality but there is one front upon which they will never disappoint.”

Lady Nariah stirred. The dark corners of the Ironridge tavern were considerably less so with the stouthearted genasi illuming them. The gentle wick of the faintest twisted threads along her scalp gave birth to flicking tongues of hungry flame which spat jittering shades upon the walls. The wood was painted in the soft gold and orange of her cast-off illuminance, making it somehow richer than it was in the empty spaces where she was not.

Her eyes were like twin rubies fed with an unquenchable inner flame as they focused on the tattooed man that slumped within the chair opposite her. He had but two flagons in either knuckle, the sticky sweet contents rolling off the too full rims in frothing rivulets along their stone sides.

She watched without response as both vessels clattered upon the table and one was pushed her way.

Her guest did not wait for her to join as he raised his flagon into the air, gulping greedily the contents with an unquenchable throat. He was not a large man but his thirst appeared insatiable as he finally lowered the tankard with but the shallowest amount left to slosh along the bottom.

“It wasn’t the most uncomfortable night I’ve ever had but it’s a far cry from the most pleasant. Makes you almost yearn for those echoing halls of the Nursery, doesn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Quite the metaphysical query,” he said, swaying upon his seat. The eyes amongst the dark pits of the inked skull were blood-shot and bleary. They had difficulty focusing on Lady Nariah, seeming to flitter about the shadows which writhed and prostrated themselves before her presence. He seemed almost distracted by the empty corners of the private alcove, as though he stared through Nariah into a place far from this small wedge of the Outlands.

“I suppose I am here because some being willed it so. What is our mortal lives but the discarded intentions of titans too absentminded to notice our existence? We’re the shuddering, shivering crumbs of meals the giants forgot they ate, collected in the cracks and crevices of the world shadowed by their majesty.”

“No,” Lady Nariah said, with a shake of her head. “What are you doing here?”

Her finger rapped upon the table for emphasis. The tattooed man merely squinted at her as though he expected duplicity in her question. Comprehension was lethargic but eventually his eyes widened with his mouth.

“Ohhh, sorry Lady Duchess. Didn’t catch your meaning.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But it’s your name!” he hiccoughed.

“Truly, it is not.”

“There’s no shame in it,” he levelled a shaky finger as he paused to finish the contents of his flagon. “We make no choice of our beginnings and there’s no reason for us to hold it against another. When we came mewling into this world, it is not by our design which hands hold us close. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. Your deeds define you—not whoever borne your birth.”

“Call me Nariah.”

“Ok, Lady Duchess Nariah.”

“No. Just Nariah.”

He shrugged. “Very well, Just Nariah.”

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban’s head dipped and it took a moment for Nariah to recognize it as a reverent bow. In the meanwhile, Kaliban attempted to drink down the liquor long vacated his grasp before turning single-minded eyes towards the second tankard he’d brought.

Nariah’s fingers were around its sides, pulling it close before the drunk could finish transporting himself into his desired stupor.

“How did you get these anyway?” Nariah asked, too aware of how thirsty his eyes appeared as she lifted the drink to her warm lips. “I was under the impression Thia kept tight your spending allowance in these establishments.”

A rakish smile broke his mouth. The zombie raised a finger and thumb, darkened by the black shadows of the bones contained within the pale skin. It was as though he were inverted, with nought but his innards worn as a macabre dress to masque the individual lurking beneath. With a twist of those gory digits, a thick coin appeared.

Nariah could not help but gape. Surely, she had seen some of the tricks this strange little man could perform. But such manipulations were surely of a magical means.

“That can’t be possible!” she exclaimed. “Illusions do not work on the Outlands.”

And he cocked his head to the side as if to dare her an explanation for the conjuration. He raised the coin to Nariah’s brilliant hair as though testing her eyes for the indistinct outlines of a beguiling enchantment. However, it wasn’t until he brought the object down upon the table’s edge, the hard ring of solid contact refuting Nariah’s better judgement.

His grin widened and he sent the single shard of silver spinning along the wood. The lilting echo of its revolutions were near as thunder to Nariah’s incredulous ears. Her hands abandoned their post as she fetched up the whirling disk. She could feel the cold singe of actual silver as well as the hard sides of an honest coin.

If this were a trick, it was a damn good one.

But the coin held up under even intense scrutiny. For all her wits, it was real.

It was then that Nariah caught Kaliban lifting a full mug to his lips. She turned to her elbow and found his prior empty tankard by her side.

“Of course. I should have suspected legerdemain.”

“It’s warmed,” the zombie said, blowing softly upon his reclaimed drink. “As to your query, I am here because you are.”

“That is hardly an answer,” Just Nariah said, leaning back in her chair.

“And I am hardly one to provide,” he returned. “I am a nobody. I am nothing. I bear less worth than that silver piece in your possession.”

“That’s not true,” Just Nariah said.

“But it is. Look upon our glorious companions. There’s valorous Bill, a folk hero in his own right. Thia the brave whose courage defies her humble starts. Dire Araven has performed deeds which send shudders down the spines of those far from knowing her. Then is a marvellous survivor, wrapped as he is in personal enigmas and curiosities. Wise Halbeck has seen more than most us combine.

“And then there is you, glorious Nariah. You are but a goddess amongst us lowly worms—a being so radiant that she is a sun unto herself. Who am I amongst these heroes? Who am I amongst such majesty?”

“You are too hard on yourself.”

“So common an affliction. But look upon the truth.”

His fingers twisted again and within them now was the darkened shard of his sensing stone. Its vermillion skin was lifeless and dark as the eye which Kaliban held to it.

“I am but one of many to have held this rock. I am but a brief glimmer in the eye of its experience. Many have come before me. Many will follow after. In the annuls of its life I am worth not even a margin for the purpose I serve. My existence is of no concern to it for it shall far outlast whatever meagre accomplishment I may feign performing. Those who peer into its eyes will not desire my name. They will whisper Bill. They may search for Then. They will long for Just Nariah. But none will desire Kaliban.”

“You cannot know that.”

“There is little I know,” he whispered. “But of this, I am certain.”

Nariah shifted in her chair as the tattooed man stared into the crystal. She said nothing, however, before he spoke again.

“It seems unfair that I bear a name—a pretence of importance—when it does not.”

“Then why not name it?”

He stirred from the drunken melancholy, looking towards Nariah. The sensing stone chimed as it was placed upon the table.

“How could I?”

“Well, what do you think it should be called?”

Kaliban shrugged.

“If I knew that then I wouldn’t need to find a name.”

“It’s not like you’re naming a child,” Nariah said. But the look in Kaliban’s eyes was deathly serious. “I don’t know. Name it something pretty.”

“Nariah?”

She frowned.

“No, don’t name it that.”

“How about Lady Duchess?”

“No.”

“Lady Duchess the Just?”

“Why not name it after someone in your life. Someone from your life before the Young God’s Club,” she added with a hurry.

The zombie gave thought.

“Who?”

Nariah shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone important.”

“Important?” The question seemed genuinely puzzling to Kaliban. “What did you name yours?”

“I did not name mine.”

“I see.”

“But if I had,” Nariah said before he could slump into more mournful silence, “it would be after someone that meant a lot to me. Someone that had a lasting impact on my life.”

“Louhi.”

“That’s a… wonderful name. Who is that?”

“The first person I’ve ever killed.”

He stared at the stone and Nariah could sense no hint of irony in the statement.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“They say your first is always the most important. It is the one you remember. The rest, they sort of blur together, right? I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. I do remember her though. She was a devotee of St. Cuthbert. A Chapeaux, as it were. Nothing really extraordinary. Hardly a few months inducted into the fold. I still can’t puzzle out why she was targeted. But she was. Perhaps the ease of getting to her was a safe way to test my skills.”

And his eyes were lost again amongst the shadows that danced around Nariah. She could not see the images that haunted his eyes. She could not see the visions that gripped his mind.
But they were all too real for him. Fuelled, as they were, by the divine hands of a dead dwarven brewer, those memories welled up like bile from a mind all too ready to purge the sickening weight from its gullet.

He stood in the rain before the small chapel. It’s golden edges had lost their majesty beneath the oppressive weight of the smothering black clouds. Upon the stained glass of the centre window in its solitary tower was the image of a crumpled, simple hat. The glow of a candle behind its panes was meant to represent the undying flame to beckon the faithful to the comfort of the halls. Now, that dying flame was laughable in its resistance to the drowning storm.

His clothes were heavy. That was what he remembered most. He carried nothing else with him but the cotton drank deeply of the pelting rain and it felt as though he carried the weight of all the silent sins of the order. With languished steps, he approached the front.

The iron knocker was cold to the touch though its voice was nearly lost to the growling thunder. He called twice before there was an answer. A click of the latch told him none expected visitors that night. The explanation was quick to his lips before he even saw who opened the door.

“Forgive me but my waggon has broken down along the road. I spotted brigands amongst the hills and with the approaching storm I had little choice but to run. I have nothing to offer but my thanks in exchange for some small reprieve.”

It seemed like fate that it was bright green eyes framed amongst chestnut curls that received him.

She was young. He knew this. She was but an initiate—a nobody to the order. Even if the order knew of the dark attention it drew, none would worry over her fate. But while he had been thoroughly briefed, he had never truly given any thought to the information. Now that he stood before her, he could not ignore that they were of the same age.

Her eyes were immediate about his person, searching for some sign or symbol. He had none and his only response was to draw back his hood and offer the meekest smile.

She blushed. He did not understand at the time. What could he possibly evoke that would warrant her modesty? He appeared so humble. Just a young man, ill-suited for a body not yet properly proportioned for his years. He was but the barest steps from childhood and it showed. While he was tall and gangly—near a head over her—he still carried the soft, rounded contours of the cherubim.

“Yes, of course. All are welcome in the halls of the Common Shepherd.”

That’s all it took. A weak excuse and an awkward smile. The door opened and he was granted entry.

The disciples of St. Cuthbert could not have known that death had knocked on their door.

He waited out the storm. The members of the Chapeaux are known for their kindness towards wayward souls. In the morning, he insisted on repaying their generosity. They, of course, accepted. He expressed interest in the halls and history. He enquired constantly but always politely. He gave furtive glances to the girl and in little time she was appointed his caretaker. They spent long hours attending the garden and the duties about the shrine. They spoke at great lengths: her about the time before the order and him about his travels and trading aspirations.

They were all lies, of course. It was a pretty sort of dance—the kind only suited for the young and awkward. She paid lip service to her calling, goading him towards accepting the tenets. He flavoured his enthusiasm as interest in her rather than the great Bludgeoner. For three days he ingratiated himself amongst their number. In three days, his honeyed words at night began to sway her heart.

They stood beneath the mighty oak lit with the silver touch of a round moon. There, in the darkness, they promised themselves to the other. Their hands were shaky and anxious as he leaned in and rested his lips on hers. They writhed like worms, overtaken by the passions of youth, though neither ever shed their clothes. There would be time for such things. But first, she would have to leave. They would have to leave. It was the only way it could be.

He waited in those old robes as she quietly gathered her worldly possessions. They no longer held the smell of that dank storm. They were no longer stained with the dirt of his trespasses.

She was but a shadow as she flitted beneath the dying eye of the chapel’s candle. He took her pack upon his shoulder and, hand-in-hand, they darted from the road and into the woods. For a time, they listened to the flap of the nocturnal predators hunting amongst the boughs. For a time, he considered the life promised in her hands.

They stopped for a small cave beneath a rocky outcrop. He laid down the pack and then they lay down together. He indulged in that blasphemous flesh again, the taste of her tongue doing strange, profane things to his body. She reached for his robes, pulling fervently at the fabric. What she uncovered gave her pause.

He had his marks and in the twilight of their escape he had put no effort in masking them. The moon shone bright and boldly upon the twisted inked form of the worm amongst the darkened bones of his chest. Did she gasp? He thought she did. He remembered that she did. But a niggling doubt always took root in the back of his mind. As he withdrew the dagger and pulled it across her throat, bathing his hands in the warm ichor of her life, he couldn’t help but think she had said nothing at all.

“Deep within the Welkwood there is a cave, its entrance long overgrown with brambles. Half buried in the soft earth is that skeleton which disappeared one night with a boy. Her flesh fed the plants that would never bear her epitaph. For such a shallow grave will never proclaim, ‘Here lies Louhi.’”

Nariah watched the skull as it rested on weary hands, staring absently at the flicker of her hair.

“You… probably shouldn’t call it Louhi.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. He held up the stone. “She isn’t worthy. It’s all lies, anyway. You remember more than your first. It gets easier, for certain. I wept not a tear for Louhi. If anything, she was noteworthy in how unnoteworthy she really was.”

“Death does not define us.”

And he looked at her, completely unconvinced. “It defines us all.”

He reached for the remainder of his drink. But her fingers were on it first. Their touch was brief, and it seemed that his truly didn’t long for the tankard at all. They squeezed but Nariah’s were spry. She and the flagon were plucked from the table before he could truly relish the moment.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Nariah said. “You’re going to need to be able to walk tomorrow. We have a long road ahead.”

He watched her retreating back until the last glimmer of her orange hair disappeared like a gutted candle. Kaliban then turned to the stone and picked it up.

“Phyte,” he whispered to the stone. “For the first. Truly, I am sorry.”

A Party at the Red Pony – A Tale of Drinking in Sigil

Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the heady scent of the seventh stained mug of potent but unidentifiable alcohol or maybe it was the fact that the small tavern was crammed full of all manner of creatures bizarre and unimaginable but never had that woman looked any more beautiful to Kaliban as she did now.

Kaliban could not take his eyes off her—save for the brief moments when upending his mug and slurring an order for another. There she sat, also eagerly knocking back drink after drink so that a mountainous pile grew between them beneath the raucous cheers of onlookers penning them on all sides. It was a contest of spirits which built the great divide between them and—as Kaliban’s vision began to blur—it was the determination that he would see his consciousness across those wet and sticky vessels to the oasis of her lavish green eyes awaiting on the other side that motivated him.

To be certain, he knew very little of the fair Thia Nailo despite having spent a great deal of time sharing mortal peril with her. Albeit, half that peril was illusory and contained with the safe and impenetrable walls of the Nursery but had he not died in her arms? Had he not suffered both sling and arrows by her side? His heart had thumped with red-bloodedness and adrenaline. Could there exist a more perfect recipe for romance? Kaliban knew no others and he was well versed in recipes and concoctions.

Perhaps she would take great interest in that knowledge? He paused in his chugging to perceive the slight swoon of her head, the bright veins which glimmered within her pupils. She looked at him with eyes barely clear and a dozen sobering tinctures and inebriation remedies sprung to his mind. Surely even a place as strange and incomprehensible as this carried enough meadowsweet herb, fennel seed, gentian root and black horehound to stave off the disabling effects of their drinking contest.

Wait. Was it black horehound? Or was it chiretta herb? Or was that used in Widow’s Bliss? No, that was certainly strychnine which is incredibly time consuming and an enormous pain in the ass to extract from the plant’s damn seeds.

Have you any idea how hard it is to pulp a dozen tiny seeds with bleeding fingers while your mind begins to fill with their maddening juice while your matron screams profanities for how the Lord of Worms will use your corpse should you succumb to their delusive properties?

Kaliban briefly considered that as an opening to pleasant conversation but the barest scraps of sobriety still nestled in his mind cautioned against its effectiveness.

“The zombie falls behind! Is this the end?”

“I still have vim left in me, devil!” Kaliban shouted. At least, that was his intended response. Instead, he barely craned a drooping head in the direction of the grinning tiefling, his lips forming a long series of half-formed syllables which sounded more like, “shuv off yuus stoop-edd edded orn devl laidee…”

This prompted riotous cheers and laughter from the crowd. Certainly the party’s merriment was not that rare of a sport but even though their uncreative method for relaxing was likely seen day after day within the establishment, there were still those who worked the crowd in gathering bets over who would win between the tattooed man and beast bedecked half-elf.

Kaliban found another mug in his hand and muscles lifted it automatically to compliant lips with his fogged mind hardly perceptive of the entire procession. In fact, he couldn’t help but notice a strange pattern of extra mugs appearing at his elbow compared to the fine and beautiful Thia. Kaliban turned to Araven—the chief amongst the bookmakers—to contest this issue when he caught the telltale slump of his opponent’s shoulders.

Her fingers were barely able to wrap about the wood handle of her next drink and handsome Bill leaned in to whisper in her ear. Thia attempted to wave him off, her fingers tapping his chest as she fixed her eyes on Kaliban with determination.

He swooned. But Kaliban had seen enough people slip into peaceful unconsciousness to know that the woman’s constitution would not hold for longer. He looked down at the rolling green froth in his hands.

He knew what he had to do.

Kaliban leaned back on his chair, the legs creaking as the seat drew half to the air. He raised the drink to his mouth. He felt the warm liquid brush his lips. He closed his eyes and pushed off the flagged stone with his toes.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

His chair collapsed against the ground in a thundering crash that broke over the cheering. His face grew warm and sticky with the fermented drink as it rushed from the skyward flagon’s bottom to bathe his face. He sputtered just enough from his nostrils to breath as he let brief emptiness wash over him.

But his shadows were not empty.

For a moment, the tavern vanished. The onlookers disappeared. Darkness consumed all, leaving nought but the tattooed man in a gaping nothingness.

Kaliban sensed their presence before he saw it. It was all over his skin, crawling across his face where once pleasant mead had stuck. They writhed, thousands upon thousands of small putrid worms. They clung to his flesh and clothes. They bubbled up from the darkness around his body, writhing their way into the folds of his clothes. Nothing could protect and nowhere was spared as the little creatures bore into flesh and muscle and tissue.

He opened eyes which were immediately besieged by the pestilent creatures. They blinded him just as quickly as they numbed him to all sensation but their burrowing mouths. They wrapped about his lobes and dug into his ears and he was filled with the sounds of their chewing.

Within that cacophony rose a terrible voice.

“You forget yourself, my son.”

Kaliban opened a mouth to scream but it was filled with the multitude of green creatures.

“You think you can hide from me?”

He tried to struggle—to free himself from the crush of the endless bodies. The more his limbs thrashed, the more the shadows spewed forth the crawling tide.

“You think your profane worship of the flesh will cloak you?”

Above blazed two great orbs burning with a vermillion flame of such hatred that its heat burned through the creatures engorging themselves on Kaliban’s pupils. The darkness folded so as to form the hood of that ancient head. It leered upon him, pressing close so that its child-worms became singing. The screams of his children assaulted Kaliban. It was that hideous chorus once more. He could smell the burning of their flesh as their voices rose in piteous pleas.

His mind convulsed in the memories. Visions of that dreaded fissure returned and the children thrown screaming one by one into the pits before being joined by their frenzied parents in an orgasmic slaughter of captive and believer alike. The air was thick with their blood, sweat and excrement. It was an assault upon one’s very sanity with the unbridled violence enacted against detestable flesh at every turn. Skin and muscle was flayed, leaving behind nought but the blessed bones which—so fuelled by the blasphemous rites—took to their tattered feet to assist with the massacre.

Presiding over it all was the Bonemaster himself. The Worm that Walks.

Black sleeves raised heavenward as screams drowned out whatever words escape that black hood.

“Remember,” echoed that voice in his ears. “Remember and obey.”

Kaliban stood over the pits, looking down on the mound of bodies filling the unending earth maw which swallowed them. A dagger was in one hand and an initiate in the other. The poor creature was bathed in the blood of the child which he had just slain and pushed upon the mound. His eyes were unblinking as he stared naked over the carnage, chest heaving in its disgusting need to consume the stench of death surrounding him.

It was Kaliban’s duty. He raised the blade to the child’s throat. Even as his muscles tensed beneath the knowledge that he would be next, his mind had seemingly all but left the proceedings and only the will of the Wormgod remained, urging him on to completion.

He would have too. But he was interrupted. A hand stayed his.

The blade was plucked from his young fingers as his victim was raised from his grasp. Kaliban blinked in incomprehension. He vaguely recognized his shadow matron—that woman which had filled him with just as many toxins as she had forced him create—as she raised his brother to her arms. She fled, tears streaming her cheeks and was swallowed by the darkness.

And some deeply buried thought wiggled in Kaliban’s mind. At the time he was filled with only his thoughts of failing the great Bonemaster—of his inability to save his brother of shadows from the curse of life. But now, he recognized that the matron had always favoured the other boy. While she tormented Kaliban and the others beneath her care, that one child could do no wrong.

In this brief drunken recollection, Kaliban could not help but note how similar they looked.

Dumbly, Kaliban stood upon the precipice before hands came and claimed him as well. Hooded individuals, elder members of the cult, carried him from the fissure with eyes downcast and refusing to look upon the slaughter. He hardly knew them as they wept, whispering apologies as he was born away from the master. When at last Kaliban realized their intentions, he struggled until a sting along his arm burn hot with the welling of his own blood mixing with the sedative. But as darkness fell upon him, he felt their arms hold him tighter and tighter.

He could feel those hands now, starkly warm upon his cold flesh. Kaliban’s eyes broke open as his body jerked madly. But there were no worms covering him now. There was no hood bearing upon him.

There was just sweet, beautiful Thia blinking with bleary eyes riddled with what Kaliban can only assume was concern.

“Are you alright?”

Without thought, Kaliban rose lips to connect lips in an impromptu embrace. In that moment, time slowed as his mind drank deep every precious sensation. The warmth of her mouth drove away those dark shadows of his recollections. The moisture of the spilt beer singed the lasting sensations of the endless worms. The scent of her newly acquired bestial adornments drowned out the hooded master and his traitorous whispers.

Then her hands were on his bare chest, pressing him off and away. Kaliban collapsed against the floor, relishing the pain of his pounding head, weariness of his inebriated limbs and, yes, the feelings of the lingering kiss.

“We… should buy some… silver. In case of ravens…”

Thia stood and Araven was at her side, quick to pronounce her winner and collecting the scrip from those foolish berks stupid enough to bet on Kaliban. A few patrons tripped over him as they dispersed back to their own indulgences but even as boots left fresh bruises, Kaliban did not move until a reluctant Bill arrived to pick up his lethargic body and bear him back to the Whole Note.

The Glorious Belt Bridge

Well, I’m afraid there’s not much new to report to you, kind reader. We’ve all been busy and, well, I’m running desperately out of things to post. So, instead, I’ll just throw up one of the little things I’m working on. This isn’t one of the short stories, by the by, but a sneak peek at the big novel! Well… one of the big novels. Well… it’s a novel at the very least.

* * *

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/e/ender/thomas/ender03.html

The Pieniny Mountains with the Dunajec River by Thomas Ender (1860).

His hair was driven by the wind’s slaving hand, lashing his face with wide, blonde strands. That heavenly howl tore amongst a canyon so ripped into the red rock as to tear a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet soil spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and despite its age it continued to seep down its banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees clutching to bare stones hanging over precipitous nothingness. The savages said it was cleaved in the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

Hopkins smiled at the thought.

If there was one constant amongst the savages, it was their damnable love for blood. It was an admirable quality in a peoples lacking just about everything else.

Beneath his legs, his steed gave a warning cry—slowing its pace as it drew up the dusty trail. Its nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reigned her in, slowing to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand fled to the pistol at his side while another raised to slow the entourage behind him. This would not be the first ambush from which he would walk away.

But no rifles cracked nor burnt powder stung the air as he rounded the crest. Hopkins continued, his eyes falling upon the great bridge spanning the chasm.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon’s sides, unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping like the jaws of a hungry dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it were the wings of a bird seeking freedom in the crystal blue sky above. Her fingers held true to the cold steel of the trigger and polished wood of the longrifle’s simple stock. The hammer lay cocked and the trigger primed. A single long braid gathered behind her, catching in the wind like an old battle standard raised with weary arms for one last stand.

Was this all the impeded the tail end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance and what few guards stood were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at being some hard cut frontiersman was all that remained between him and precious freedom on the canyon’s opposite end.

Hopkins spent one quick glance at the men following. He knew none of them but there were grins or raised brows all-around at the sight of the lone girl. Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a great shout as he kicked his steed into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood like a feature of that expansive landmark with nothing but the wilds gathering about her. She sought no shelter from the worn ropes and weathered wood slowly giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaned in the tossing breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation. For a bridge that had been near forgotten to the long decades since its construction, it was now half-cast in fresh iron with lines of new posts and beams running its sides like great sleeping worms. Someone had expensive interest in expanding it.

It was set to turn into the greatest of modern monuments. Unfortunately, it would not live to see its glory. Hopkins could hear the waggon rattling behind as it tried to keep up with the brigands. Beneath its roped cover banged and battered broad barrels filled to the brim with gunpowder. His orders were simple—see that this crossing would never be taken again.

There were no workers here today. It was the only arrangement from his boss that didn’t sit well with Hopkins. He relished the excitement of a good gunfight especially when it would be so easy to “lose” some of his men in the crossfire. Hopkins knew the fewer at the end of a job meant a greater payout for the survivors. And there were no better chaos for cutting unnecessary weight than a terminal bullet exchange.

Still she stood before their thunderous approach as though she were little more than one of them steel beams ready to stretch the gaping valley.

Hopkins’ cry came up louder than the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled hard upon their reigns. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who nary twitched despite half a dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook its head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. “Dirty Hopkins.”

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers at the invocation. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed mane of coal black. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the dark blood stains which it slapped. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved like little cloth fingers in the breeze.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Ain’t had the pleasure till now.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/b/bril/mountain.html

Mountain Scene by Paul Bril (1599).

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there wasn’t anything but the woman and a construction site in half repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child’s forgotten ribbon at the bottom of the canyon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant of peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms.

“And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain’t a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.”

“Surely, I hope.” The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons but the rest stood around until he barked his command. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle’s back and fetched large barrels from its end.

“You got gumption; I give you that.”

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon pointing dangerously at his chest. When she didn’t respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

“You got a name to that face?”

“Ain’t one that matters. But if it’s required, you may address me as Felicity.”

And that appellation made him lean forward upon his seat.

“I’ve heard of you.” Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. “One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between Empires.”

He turned in his saddle looking up and down the bridge.

“But I ain’t see no ship.”

“There’s two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way’s ending the same.”

“And where we be heading, my dear?”

“You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.”

“Aiming for a bounty?” Hopkins smiled. “Well ain’t that a thing. And you going to do it all your lonesome?”

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge’s supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes lingering momentarily on the pistols by their sides.

“Only got business with you. They’re free so long they ain’t do nothing unlawful.”

And Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps towards her. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge loosing from the rifle’s barrel. He was aware of a few of his entourage cocking hammers and covering the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle’s top, pressing the weapon’s lips earthward.

“I ain’t tell if you’re bold or just full of aethers,” he said. “I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain’t have to bloody your pretty little face.”

He could smell her at this distance. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder residue staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant it was scratched and marked, edges of scars creeping from her collar and cuffs. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn’t removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her hands. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected her cheek fiercely, forcing her for the first time from her stance as she stumbled a few steps.

She looked up, raising the rifle but gun fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw gave a wide grin as he nodded in appreciation for his hired men not killing her on the spot.

“It’s a wonder folk like you still manage to scrape a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.”

He jabbed the tip of his pistol hard into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

“Now I ain’t going to ask you again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.”

There was the briefest of hesitations. Enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped from her fingers nevertheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins boot crashed against the weapon and it skittered across the boards, tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her hard against the back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

“You see, life out on the frontier ain’t a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain’t. You get a name that some ain’t like. But I tell you, you live. And that’s all that matters.”

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

“And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain’t for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They’ve been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other could create an edge that could paint red. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/c/caillebo/03pont.html

On the Pont de l’Europe by Gustave Caillebotte (1876-1877).

He pulled her to the edge of the bridge, forcing her towards its razor side. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for the ribbed steel on either side. He held her tight by her knot, her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the tops of the canyon, its dark line winding out as far as the eye could grasped.

“You can hear the groans of all them stiffs stuffed into the earth. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli’s in those junks they sailed across the waters with their long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains and been sitting there like they’ve been under siege for generations.

“This land is a harsh one.”

He pulled her back, throwing her roughly to the bridge’s planks. He stood over her, like a rancher looking over a lame calf. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

“Hunter’s on the wing,” he smiled, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look at him, noting with amusement the fierce glare she shot. “So what were them pretty last words you wanted?”

“Should have taken the willing way.”

He raised a hand to strike her impertinence but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed heavily upon its side, rolling along the wood and bouncing against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while hollering at its clumsy carrier.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel’s descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn’t move as a crimson pool began to stain the back of his shirt.

His half strangled criticism was drowned in a second sharp clap.

“Sharp shooter!”

 

Plumbing the Well

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/05group.html

The Nightwatch by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1642).

Last week I wrote about how ideas come to pass. This week, I’m going to examine a current short story which I am working on. Its tentative title is The Affairs of Catherine Hill, Incorporated. Mostly because I like titles that are more than one word in length.

The source of this story actually came from my desire to write something in the near future that isn’t a cop drama. Cop dramas are pretty ubiquitous in modern media. If it’s not superheroes cleaning up streets, then it’s the rugged and persistent police force in such wonderful things as CSI, Criminal Minds, Law and Order, Castle, Almost Human, Skorpion, Bones, Rizzoli and Isles, Blacklist, Person of Interest, Dexter, Foyle’s War, Midsomer Murders, Hawaii Five-O, NCIS, The Mentalist, Murdoch Mysteries, New Tricks, Republic of Doyle, Rookie Blue, Sherlock, Elementary, The Listener, True Detective, White Collar, Death in Paradise…

Needless to say, it’s a lot. I understand the appeal. It’s an easy format, very monster of the week that doesn’t require a lot of memory on the part of the viewer. Relationships aren’t particularly complex and you can really jump in at any point you want in the series because the status quo is necessary to maintain for both the format and the setting. Police departments don’t undergo rigorous changes and upholding the rules is their job. You watch one cop drama and you’ve essentially seen them all. There’s comfort in the familiar. There really isn’t a lot of variation in their presentation.

It’s also the easiest, most convenient way to work in action for a modern setting. Unlike fantasy, modern society is known for being safe and stable. You don’t really have bandits striking in the night to burn down villages and create heroic orphans. You also don’t have dragons who inherently need slaying. If you’re going to get the violence and action of a fantasy flick, you’re going to have to explore crime. And the people who would lead lives that interact in a relate-able way is the police officer. Every day, according to the TV universe, is an action packed struggle with the elements that are undermining the very structure and safety which allows the viewer to watch from the comfort of their home after a long day at work.

So, yeah, I understand the police procedural. I even wrote a short story with a police officer since it was the easiest way to work in a protagonist to explore the mystery I’d developed. But I’ve always argued that the strength of speculative fiction is its ability to take us on journeys beyond the ordinary. Science fiction and fantasy are great at taking old concepts and looking at them in different ways. Or simply jumping off into entirely different ideas.

Thus, I wanted a future story that wasn’t following a police officer. Ok, I thought, what else is fun? Well, I’ve always enjoyed espionage. It’s a genre that’s sort of been on the decline. So, I have a natural interest in that subject and it’s something that could use a fresh look. Alright, I’ll write a futuristic spy story.

Then I asked myself the niggling problem. How does the future change the face of espionage?

Therein lies the rub. And the fun. The future. What sort of future would we be seeing? I ruminated on the various directions I could take. I decided I wanted to have a future very different from our own. I mean, society has changed dramatically over the last hundred years it is silly to think that it would stay the same for the next hundred. What society driving factors would I take to change the face of society? Well, a current issue we face today is the economy. There were elements I could take from there.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/13group.html

Sampling Officials of the Drapers’ Guild by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1662).

Corporatism is a pretty omnipresent factor in the modern economy. We’re getting large companies that control greater and greater shares of the market. Consequently, they exert more and more political influence in the public sphere as they’re able to turn their massive profits into lobbying for laws and changes that benefit them. What were to happen if we took this to its extreme?

I began to envision a corporatocracy. Instead of individuals electing representatives to a national body, it would be corporations electing their spokesmen in order to negotiate for more favourable laws for their interests. I had this thought that, given in America corporations are recognized as individuals, what if Monsanto decided they wanted to run for office? If they were large enough, they could “convince” their employees to vote for them and insure they get the position. Surely, if one corporation did it, others would follow suit. And the cost for elections is so enormous in the United States that corporate sponsorship is mandatory for anyone with aspirations for Washington. So what if the corporations simply cut out the middle man?

Well, public office would simply disappear. What could civil servants truly hope to do in the face of these huge economic powerhouses? But what would this mean for the little guy? How would people be handled by this shift? This isn’t big government we’re looking at but big corporation.

I then remembered my time in Japan and how the face of business was changing over there. At one time, it was socially expected that a young man would get hired on with a company and that company would, essentially, take care of him for the rest of his life. Unlike in the United States, there was extremely little job changing. Perhaps this would become the new normal. Companies still need people at some level to keep them running. And if the government isn’t going to provide the basic necessities (because it doesn’t exist) then companies could offer them as incentives to keep their workers.

I was beginning to broach upon medieval serfdom. In my research for my novel we hunt dragons. I came across the surprising information that the relationship between liege and serf wasn’t entirely as one directional as I had believed. There was a defacto contract between ruler and ruled. The ruler was expected to provide safety and sustenance (in the face of poor crops and droughts) to their farmers and in return the farmers provided a (hefty) tax to their protectors. Should a ruler fail in his duty to his farmers, there were in many places recourses that the serfs could take to protect their livelihood. This often manifested as taking the lord to court with the greatest threat the farmer could leverage was the freedom to remove their self from their lord’s protectorate and seek out a neighbouring realm which he could work and live.

This structure would work incredibly well in the case of my rising corporations. The company a person worked for would be their entire structure. It would set their laws and protections as well as the rewards and compensation for their efforts. As long as I was a member of a company, I was safe. I would essentially sign my life to these corporations for their benefits. Had I no affiliation, I would have nothing. Someone commits a crime against me and I would be forced to shoulder the financial burden of paying the police to track them down and prosecute them. I would have to be the one to pay for that criminal’s prison sentence. I would ultimately have to cover the damages that were done. But if I were an employee, all of that would be taken care of by my company.

It was medieval servitude and I liked this association that the future of our current business practices was ultimately our past.

There was a further wrinkle, however. I felt that public interest wouldn’t ultimately die to the Cokes and IBMs of the world. I could see professions living on if they incorporated themselves. It was the rebirth of the guild system. Once again, the parallel with medieval economic structure was perfect. And its explanation for its recurrence was simple and elegant. Instead of being gobbled up by the burgeoning medical fields, the doctors and surgeons would unite and form their own corporation. They would hold exclusive right to practice, train and sanction official doctors. If companies wanted their service, they would have to pay for them. In this manner, the doctors could insure that healthcare didn’t fall to the rich. If they were in charge of their own services they could have humane scales of payment depending on an individual’s income. Company members would have to pay out the nose because they could. Unemployed people could pay in service if they had no credit to their name.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/01group.html

The Anatomy Lecture of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1632).

Thus, the labour force wouldn’t entirely disappear but would play the same game as the corporations.

But how would this be enforced? What would stop the big business from gobbling up the smaller?

I knew I wanted some national body to draw parallels with our current democratic governance to highlight how different the world had become. With everything revolving around the almighty dollar, I realized that the principle organization would have to be a bank. Only that institute would hold the interest of all the various companies and fields that would arise. Every company would want to be able to influence loan rates and inflation. Most importantly, the bank would have the power to settle inter-company disputes.

For the one niggling problem I had with my set-up was I couldn’t explain how the justice system would work if two different company employees did harm to each other. They, after all, lived by different laws set by their employer. Thus, the solution had to be an independent voice who held the ability to punish severely any group that did not co-operate. The bank then became more than just a place every company could deposit their money at the lowest possible risk. It was a place that held the power to remove a company from the economic structure and deny them the unified currency which every company would trade. It also had the ability to allow the Guilds to thrive. For the bank would recognize any account it approved as a valid company. If every company had a vote, then the Guilds could certainly insure their persistence through sheer solidarity and numbers. They could vote for the bank to give loans to labour start-ups in order to dilute the power base of the big business. But it’s a double edged sword. Should those companies fail to pay back their loans, then the bank would take shares from their company. Once the bank owned all a company’s shares, they would be dissolved and belong to the bank. Of course, there is nothing that would stop those people from trying to open a new account… save the bank and its voting base itself. And on a council that would be very willing to buy and sell votes, spending on an already failed venture seemed a losing proposal.

Needless to say, this world is starting to come together.

Sneak Peeks!

Gearing into a big writing blitz so I don’t know if I’ll have lots of time for articling. So here’s something new, a sneak peek on what I’m working!

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/e/ender/thomas/

The Grossglockner with the Pasterze Glacier by Thomas Ender (1830).

At the Gates of Zheng He Ho

 

“I don’t like this captain.”

“I ain’t paying you to.”

“We really shouldn’t be here. They’re a lordless lot with nothing but trouble and hedonism to their name.”

“You announced our arrival?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Then go watch the sides, I ain’t looking for any extra dints on her that I can avoid.”

“Yes, captain.”

S.J’s boots beat his misgivings against the stairs as he climbed down. Felicity didn’t regard his departure, adjusting a few valves to ignite the gas lanterns adorning the front. The flickering lights danced over rough hewed stone. Ancient timbers crossed the uneven roof like elderly arms trying to hold up the heavens. The engine crawled at a snail’s pace through the tight quarters, giving the passengers plenty of time to regard the pock marked walls around them.

It was easy to feel like they were squeezing through the very bones of the earth herself. The passage was crooked and uneven. It followed a madman’s course, banking on hairpin turns and wide corners as if they were looping around upon themselves. Truth of the matter was that they weren’t originally designed for vessels but for miners. The routes were plotted along long emptied seams then a straight trajectory conducive to piloting. And with so many ancient tunnels, stretching out in long forgotten directions, it was easy to think the integrity of the mountain itself was undermined. Any amount of explosion could possibly bring it down upon itself like a paper tower.

“This kind of approach and you’d think they didn’t want visitors,” Schroeder said.

“I reckon that’s the exact impression.”

“Then why build it in the first place?”

“Why we build ours?”

He leaned back on his chair as the engine shrieked like a distempered ghost as it took a rough turn. The entire carriage shook as Felicity reached and applied more brake to control their momentum. But there was a noticeable change in elevation. But instead of rising up, they were descending deeper.

“Heard lots of stories about these mines.”

“Any that don’t involve untamed or spirits of the deceased?”

Schroeder smiled.

“Figure there might be one or two.”

“Then so be it. I don’t be needing a reminder of this place’s other reputation.”

“They say this place was once called Katahmin and that it was the tallest mountain in the entire range. Glorious was its head wreathed in a crown of pure white clouds. At its feet was a beautiful lake full of various fowl, fish and delectable weed. It was fed by the purest spring that flowed from the very head of Katahmin.”

“A savage’s story?”

“You want to hear the rest or not?”

When Felicity’s objections remained silent, Schroeder continued.

“There came a time that a young and beautiful native woman gathered upon the lake’s shore. She was out collecting the grass for her people. For she was the daughter of their chief and only she was to granted sight of the beauty of Katahmin. Her name was Patoma and celebrated was she amongst her people for never had a more radiant girl been seen. But she was still unwed and did languish at the shores of the lake, bemoaning her fate.

“’Oh great Katahmin!’ she cried, staring at its reflection in the crystal pool. ‘If but I could have a man as grand, handsome and charitable as you. For truly do you give of our tribe the bounty of your bosom and glories are you to the eye that there are none greater.’

“And on that day, pretty Patoma did remark at how the waters shook with her words. The reflection distorted and rippled. Within its ebbing folds, she could have sworn she saw a man’s face look back at her. Handsome was it more than any face she had seen. For it was strong like her fathers but full of youth, vigour and a hint of something supernaturally divine. Patoma at once recognized it for the mighty spirit of Katahmin. His voiceless mouth surely called to her and she dropped her reeds and took to the ancient forbidden trails up his side. For it was forbidden for any to set foot on sacred Katahmin as her people did fear spoiling his virgin skin and bringing ruin to the gifts he bestowed.

“Poor Patoma disappeared for three years and her tribe did grieve. Her father assumed she was taken by a neighbouring rival and did war with him. Many were killed in the conflict but no amount of blood or sacrifice could ease the pain of her passing. But then, at the end of the third year of her disappearance, she did return with child in tow. Her people were astonished and the sight of her lifted the heart of her morose father. A feast was thrown in her honour and all came to marvel upon the babe in her arms. It was a handsome child, strong of features like their people but with small eyes that gleamed like none they had seen before.

“They pestered celebrated Patoma, enquiring over the identity of the child’s father but Patoma was reticent to share the information. She claimed the child was a gift from the spirits, bestowed to them so that they may protect themselves from a coming danger. But none would stop marvelling over the curious blend of the child’s features with the round face, small eyes and brows that looked as though they were carved of stone.

“Her father, the chief, did forbade discussion of the matter further seeing how it bothered his sweet daughter. So they feasted and celebrated and made great sacrifices to their ancestor spirits. All was well with the tribe and Patoma went about raising her child amongst her people. But despite her father’s forbiddance, her people pestered her about the identity of the child’s father. Patoma remained tight lipped, saying only that the child was a gift and would protect them as long as Patoma kept her word. Her people asked what threat he would defeat but Patoma didn’t know.

“As the child grew, however, he did display remarkable traits. He was quick to learn their language, speaking eloquently like an adult when most were babbling their parents names. He was eager to learn the ways of his people, following hunters on their hunts and immediately learning their ways. Soon he was bringing home as much venison as the greatest amongst them. He seemed to have a preternatural knowledge of the surrounding area, leading his people to groves of annua nuts previously unknown. Delightful were these, more sumptuous and filling than any other they had discovered. Patoma’s child did show them how to harvest the nuts and to grow the plant closer to their homes.

“But despite these blessings it did not ease Patoma’s people. Many whispered that the child was possessed of the treacherous spirit Coyote and was only here to lure them into danger. They demanded Patoma to divulge the identity of the child’s father. Thus, the chief called all his people to him and did command Patoma before all his people to name her child’s father.

“Patoma looked at the chief. ‘Do you trust my word?’ she asked.

“’Of course, my child.’

“’Do you doubt when I say a trouble will come and destroy our tribe?’

“’I do not, my child.’

“’Do you think I would come and try to bring ruin upon my people?’

“’Most certainly not, my child.’

“’Then I say it is of no importance who fathered the child. Only that he will be a great warrior and will save our tribe so long as we respect his father’s desires.’

“But this did not satisfy the chief.

“’I ask of you, sweet Patoma, am I not both your father and your chief?’

“’You are, my chief.’

“’And do I not look after the safety of my people as if they were my children?’

“’Yes you do, my chief.’

“’Then I ask, if I am chief and I must honour my people what I should do if not quell their fears by demanding the name of your child’s father.’

“Brave Patoma would not give in however and finally her father issued his edict. ‘Either you disclose the patronage of your child or you and he must leave the tribe immediately.

“Patoma, to the surprise of her father gathered up her babe in her arms and turned to her people.

“’Know the decision made was by you. I shall do both so that you may learn the folly of your fear. Great Katahmin did give you this gift and you turned it away. Know that you shall see neither him nor I ever again!’

“Her people did protest and prostrate, crying out apologies and begging forgiveness. But mighty Katahmin did shake and shudder in rage. The river that filled their sacred lake shrank and dried up. The birds took flight and the fish died and rotted upon the salty sands that remained. The clouds about Katahmin turned black with his anger and in the chaos and ruin, Patoma and her babe disappeared forever.”

Felicity regarded the fop.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well what of the threat to the tribe?”

“Oh. I believe they were conquered or something. Yeah, the final ruination was they were conquered a few years later.”

“Then where did the story come from if these people were destroyed?”

“I could call back S.J and you could listen to more of his condemnations if you’d prefer.”

Felicity waved away the suggestion.

“I think wrestling with the details misses the point, anyway,” Schroeder continued. “These people, they pass their history on in story. It’s not like these things are meant to be taken literally. There’s themes and lessons all wrapped in there.”

“Never trust a woman who marries a mountain?”

“I think they were aiming for tolerance and respect.”

“She married a mountain, Schroeder.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“A mountain!”

The train’s wheels screeched against a particularly sharp bend and the engine’s cabin shook. The pair could hear the steel hall clank against the pressing stone walls. Felicity reached for the brakes, slowing the lumbering beast as fast as she could. The very passage seemed to rumble with its deceleration and the patter of loose stone and gravel echoed above them like the gentle rap of an evening downpour.