Tag Archives: artistic process

Tolkien’s Strangulation

I have sad news. I tried to do an easy post today only to discover that I’ve already thrown up all my D&D stories. I have something I can dip into when I get busier with other work but, alas, I have nothing for the moment. What does that mean for you, intrepid readers? Simply that you’re going to get more poorly written, rambling, stream-of-conscious essays.

Which brings us to today’s that I’m tentatively calling:

Tolkien’s Strangulation:

The Dominance of Medieval Fantasy

Kind of cute, isn’t it?

This blog is rather dominated by the creative process with an emphasis on world building. As such, there’s going to be a natural bias towards fantasy writing. Fantasy, of all genres, is perhaps the most focused on creating new worlds. I’ve made mention that I believe it’s one of its biggest draws. Which isn’t to say that its brother genre – science fiction – doesn’t have an emphasis on world building: just that fantasy’s is greater. I think this arises from fantasy’s use of magic. Unlike science, which is heavily based on our own understandings of the natural laws and phenomenon of our world, magic and its existence fundamentally changes the fabric of an imagined universe. In science fiction settings, we can generally assume that gravity works as it does in our lives, that the basic principles of of chemistry and physics apply and that the laws that govern the natural world function according to shared fundamental principles. If you look at a world like Mass Effect, while it does include lots of supernatural and fantastical elements, it spends a great portion of time justifying those elements in a framework closely mirroring our scientific knowledge.

The result? We end up with pages of lore dedicated to explaining how faster than light travel works, how species are capable of psychic abilities and the chemical composition of ‘omni-gel.’ In contrast, if you look at something like Harry Potter, there is almost zero consideration for how the universe itself functions. Even taking place in the modern world with the dominance of the scientific method, there is little understanding for why spells require wands, latin and specific hand motions. There is no great detailing about the ecological impacts that dragons and giants would have on their environments and why these mythical beasts must be kept from non-magical eyes. None of its fantastical elements are justified within its own universe and each element is treated as a new spectacle to awe and entertain. It’s only explanation is that “it’s magic” and that’s all that seems required.

It’s remarkable how lovely these medieval fantasy settings are. It’s almost as if people forget the time period was called the Dark Ages for a reason.

There is a natural expectation from the readership that magic is unknowable. It is the stuff of stage magicians and the whole draw is that it can dazzle and entertain. Hermione sets paper fluttering by with a simple announcement of “Leviosa.” Gandalf chases off a flock of mounted ring wraiths with a beam from his flashlight staff. And I don’t even know what the hell is going on with the Game of Throne’s but apparently it involves women and lots of sex. Wizards, by their nature and mastery of this unknown force, are generally mysterious characters themselves. They rarely are the major actors in their tale and instead take a supportive role, guiding and mentoring some shmuck that is more relateable to the reader instead of just waving his arm and solving the crisis himself.

One need only think of Gandalf from Lord of the Rings to see all of this encapsulated. Now, I’m fairly certain given Tolkien’s desire for creating a modern myth, Gandalf drew heavily upon such classic figures as Merlin and Odin. But this isn’t called “Viking Strangulation” and that’s because so much of fantasy’s tropes are dominated by Tolkien world creation that it’s obvious where most of the inspiration is coming from. Before Tolkien, elves were obnoxious wee folk that lived in dirty holes. Dwarves most certainly weren’t the drunkard, beard loving, elf hating midgets that we have now and halflings weren’t even a thing in old mythology. The success of the Lord of the Rings had such an impact on the genre that the majority of its literature is essentially a reiteration of Tolkien’s world.

Because of the influence of mythology, his world is very rooted in the medieval time period. Though there is little representation of the complex peerage system or the dominance of a centralized church, the technological development of the world is approximate to that time. This led to the development of the Medieval Fantasy subgenre and a quick look over any fantasy section in a bookstore will show how ubiquitous this is. Which is fascinating to me since fantasy is no more beholden to medieval settings than science fiction is to alternate realities of the modern era. Lacking such a domineering figure as Tolkien, science fiction seems liberated to explore as many different stories and themes that it likes. A brief look at some of the largest contributors to the field demonstrate it’s variety. Star Wars is as different as Dune is as different as Neuromancer is as different as Ender’s Game is as different as 2001: A Space Odyssey is as different as The Time Machine.

And then you look at fantasy: Lord of the Rings vs A Game of Thrones vs A Wheel of Time vs Name of the Wind vs Eragon vs Assassin’s Apprentice…

And on and on it goes.

Frank Frazetta art.

It’s a fascinating situation especially since fantasy is arguably more successful than science fiction. Though, to be fair to the genre, urban fantasy is making a large impact now with things like Twilight and Harry Potter having such financial pull (though you could argue that these are are just spawned from Narnia’s success). My only point is that this ubiquitous isn’t necessary. Fantasy isn’t behooved to remain stuck in the Dark Ages. There is no reason that fantasy can’t cover a score of time periods and locations. A setting like Planescape is completely fantastical and even though it is a Dungeons and Dragons setting it is almost entirely alien to any of its other products.

As such, my writing has been leaning away from the standard fantasy tropes. I have my D&D shorts but my novel is fullblown steampunk set in the middle of the 1800s. I ideas for a fantasy story based solely on Native American mythology, tropical island settings, ancient Greek settings, dark modern setting…

There is a wealth of options available once we stop thinking that fantasy means pointy eared elves, knights in shining armour and endless princesses that need rescuing.

Post Tournament Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Feathered Serpent

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Ugh, it’s another posting day. But I’m still recovering from my concussion (read: lazy) and don’t feel like writing. So that means you get something I’ve already written!

In other news, Derek wants us to play Neverwinter. It’s a new MMO based on the hit classic Neverwinter Nights and Neverwinter Nights 2. Which is a fancy way of saying it’s boring and it sucks. Anywho, here is another character sketch for my novel in a month entry. I’ll repeat the same warning as the last time I posted a character sketch:

This is a personal document that was never meant to see the light of day. Since no eyes but mine were expected to see it, it has neither been proof read for spelling errors or grammar mistakes nor has it actually been edited to make sure the content is interesting. I’m posting this mostly as a curiosity – a brief glimpse into the creative process that goes behind my creation of a story. So, if you’re expecting Pulwitzer Prize material here, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Now on to the show.

Graciously taken from Google image source. I am not the creator of this content.

The Feathered Serpent

“What’s that you doin’ mister?”

The ball bounced off the trunk of the tree, landing with a thud into the bucket. Slowly, the big man turned. He was a massive specimen, thick muscles wrapped about a thick, golden frame barely contained within the worn, plain clothes. But what his dress lacked in description was made up for the odd adornments attached about his person. Around his wrists with thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running from his knuckles down his hand and beneath his sleeve.

A clatter of bright green rocks etched into the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled about his neck as he turned. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes dominating the piece. And his shirt was simple white cloth but a strange mantle rested atop, fashioned from brightly dyed clothes woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with worn and bent coloured feathers.

“Baax ka waalik, little-one.”

He turned, bowing his head deeply to the little boy. The child just scratched his head.

“You’re funny.”

Undaunted, the boy hurried over, stepping over the rifle lying upon the dry earth. He scrambled to the bucket, reaching inside and producing the big, black ball. It was round and hard, almost twice as big as two fist together. He turned it in his hands, looking it over from all angles. But to his young eyes it was nothing but a black sphere.

“Careful, little-one, that is no mere toy.”

The boy blinked, looking the ball over more closely.

“What is it?”

The big man moved to his side. He strode not as a mountain made to move but with the gentle grace of a passing breeze. He knelt beside the lad, clamping on great hand on the child’s shoulder as he wrapped his fingers around the ball and lifted it with his one hand. He held it before the boy, moving it slowly through the sky.

“The great Speakers say it is the sun. Its passing marks the passing of day to dusk then twilight to morn.”

The boy giggled.

“That’s silly. The sun isn’t black.”

“Is it not?”

The boy looked at him with a queer expression.

“No, the sun is yellow!”

“Is it? How do you know?”

“You can see it,” the boy said, pointing overhead. He turned his little face skyward, stretching his finger.

“You speak that but you look away.”

“Of course. Momma says you shouldn’t stare at the sun.”

“It is wise. But if you do not look, how can you know it?”

The boy scratched his head.

“Well… I have seen it. But you only see it shortly. It’s too bright!”

“But look at something in passing and do you see all that it is?”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t know.”

The giant gave a brief smile. He then lifted his hand over the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Tell me, what do I wear?”

The boy scrunched his eyes, trying to remember the object that dangled from that loose string. He could remember it was something green. Something vaguely familiar in shape but so strange that it was nothing like he’d seen before.

“Heads!” he proclaimed proudly.

The giant smiled. He peeled back his fingers, revealing the row of carved green stone. But it wasn’t three clatter heads looped together. Instead two gaping maws encompassed the strings, the carved stones appearing more like a serpent with no tail.

The boy’s mouth gaped in surprise.

“Look briefly and only see surface,” the man said, holding the ball aloft in hand. “Wise Speaker once said, look at the sun as it moves. From yellow to orange to red. But forever keep watch and all you see is night.”

“So the sun is black?”

“In time. But heed your mother, little-one, for it also bring light. Enjoy its gifts but respect its power. You have much time to enjoy its form when you are older.”

“So what are you doing with the sun?” the boy asked as the man clambered to his feet.

The large man looked down at the ball in his hands.

“I am remembering.”

“Remembering?”

He turned, tossing the object quickly from hand to hand.

“My people, we remember with these.”

“What do you remember?”

“People. Those that left. Like father and brother.”

“Where did they go?”

The giant smiled, but it was weaker now. It was the smile of a teacher, patiently weathering his pupil’s slowly march towards understanding. It was a smile that pushed what feelings were drawn, like a bucket pulled from the dark bearing precious water but dripping with painful pieces of its past.

“Xibalba.”

“Where’s that?”

“Very, very far.”

“Are you going to see them?”

The giant laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“I will know the sun.”

The boy puzzled these words with a twist of his mouth. It was clear he didn’t understand, though how his childish mind did grapple with the words. The giant knelt once more, holding the ball up for the boy.

“Care help remember?”

“Okay!”

His face lit up as he took the ball. He turned to the man.

“What do we do?”

He stood, surveying the land about them. He walked over, picking up the bucket and motioning for the boy to follow. They walked towards the stone wall of the sheriff’s jail. The man ran his hand over the stone, knocking lightly on the stone.

“This shall do.”

He placed the bucket at the middle of the wall then motioned for the boy to stand at the far end.

“Now what?”

“First, hit ball off wall.”

The man motioned towards the stone and the boy squished his face in concentration. Lifting the large ball over his shoulder, he swung with all the strength his little arms could muster. The ball struck the stone, rebounded and bounced three times against the ground before rolling to a stop. The man walked forward, picking it up.

“Alobi, little-one. Perhaps you a born ball player.”

The boy blushed.

“Did I do good?”

“Good first throw. Now, watch.”

The man bounced the ball before him, scattering dirt in a soft cloud that rolled up to him. Twice he bounced the ball before him before twisting and striking the ball with his forearm. With a meaty smack, it launched from his hand, striking the wall soundly before bouncing towards the boy. It flew straight and true, hitting the ground twice before rolling to stop right at his feet.

“Now, to me. Try again.”

The boy nodded as he bent and scooped up the ball. He wrenched it back and threw it. It smacked against the stone, bouncing once before rolling to the man’s left. He nodded.

“Better. Important to watch angle. See where you want and follow back to know place to strike.”

The man walked over, patting one of the stones.

“Watch.”

He bounced the ball twice, held it aloft and smacked it with his forearm. The ball struck the stone, rebounding and returning once more to the boy’s feet. The scooped up the ball, judging the distance and scooting forward for his throw. The ball hit, though with less force, and bounced four times to the other man’s feet. He nodded.

“Alobi.”

“What’s the bucket for?”

“It is goal,” the man replied. “The final journey from one body to the next. Like the sun passing the horizon, going through darkness and rising new on the other side.”

He bounced the ball at his feet before striking it at the wall. With precision, it bounced off the stones near him and the ball dropped perfectly in the wooden container. It gave off a haunting echo as it rolled along the bottom.

“How can it come out the other side? It’s a bucket.”

“Normally not a bucket,” the man nodded, walking over and picking up the ball. He then lifted the pail and held it sideways against the stone. “Normally it on wall and sun can pass through.”

He moved the ball back and forth before the bucket to demonstrate. Then he pointed at the dirt across from them.

“Normally another wall with another goal. Back and forth, sun rise and fall. Journey of gods. Journey of man.”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t get it.”

“One day, little-one.”

A shout caught their attention and a woman poked her head from the street. She turned, gasping slightly at the sight of the large man standing before the boy.

“Come here, Blasius,” she called, her voice twinged with worry. The boy look at the man, disappointment in his face.

“I have to go.”

“Xiitech utsil, little-one.”

The boy ran towards his mother. As he came near, she pulled him close, suspicious eyes watching the man as she turned her bonnet down at the youngster. She spoke just loud enough that he could hear here.

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

“We played. He showed me his game.”

Not trusting the words of her own child, the woman took her son’s small hand casting one last suspicious glance.

“Best you clear out of here, savage. We ain’t want your kind here. Don’t make me have to get the sheriff.”

She pulled her child away, even as he cried out as they went.

“But momma, he’s real nice!”

“Hush child, these savages ain’t got no place in our towns. Best they stay on their plains.”

The man walked over to his gear, collecting his things. He picked up one particularly large, colourful cloth and wrapped it about his waist until he formed a pouch. He then slipped the ball inside, insuring it was secure before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he readjusted the jade beads upon his necklace until the three heads looked once more about him. Their unblinking eyes keeping eternal vigilance for their wearer.

He checked his canteen. What little remained sloshed about the bottom. He would have to stop at the town’s well before continuing on.

Not that he had intentions of staying. This land was not his and he had no intention of invading these people’s lives. They who were unable to tell the difference between the natives of the plains and those that had travelled far from the south. Their ignorance and fear spoke more than their inattentiveness. But it did not bother him.

Hatred was an emotion he was far too familiar with.

And if these people felt they could rid themselves of him then they would learn that the familiar weapon over his shoulder was not for show. If this were his home, he would have more heads upon his necklace for all these ‘sheriffs’ who were suppose to be these towns fearsome defenders. But he wasn’t home and he wished to avoid bloodshed when he could.

Unlike these primitive people who waged a futile war against the invading ghostmen, he and his people had learned generations ago their fearsome might. They brought horses and they brought firearms and beneath iron hooves and iron barrels they paved a new territory for themselves with the bodies of the old.

But so many of the natives of these northern plains clutched futile to their old ways, as if somehow their drums and their stones could hold back the invasion.

Pacal knew different. They were unstoppable. For even if every ghostman and woman was slain and their skulls collected for the great racks, they left behind their armor, their weapons and their ways. Nothing would be the same. Either one learned to use their tools or they gave themselves up to the darkened halls of Xibalba. May as well just lay before the jagged knives and pay the blood debt of the vicious Nahua Ajkin then to try and resist the change that came on the tempest’s winds.

Not that there was a home for Pacal to return to. So he wandered and he came to the lands of these strangers to see for himself that which had brought about the end of the world. What he found were a people so frightening in their strangeness and curious familiarity. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the same petty, distrustful, ignorant individuals that he discovered.

He walked towards the well, canteen in hand. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. Let them come if they so chose. He was tired of remembering.

My Writing Process: Something Different

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

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

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

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

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

Here is my character sketch for Walter Samuel Schroeder:

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

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

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

Walton Samuel Schroeder II

“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”

A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was the response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the other. They searched for some unforgiving tell.

Neither could be more unalike. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin that seemed cracked and split from the long years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie – a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared any time the man’s ire rose.

Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had a fearsome reputation on the plains as he did at the table. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did passed judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging sack by his side.

Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.

But every caravan needed its mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.

And Walton Samuel Schroeder II looked the fool.

He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.

On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. Elegant curving patterns of the western peoples depicted stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.

Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.

And Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always washed away to be the same.

And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.

“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage ain’t getting shorter. You’ll be putting down that hand either way but if you be parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”

He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.

Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.

He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.

“I ain’t be aiming to wait for this wine to get better.”

Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.

He played his hand.

With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines.

It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt the young man to himself for a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer’s hand but revealed the gambler for the cheat he was.

And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.

Schroeder set down his cup.

“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.”

Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood holding, offering his foe an apologetic shrug.

“Perhaps next time.”

The young man began to collect his ill gotten gains.

But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.

“I want to see the rest.”

“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”

Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.

“Show me.”

His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from his gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.

Schroeder coughed.

“Very well.”

The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He turned and coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head back.

Schroeder turned back, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the three remaining cards, slowly turning over a seven of swords.

“And the next.”

Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning over a six of coins.

“One more.”

At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors eyes and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.

“The coup de grace!”

Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his ally who rubbed at the sting where the card struck his skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.

“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”

He tossed a handful of coins at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck.

Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol chased after him.

“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”

The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap bouncing in his pack, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step but nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”

She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stain wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.

A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hat in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.

Schroeder took to his heels once more.

Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting out upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the rail, attempting to gauge his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.

The crash behind him was all the motivation he needed. As raised voices echoed out the corridor, he put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests gave a great shout and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on the knees. And he’d just purchased these trousers.

He cast a quick look skyward.

Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.

The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.

But now things had gone too far.

A few of the patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their own pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasure night of cards.

Meyer ducked behind the rail, returning what fire he could. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as the horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.

Bullets struck tables, splintering debris in worrying close proximity as he slid his hat. He paused before one table still upright, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim stem of the crystal glass. He brought to wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.

He motioned to pass on but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.

The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.

A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcement to the confusion and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table to gauge the development. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought in the firefight.

“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”

Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the rail works, running own the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.

The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.

It was seconds before some embittered separatist cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well to do red suit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the wood about him.

And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jangle for going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. The rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.

A bullet sang past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium had taken over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his foot caused the boat the slam loudly against the deck.

Eventually, the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.

As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with great deep purple bustle that seemed to shimmer in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.

“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.

The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.

“You may, good sir.”

She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.

“Take this end, I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.

“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.

“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”

“Why delay?” Schroeder smiled, stepping to the rail. She gave a brief smile as she placed her hand on his chest.

“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”

She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.

“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”

And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like an intoxicating wine about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.

Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.

“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”

But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.

“That was custom fitted!” he shouted.

A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced back at the mayhem overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath and plunged into the waves.