Trappin' Part 2

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

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The village of Galt was peaceful. Perhaps that is what drew so many people to it. There was nothing remarkable in its countryside. No fabulous ruins of an ancient civilization with legends of promising forgotten treasure lured adventures to the hills. No strange arcane towers jutted from the wilderness begging people to wonder what occurred within the sequestered walls. No castle of a feudal lord broke the horizon reminding the peasants of the divine protection and the weekly tribute demanded of them from some absentee ruler.

For the villagers of Galt, there was nothing but placid farmland and serene wilderness branching out in all directions. Nestled among the distant woods and sloping vales lay other quiet settlements. Possibly as content as Galt but never as pleased.

The villagers always maintained some extraordinary tranquillity welled up from the land like some miraculous brook they all savoured. But they needed no ghostly lights or monuments to highlight it. They had the very villagers themselves to attest to this strange power.

For whoever set foot in the small village found it almost impossible to leave. Travellers were rare but rarer still were those few that could resist the pleasant charms and carefree spirit of the village. And no suspicion or doubt clouded the minds of the residents. They welcomed each wanderer as if they were some lost kin. And that hospitality brought more to roost than not.

Jeremiah knew his family came from elsewhere. That much was certain with his family's darker complexion and thicker frames compared to these pale, slight people. But Jeremiah could count the number of times his strangeness was remarked upon and usually such taunts were hastily reprimanded by the offending youth's parents.

Jeremiah remembered little of where he did come from. The youngest of his kin, his recollections of that early time were little more than some shaky visions of a covered cart and the whiff of some peculiar roasted meat. His mother never spoke of that place and his eldest brother always hushed any questions of their origins.

He was told, time and again, he was a member of Galt. And for the Pitmans that was enough. Jeremiah had far fonder memories of being educated in the local town hall than whatever place actually gave birth to him. He could recall sermons in the tiny parish and of rolling down green meadows surrounded by colourful flowers. He loved the two hounds his mother let him keep, the poor pups found one sunny afternoon lost in the wilderness.

Jeremiah took an interest in the power of plants and herbal remedies. And while the situation that spurred his study of salves and concoctions were tinged with bitter emotions they landed him a respectable apprenticeship with the local apothecary. And there was this lovely girl from the parish who made him smile and feel all funny in his stomach. They laughed and played beneath the maypole and frolicked in the quiet groves.

But that all ended when he arrived.

There was nothing auspicious about his entrance. Much like others before, he had come quietly in the night. Found sleeping in his mother's arms as she appeared humble before a homestead pleading for a safe place to sleep. Perhaps the only peculiar note was the scar she bore down her neck, a long and old wound that hinted at a past to be fled.

But who in Galt didn't have some ancient spectre they wished to be forgotten. So the mother was welcomed and found the perfect place to raise her two children that was both understanding and secure. Her eldest was a girl with long brown hair and inquisitive eyes. She seemed to take to the village and its ways quite willingly, laughing and playing with the other children.

But her brother was the odd one. A dark shadow seemed cast over his demeanour. He was quiet and reclusive and sneered or turned away those that approached him. Only his sister seemed to pierce that shield he'd raised about him. He seemed to loathe the village and everything within. He was the single black spot on a sunny day. He was the dark cloud that hovered in the horizon as a portent of an encroaching storm. He was trouble and Jeremiah would often wonder what cruel twist of fate bound his and that boy's destinies together.

For the children Kait and Keirn were the village's small trouble that they wished not to discuss. Their pivotal years were filled with whispers and gossip. Never before did Jeremiah hear of questions or concern over a strange arrival. Where did this family come from and why did they come here, people whispered. None would dare finish their thought or voice that one idea that every one shared.

What would it take to get rid of them?

For even if the children were peculiar, it was the mother that kept the villagers at bay. Jeremiah had little interactions with the elder Faden but she was a formidable woman. It would have been nothing for her to take control of the village, assert her will and have all people bow before her directions. But while she unnerved and cowed even the boldest man, she kept to herself. Only when her children seemed threatened did some dark fury bubble just beneath her eyes.

And none dare raise a weapon against her. For one doesn't receive those scars by toiling in noble's fields.

It was at Jeremiah's mother's insistence that the boy approached the lad. She seemed convinced that all the other boy needed was a friend and with that small gesture the entire clan would ease gently into the simple village life. Their first interactions were brief but it was his mother's vow that dark night that convinced him to get close to the youth.

His persistence was rewarded. But only just. While the young Keirn did finally allow the other boy into his life, Jeremiah always knew he was kept at arms length. He didn't recall his own past, but he wondered if the other boy did. And if it were those memories that forced him to shut all others out.

But time passed and the boys grew older. Then, out of the blue, Keirn announced he was leaving for the strange Academy. Few knew what that meant, they were just happy to see one of the Faden clan leave. Jeremiah felt sad and even slightly betrayed by this sudden proclamation. But he was one of the few to actually see the youth off. He could still remember his sister quietly weeping as her brother shouldered his pack and headed down that trail with nary a look back. Everyone, including his sister, felt that this was the end of him. He'd gone and would never return.

And for that year and a half, the village seemed much like Jeremiah remembered. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. Kait took the post at the town hall, schooling the younger children in their letters and numbers. Jeremiah spent much of his time with that red haired beauty.

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

A Difference in Levels

Last night I had an opportunity to curl with the manager of my club. Wow!

She is very, very good. She is, in fact, the person that teaches most people when they come to the club for lessons. I have also attended her lessons and spent the entire game trying to recall every pointer and direction she ever gave me. I desperately wanted to impress this person – viewed by many as one of the best curlers in our club.

This is not to diminish the skills of the other two players on the team. They threw shots I could only dream of – take outs the likes of which you see on TV. It was daunting, but also so wonderously incredible. I got to experience high level curling first hand. I was there to see the constant communication between the front end and the house. I was part of the amazing shots that resulted in a 7 end game with a final score of 11 – 4.

That it was a contrast to my usual social leagues could not have been more obvious. These women had skill and knowledge of each other only gained through years of experience. I even got to ask some questions that have always confused me; like what is the difference between control and normal weight. (Answer: normal refers to your normal take out weight and control is a little lighter.)

As for my own shots, well, I curled better than I had in several weeks – making one shot in two (generously). I don’t think I embarrassed myself for a beginner with three years’ experience. They even chanced a take-out for my last shot in the seventh end; which happily I made.

I was so nervous and so excited at the same time. I was terrified of messing up horribly and wonderstruck at how good the others work. It was both scary and amazingly fun. And for all I was worried, the others were very nice, friendly and encouraging. Even the club manager, who was skipping that night, as she teased me about the importance of lead rocks. I guess leads really do set up ends – at least when playing with skilled people.

It was totally exciting and an absolutely fabulous experience that I will remember for a long time to come.

Olympus Was Ballin

So, this weekend I saw Olympus Has Fallen. Which is unfortunate since I was planning on doing some more rambling on world creation.

Instead, you get a shitty review.

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

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

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

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

And let me tell you why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's A Trap

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

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

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“By the hells!”

The resounding crash broke the dampening silence. Anxious breaths drew as the others watched helplessly while their friend tumbled forward. Fingers splayed out and arms waving madly, Jeremiah grasped frantically for some handhold to halt his descent. The floor beneath his feet crumbled like dry autumn mud shaken loosely from a farmer’s boot. His body slammed against the tile before him and his dark fingertips dug tightly into its ridge. With feet dangling helplessly beneath, Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief as he noticed he was now hugging a large embossed tile with a symbol that vaguely resembled a stylish Fe rune.

“Are you alright?” Aliessa called after everyone realized that Jeremiah was not, despite initial appearances, plummeting to his death.

“FINE!” Jeremiah hissed between gritted teeth. His face was red from the exertion as he tried to pull his large frame from the small hole. The chain links of his shirt bit into his flesh as he pressed as much of his weight on the portion of himself not suspended in air.

“Hold still, I’m coming,” Amber called.

“No, don’t!”

“Now is not the time for heroic machismo,” Amber sighed.

Jeremiah jerked his body to the side, swinging one knee above the old clay tile. With better leverage he was able to roll uncomfortably on his back. There he lay, taking in slow, sweet breaths while waiting for his hammering heart to calm.

“You know, you could have just waited. I would have helped you.”

“I... didn’t...want to ...can I have a moment, please?”

“So because of your stubbornness we should all wait on you?’

“I just about died!”

“Oh, and now that's our fault?”

“Please, people! I don’t think that this is really the time,” Keirn called.

And he didn’t think he had to quantify that statement. The sorcerer stood by the peculiar cog-work door they'd passed through, holding tightly to a thick cord that kept a large, smoothed stone aloft. They had realized, just moments before it was too late, that the strange mechanism was connected to its twin on the far side of the room and set to trigger if they didn't keep it suspended. So while the young man was tasked with keeping it open on his end, the rest of the group was trying desperately to get across the curious floor to stabilize the other.

At this moment, only Amber was close to getting across and she had now retraced her steps to continue her argument. Kait was a third of the way, a few strides from Jeremiah’s near misstep. However, she refused to move any further without assurance that there was an actual safe path. In the interim, she had hunkered down for a long wait, somehow managing to sort through her packs to produce two needles and a ball of yarn despite being restricted to a three by three square of floor. Now she looked like a little princess on her throne of travel bags.

Derrek had climbed one of the cracked pillars bordering the room. Perched upon its broken centre, he surveyed the rows of etched runes like a master strategist overlooking his army. Beneath his guidance, the group had managed to so far strand three of their number across the incomprehensible runes. The tiles were arranged in nine columns that covered most of the room making it impossible to skirt the puzzle. And the numerous holes along the edges of the room suggested others had tried.

“Fine, let’s just get across this damn thing and get out of here,” Amber said. She turned, her red hair snapping like a vicious fire in her wake. Without a second glance back, she stomped across an Ur, Tyr and Eh rune before stopping and looking back at Derrek. “Where now minstrel?”

Derrek leaned as far as he could over the broken marble lip. ‘I believe if Jeremiah takes the closest Rad then you should be able to proceed.’

Jeremiah looked over the tiles around him and sighed once he spotted the elusive letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” Kait anxiously called.

Keirn silenced his sister with an impatient wave of his hand. His biceps were bulging but he was more focused on peering out the doorway, eyes trying to pierce the encroaching darkness just beyond.

“Did you hear something?” Amber shouted.

“Odd, I haven’t detected anything,” Aliessa said, gliding up to the other side of the door. A brown and orange tabby pranced just behind her. Its ears pricked as both pet and master rested at the edge of the door, the wizard holding her torch high overhead.

‘What part of the word QUIET, do you people seem to struggle with?’ Keirn hissed. He leaned over, snatching the torch from Aliessa’s hands and pitched it quickly down the dusty hall. A few rats scattered, squealing indignantly as they scurried from the flaming stick’s tumbling cinders. The torch clattered against the floor, rolling a few extra feet before resting in a pool of inky nothingness.

“I’m not getting that,” Aliessa whispered.

Keirn ignored her as he shifted his weight to relax his tiring muscles. The aged pulleys groaned with the shift in direction. Everyone waited for a few minutes, each expecting a telltale scratch, clank, hiss, thump or thud to herald impending danger. They began to grow restless when nothing continued to happen.

“Can we get on with this?” Amber commanded.

Derrek looked over to Keirn, but when he didn’t receive any angry glares, he resumed his directing. Kait's needle returned to their gentle click, click, clicking and Jeremiah and Amber continued their disgruntled silence.

“Amber, if you can step to that Fe and Jeremiah if you could step to that Sigel...no wait!”

Jeremiah shouted in surprise, falling backwards as the tile crumbled beneath his foot.

‘Are you trying to kill me?!’

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

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

“We can see that,” Amber sighed.

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

“It is.”

“Oh.”

“Freyar,” Keirn called.

“How do you remember that?”

“Am I the only one that's been paying attention to the murals in this temple?!”

“Once you've seen one naked man drawing, you've seen them all,” Aliessa shrugged.

“Ah, of course. Jeremiah, if you could go to the Eh to your right then.”

“Derrek, dear, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Aliessa asked returning from her vigil and standing at the base of Derrek's pillar.

“Well, not really, but we’re doing pretty well so far,” Derrek casually replied. “Amber if you could take that second Fe.”

Jeremiah frowned. It would be just like the bard to bumble them into even worse trouble. Jeremiah dropped to his knees, pressing on the adjoining tile with his hand.

“Oh don’t be so ridiculous!” Amber shouted. “Just jump to the next letter!”

“I'm so far the only one that's almost died. Twice! What if he's wrong? I won’t have anywhere to go from there.”

“Oh, you make it sound as if it would be a big loss.”

“It kind of would be!”

“Well, I suppose if we’re talking about pure mass, then yes you would be a big loss.”

“Look, I’ve put up with just about enough of your...”

“My what?!” Amber shouted. “You think that this has been easy for me?”

“Well...yes.”

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

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

“Precisely! You were smothering me!”

“Smothering you?!”

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

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

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

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

“Well it is your fault!”

“I have a feeling we aren’t talking about the spelling anymore,” Kait muttered. Her needles kept their rhythmic clatter as she watched with anxious interest at the pair’s bickering. “Is this how Keirn and I sound?”

“My fault! You refuse to take any responsibility! You’re too busy playing the poor victim!” Jeremiah screamed. He took a few steps towards her, despite the frantic calling from Derrek and Aliessa.

“My fault, that’s rich. You never tended to my needs! You were so clingy and insecure that you never listened to what I wanted!”

“What you waaaa...!” Jeremiah hollered as he stepped through another false tile.

“Serves you right!” Amber shouted as Jeremiah scrambled to catch onto solid ground.

“Hells! Can someone give me a hand?”

“Oh, so now you want my help? Why don’t you do it on your own!”

“Why don’t you cross this damned board on your own then if you’re so bloody independent!” Jeremiah grunted, scratching his fingers deep into the aged clay.

“If I knew what I had to spell, I would. But here, why don’t I spell your path for you!” Amber shouted back. She stabbed at the tiles around her, “A S S H O L and over there is the Eh!”

The thunder of the crumbling tiles beneath the jabs of her staff filled the air and drowned out the frantic calls from those gathered at the edge of the puzzling field. The shattered pieces tumbled wildly into the empty pit beneath.

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

“You broke it earlier,” Kait whispered.

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

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

“What are you doing?” Aliessa called.

“Ending this.”

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

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

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

Keirn ignored his friend's plight, steadying his aim as best he could while sweat beaded from the extra exertion of holding the stone at this new height. However, as the crossbow's latch clicked, there was a more distinct echo that rang through the open door. Both Keirn and Jeremiah turned to the dark hallway and Jeremiah realized immediately the torch had gutted out.

“By the gods!” Keirn shouted. The darkness seemed to quiver as the shadows gave birth to indistinct shapes. Keirn released his chord, the pulleys screeching as the rope ripped from his hands and the counterweight stone crashed loudly to the ground.

There was a loud grinding as the stones shifted against each other and the entrance slab dropped from its raised alcove above. Before it smashed to the ground and locked into place, the sorcerer snatched another stone, lifting it as best he could and halting the door a mere foot from trapping them within.

Overhead, the complicated machinery ground and clanked as the exit shifted to match its twin's position.

“Admit it, Jeremiah, you never really cared for me!”

“What are you, crazy?” Jeremiah called back.

“ADMIT IT!”

“Kait... don’t let... her drop it!” Keirn shouted.

However, Kait sat paralyzed as the chaos ensued around her. Her fingers still held the yarn in mid stitch. She turned to her brother, who madly motioned towards the fallen crossbow with his reddening face. However, a ferocious pounding erupted from the other side of the door and the massive slab shook as some terrible force attempted to bash its way through.

“Wha...what do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Anything!” Keirn gritted. “Shoot her if you must!”

“Oh... Oh! Oh no. No no no no no... I couldn’t.”

“Aliessa!”

“Derrek ... Derrek, honey, wake up!”

“Aliessa!”

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

“KAAAIIITTTTT!”

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

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

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

“Then drop it! You have no power over me anymore!”

“By the gods,” Keirn sighed. “We’re all going to die.”

The rope to the counter weight began to snap from the strain.

The Black Dragon of Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Writers

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

So let me just update what I'm doing!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serial Killers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A comment on documentaries

Recently I have been had the pleasure of watching A History of Britain. What I like about this 15 part series are the narratives of each episode which set out to tell a story and the language with which it is presented. Perhaps it is because it is a BBC production the narrator was allowed to use more advanced language then is often found in North American documentaries. I certainly find the episodes filled with information and witty commentary. I also appreciate it the way the series moves from the very earliest times of the Roman invasions to modern, post-world war II. My largest criticism is the shortness of time spent on the very earlier periods. Though I understand the reasons, the time constraints, I would like more information for these early years. I would love more details about the way people had lived their lives during the various periods of time. However, no series can include everything in a manageable amount of time.

In contrast to the linear production of A History of Britain, Mankind: The Story of All of Us is disappointingly jumbled. Each episode is a haphazard collection of moments that seem unrelated by theme or time. This recent documentary, of which I confess I have only watched two episodes, is difficult to follow and seems to say very little. It held such promise for me, tackling the world and not just one nation. But the presentation of its story, sloppy, disjointed and difficult to follow, does little to engage my attention. For this I am deeply disappointed.

I would love to watch a series, and I am happy to watch a lengthy series too, that covers history of mankind from our earliest records. I think it would be hugely interesting to look at pivotal periods of time and investigate not only what is happening in one corner of the world, but how contemporaries worldwide are living. So often, I pick up bits of history in isolation and certainly my history is heavily focused on Europe. Yet, China has an equally long and complex story to share with the world. It has influenced Europe over the ages. I would love to know what was happening in that distant land at the same time various acts are playing out on the European continent.

While they may not have yet produced the documentary I truly wish to watch and while the library may not have every interesting historic show in its collection, I have found a website full of promising titles that will allow me to continue my historic studies in pieces.

Playing God: Fantasy World Creation and Race

Let me begin this short rant with a quick plug for my friend's blog: http://www.derekgingrich.com/



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

The Grand Ballsy Finale Part 2

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

---------------Break ---------------

“Congratulations contestants. We are now on the final portion of the Bard’s Challenge. This is perhaps the most important portion yet! While the wizards in their towers think they alone can use the arcane sorceries, we bards know this is not true. For what could be more trivially useless than the practice of magic itself! But us minstrels do not live lives of boring study and routine. No, our magic is that of the heart and the moment. Thus, without preparing the majority of the spell in the morning, our contestants have twenty minutes to make the greatest magical display using our secret reagent. Tobias!”

 The back curtains parted and the aid pushed a large table forward with a great white sheet covering it. He stood behind the table, reached for the middle of the sheet.

“Competitors!” he shouted in a valiantly courageous attempt. “I present to you… koe-chiap!”

“Koe-chiap?!” all three competitors shouted in unison.

“That’s right,” the administrator said, turning to face the crowd. “Imported from the mysterious distant west is this rare paste. Its use is not entirely understood but scholars wager it is part of some coming of age ceremony to test youth’s constitution and vitality. We're told it's a concoction of pickled fish and spices but believe it’s made from the ground pulp of a strange red fruit and horse manure.”

Derrek, Laara and Alec rushed to the table. Great bowls filled with the thick, viscous liquid were arranged in an eye pleasing manner. There appeared to be different colours ranging from a sickly purple to a bright green.

“You have twenty minutes, competitors! May the best bard win!”

Derrek grabbed a bowl, holding it in his hands and looking expectantly at the others.

“By the hells, what are we suppose to do with this?” Laara said. “We don’t even have anything to prepare spells with.”

As if on command, a few more aids came running out with arms wrapped about large woven baskets. They set each before the three competitors. Lifting the lids, an assortment of alchemical supplies and tools were shoved unceremoniously within.

Laara and Alec dove head first into the baskets, tossing alembics, pestles, mortars and flasks aside.

Derrek set aside his bowl, rooting from some ingredients to work with. He wasn’t entirely sure what sort of spell he could perform with this reagent, especially since he never heard of it before. He had learned a few cantrips at the College as most classes often awarded bonus marks to the students that could knick spells from the neighbouring Academy. Dating a wizard also gave certain advantages when it came to understanding the practice of magic.  

 His digging eventually provided enough ingredients for a rudimentary summoning spell. Not the flashiest magic on the block unfortunately. Summoning spells typically involved inducing a magical compulsion in some poor chump to go and fetch the desired item for the practitioner too lazy to get it himself.  

Derrek looked over to Laara and Alec. He knew nothing of his female adversary but judging by her confusion over the proper end of a burette, Derrek wasn’t too worried. However, Alec was laughing almost maniacally to himself.

It was a little disturbing.

“I’ve got this in the bag,” Alec whispered. He threw his materials in the ground in a great heap, falling to the floor and scratching a rough circle of chalk upon the stage.

 “Oh really? If I remember correctly you couldn’t even get the simplest light cantrip to glow.”

“Those are totally hard and you know it.”

“It’s lighting a piece of straw!”

 “Heh, you’ll see. I’m going to destroy this challenge and be named Seeker. And you know what the first thing I’ll do will be? I’ll make a doll of you and carry you around as my dummy. Then the realms will know how stupid you really are.”

 “That’s the most idiotic plan I’ve ever heard,” Derrek said as he lay his instruments carefully out before quickly turning to his rose thorns and mashing them in a mortar.  

 “That sounds exactly like something your dummy would say!” Alec laughed.  

“You’re the worst.”

“Hey, want to hear a joke?”

“Your bardic talents?”

 “Why do Derrek’s songs sound better by candlelight?” Alec upturned a pouch of marbles, watching them roll chaotically amongst the seals he had scrawled.

“It sets a sexy mood because I’m so gods blessedly handsome?”

“Because you can shove the wax in your ears!”

“That’s it?” Derrek asked. He began to scrawl his ancient runes upon the floor.

“Did you not get it? Need me to explain. Because I can explain if you need me to.”

“Explanations are the fastest way to ruin a joke,” Derrek said.

“Yeah, know the second fastest? You, and being dumb.”

“That’s two ways,” Derrek said. He began to roll his barley seeds in the mashed concoction of rose thorn, mandrake root and persimmon skin.

“Ten minutes competitors!”

“You know Alec, you’ve always been half the man that I am. If you want to just bow out now, no one would think less of you. In fact, they may think more.”

“You see this?” Alec asked, standing and holding his bowl of ketchup before him. “This is the image of your defeat.”

Then, without further provocation, he upended the contents of the bowl over his head. The liquid seeped over his hair and dripped down his great jowls. It fell in great globs upon his fancy clothing. The thick goop rolled over his eyes until he appeared as a great, squishy red grape.  

He stood in the middle of his circle, unmoving. Derrek and Laara watched with anticipation. The seconds ticked by and everyone seemed to hold their breath.

A large glop fell upon the floor at Alec’s feet.  

There was a soft pop once the substance hit the wood and the tiniest wisps of smoke curled from it. All eyes turned to the stage, where tiny burnt tendrils seemed to run from the scattered marbles as if they had given a small surge of electricity towards the foreign substance but too quickly for anyone to notice.

The glop fizzed a second time then fell silent.

“Was that it?” Derrek asked.

Alec stared at the drop of the floor while still blinking.  

“I… guess? Can you still see me?"

"Unfortunately."

"Damn this useless charm! I was told it would complete whatever spell I attempted!”

As Alec ripped a necklace hidden beneath his collar from his throat, Derrek stood, dropping his small ball of ingredients into some purified water and mixing it quickly. Then he strolled over to Alec, careful to avoid stepping on his chalk outline and raised the container to the man’s lips.  

“Here, drink this.”

Before Alec could protest, Derrek upended the contents into his mouth. Reflexively, the fat man’s drinking instinct kicked in, downing the potion in one great gulp. With the last drop from the bowl, Derrek quickly whispered the words of completion then attempted to think of some item he desired. 

“Yuck! What was that?”

“Balls!” Derrek cursed. “I guess mine didn’t work either. I suppose koe-chiap  doesn’t make a good substitute for blood.”

“Five minutes contestants!”

Laara gave a shout of excitement, standing quickly to her feet.  

“I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly to the judges. She then sang the softest of magical verses. Derrek recognized the incantation amongst the chorus. It was an old type of sorcery quite similar to the ancient skald verses. With the last word escaping her lips, a soft glow seemed to surround her. She looked surprised as she held up her hands. From the mystical light, a string of globes seemed to pull free, floating before her outstretched arms as if obeying her command. With a gentle flick of her wrist the orbs seemed to roll excitedly about her like pretty faerie lamps.

“There they are!” cried a voice from the audience. “Get the balls!”

“Balls?” Alec slurred, his voice suddenly heavy as if he were drunk.

From the audience four people emerged, rushing towards the stage. With amazing acrobatic flair they tumbled around, beneath and over the started crowd. Derrek recognized their flips immediately.

“Mikael?”

The flamboyant man himself emerged from the wings, his wind-and-fire wheels already in hand. He leapt to Laara’s side, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to display his trimmed and apparently oiled chest as he prostrated elegantly before her.  

“Forgive me, my lady, but I’m afraid I must confiscate these!”

He punched her across the face, causing Laara to drop like stone to the ground. But as Mikael grabbed for the abandoned balls of light, they seemed to pop into blinding bursts of light the moment his fingers touched them.

“Those aren’t the real ones!” cried a voice from the audience. “Find the true balls!”

“Baaaaallllsss,” Alec slurred once more, stumbling over the stage. He landed, head first upon the judge’s table, collapsing it to the ground in a great snap of tinder.

Mikael and the acrobats turned to Derrek.

“So sorry, my friend, but it looks like we’re going to have to dance again.”

Mikael brandishes his wind-and-fire wheels, the clinking of the blades ringing clearly through the air.  

“Can’t we just discuss this?” Derrek asked.

“Orders are orders,” one of the acrobats said.

“And don’t even think about escaping!” another called.

In perfect unison, the acting troupe flipped and rolled until they had him surrounded, their daggers and swords pointed worryingly at Derrek’s chest.  

“I’m sure this is completely unnecessary. There’s no need to mess with this,” Derrek said, waving his hand over his beautiful face.

“Well, you seemed to suggest that you didn’t have the orbs when we drugged you,” Mikael said. “So, unless the potion didn’t work or you can resist the effects of a voracity divination…”

“Voracity divination?” Derrek muttered. “That sounds an awful lot like something a wizard would make. Where would you get that?”

“Actually, it was your -“

Before Mikael could finish his sentence, there was a terrific shatter as an enormous raven burst through the window. Following it immediately scampered an enormous newt and black cat. The creatures turned directly to Mikael, cawing, hissing and newting as they smashed through the hall.

The crowd shrieked at this final interruption, scrambling for the doors in a great, heaving mass from the enlarged menagerie.

As the critters descended, Mikael shouted, throwing his weapons to the ground.

“Mercy, friends! I mean no harm to you, cute creatures of the earth! Peace!”

But, the animals didn’t share Mikael’s passivity towards nature's kin and they lashed out with talon, claw and newty mouth. Unable to morally defend himself from that which he felt need protection, Mikael screamed as he fled the furry, feathered and scaled onslaught.

The other acrobats, however, just looked at each other and shrugged before advancing on the bard.

“There won’t be any more convenient interruptions to save you now.”

“Stop right there!”

The treacherous thespians turned towards the doorway where a tall, eye-patched individual stood with a small contingent of thugs. They raised daggers and crossbows towards the stage as Dian stepped forward.

“Sorry for the delay,” Dian said. “But it took awhile to get past the crowds.”

“I thought the cat was with you,” Derrek said.

“Gorge? She’s back at the hideout,” Dian said.

“The cat is with me!”

Everyone turned to the back of the stage. Emerging from the shadows in a long white gown with a glowing staff in hand was a familiar woman.

“Aliessa?” Derrek whispered.

Dian, the thugs and the acrobats looked between each other, turning to point their weapons at as many people as they could.  

Aliessa ignored them all, walking unflinching past the tide of steel. A soft glow seemed to pulse about her menacingly. Resistance parted before her and the wizard walked undaunted until she stood face to face with Derrek.

“It was you.”

“That’s right,” Aliessa said.

“But why? Why did you do it?”

“Before you continue, could you explain what it is?”

Almost annoyed, every party turned to see Marien crawl out from some overturned chairs. She was covered in bright red splotches, suggesting she didn’t fare the trampling too well. However, she held two blades menacingly between the thugs and the acrobats on stage.

“It was I that informed Marien that you have the Globes of Power,” Aliessa said, drawing herself erect. Marien ceased her advance just below the stage as the shimmering glow around Aliessa brightened menacingly.

“But why?” one of the acrobats asked.

“Because I knew she needed them to activate the talisman. In truth, I had hired their party to fetch the globes because it was our anniversary and we were supposed to spend it together. But that damnable party of yours wouldn’t leave you alone for three days. I had to be rid of them if were to celebrate!” Aliessa cried malevolently.

“But why tell her that?” one of the thugs asked, pointing to Marien.

“Simple. I knew Marien would kidnap Derrek in order to try and steal the orbs from him.”

“Wait, why did you want your boyfriend kidnapped?” another acrobat asked.

“I needed him gone from his room so Alec Carver could ransack it. I told the fat fool that Derrek kept his greatest stories with him in a journal. It would contain the best material of his travels that would fetch any minstrel worth his salt untold gold in any tavern he performed them in.”

“But why did you need Alec to steal Derrek’s material?” one of the judges who had remained behind asked from his hiding spot.

“I knew Derrek never kept such a journal,” Aliessa said, her voice dripping with cleverness. “He keeps everything as a jumble within his head. But Alec was too foolish to know this. I needed him to just make Derrek’s room appeared ransacked while Marien had him kidnapped.”

“But to what end?” the third acrobat asked.

“Because Marien would inevitably fail to find the globes on Derrek’s person. I had sold Mikael a potion, lying to him that the imbiber would be forced to tell the truth. That way, when Derrek said he didn’t know where it was, Marien would naturally think it was hidden in his room. When they returned to the inn, they would see the mess and think someone else had stolen the globes.”

“But you didn’t expect Derrek to go to the street gangs!” one of the thugs accused.

“No,” Aliessa whispered, her eyes narrowing. “Derrek was able to cure himself of the potion I fed him. With his mind cleared, he confronted Alec who almost revealed the plan.”

“It… it was you,” whispered Laara from the ground. “You’re the one that sent the giant bird.”

“If there’s one thing that foolish fat man is afraid of, it’s birds,” Aliessa laughed. “It was no big challenge, I prepare an enlargement spell every morning and all I had to do was cast it upon one of my pets.”

“But why?” the last acrobat asked. “Why all this subterfuge and trickery?”

“Because,” Derrek said with growing defeat. He turned from Aliessa, his heart heavy in his chest. He could barely form the words to speak. “Because it’s our anniversary.”

“That’s right!” Aliessa shrieked, lifting her staff. “Our anniversary!”

The thugs, acrobats, Dian, judge, Laara and Mairen looked confused.

Finally one thug raised his hands in defeat.

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t you see!” Aliessa shrieked. “This is because of this damn Challenge! You never planned on spending the weekend with me at all! You just wanted to be in this stupid tournament!”

“It was my dream,” Derrek whispered. “My dream to be Seeker.”

“It’s just a really bad copy of the Wizard’s Challenge!” 

“Wait. Wait a damn minute!” Mairen cried. “All of this… all of this was to stop him from competing in this bloody competition?!”

“Yes,” Aliessa admitted, her voice dripping with acid and malice.

“No seriously!” Marien shouted. “THIS WAS ALL SO HE WOULDN’T COMPETE IN THIS STUPID CHALLENGE?!”

The woman gave off a litany of curses.  

“What a gods damned waste of gold!” she shouted, stomping towards the exit. “Now I have some thrice cursed useless talisman and no fiery hells way of powering it and…”

“Wait!” called the acrobats. “Does this mean we’re not getting paid?”

They dropped their weapons, turned and slowly edged their way past the thugs. The thugs then turned to Dian who merely shrugged.

“I guess you don’t need anymore protection.”

Dian led the thugs from the hall.

Derrek turned to Aliessa.  

“Well… now what?”

“I don’t know,” she said lowering her staff. The glow around her shimmered then vanished.

The hall fell deathly quiet.  

Aliessa raised a hand to brush some loose hair from her eyes.

“I can’t, I can’t help but feel like it’s slightly my fault,” Aliessa whispered.

Derrek sighed.

“It’s just that this Seeker title really means a lot to me, Aliessa.”

“I know,” she said. “But I feel… maybe… maybe if I hadn’t supported you so much you wouldn’t have thought you could get it.”

Derrek nodded solemnly.

“And if I didn’t think I could really get it, I never would have tried to, I suppose.”

“I guess… I suppose this is it.”

“I guess so.”

Aliessa walked forward, lifting a hand slowly to Derrek’s cheek. She let her fingers brush his skin, to feel his warmth one last time. He reached up his hand, taking hers. He could feel how soft her skin was. As she drew near, he was reminded how heavenly she smelled.

They looked into each others eyes. Hers were welling with tears, the pain written plainly on her face.

“I won’t… I won’t say I love you,” she whispered, looking down and resting her hand upon his chest. “I promised I would never cry.”

“Maybe we don’t have to,” Derrek whispered.

“You’re right,” she said. She leaned forward, giving him a quick peck on his cheek. “Goodbye… my dear. Goodbye Derrek.”

“Farewell.”

They embrace. Derrek wrapped his arms tightly about her, holding her absolutely close. Despite her vow, he could feel her shudder in his arms and the soft dampness of her tears against his chest. But still he held her close as the sobs came until she could cry no more.

They released, but reluctantly. Aliessa hadn’t even noticed she dropped her staff. She sniffled back a few straggling tears and bent to pick up her weapon. But Derrek bent faster, grabbing it and holding it aloft for her to take.  

She smiled weakly as she took it. She turned, walking slowly towards the exit. Her dress swayed with each rock of her hips. Derrek watched entranced as she glided away, like the phantom of a dream fleeing the coming morn.  

“Will I ever see you again!” he called.

She paused before the door, looking up at him one last time.

“All you need to do is close your eyes.”

She opened the door and was gone.

Absolute silence fell upon the hall.  

It was done. It was all done. Everyone had left.  

Derrek was alone.

In one fell swoop he had lost his girlfriend and his chance at the Seeker challenge. He turned to Laara who still lay upon the stage. Whether she had fallen unconscious again or was merely acting so to maintain the gravity of the scene, he couldn’t tell. The remaining judge, in pure dramatic style, had also made himself scarce.  

But surely, there would be no chance of him winning the title now. And though the winner of the first act was surely going to come down to subjective opinion, Derrek was positive he had lost the trivia contest by one point. And there was no way his spell would compete against Laara. She would no doubt be crowned winner so perhaps this was her way of repaying him back for being a worthy competitor.

Derrek turned towards the door, his body felt completely drained. He didn’t know what he would do now. He didn’t know where he would go. He had no direction, no aspirations and no future.  

The world suddenly seemed bleak and drained of all colour.  

But then, there was a curious shadow of red and blue that seemed to skitter across the walls. He paused amongst the wreckage of chairs and watched as the light danced and bobbed becoming brighter and brighter as it went. It seemed to be shining from the exit.  

Derrek turned to see Alec burst through. Clutched tightly in his hands were two small glowing orbs that clinked as he moved.

“Balls!” Alec cried triumphantly as he held the objects aloft.

“Come back here you bastard!”

Alec turned then hurried towards Derrek, his flabby flesh jiggling about him like so much free jelly.  

Just as the balls were pressed into Derrek’s hands three people burst into the great hall. The large, dark man had his great two handed sword drawn and a look of pure bloodlust in his eyes. Following him was a taller, sinewy, younger man carrying a thinner but more elegant sword in his hands while dark brown eyes filled with loathing searched beneath a mop of messy hair. Pulling up the rear was a woman who looked remarkably similar to the tall man, a bow drawn and an arrow notched between her fingers.

“Rutting swine!” cried the tall man. “Give those back!”

Alec cried, quickly ducking behind Derrek. As Derrek watched the group approach, the wrath in their eyes seemed to vanish and replace with confusion and a great deal of fatigue. Up close Derrek noticed they were covered in dirt and dried blood. Their clothes were ragged and matted as if they had been through some great ordeal.  

There was a clatter as the great two handed sword fell to the ground in pure exhaustion.

“Derrek?” the woman muttered.

“Jeremiah, Keirn, Kait,” Derrek said. “You’re… you’re back!”

“And we have those damnable orbs!” Keirn cried, pointing his weapon at the globes in Derrek’s hand. “Let’s get those to Aliessa so we can finally be paid. I really need a bath and a nap.”

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be wanting them now,” Derrek said with a shrug.

Keirn stared at him unblinking, his brain slowly processing this new information. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees and cried with hands upturned to the ceiling.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”