More Balls

The ever continuing adventures of our fearless bard commence once more!

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

           Derrek woke with a start. He could still hear the echoing threat ringing in his head. Immediately he reached for his crotch, sighing with relief to know everything was accounted for. He then looked around, curious to find himself in a familiar tiny room.

           The rafters slanted overhead, the beams musty with the smell of mildew and age. A small wardrobe had been placed near the door just below the steps leading to the alcove that contained the bed. A writing table was directly across from the wardrobe.  

However, his papers were not stacked neatly upon them. Instead, his supplies had been violently scattered across the floor. Dried ink ran down the long leg of the desk and fragments of ceramic told of the containers last moments. All his papers had been thrown about, caught in a small whirlwind that materialized with the apparent intent to destroy his stuff. The wardrobe doors were pulled open and clothes thrown forth as if the cabinetry had vomited them out.  

Derrek pushed himself till he sat on his bed. Then he quickly clutched his head as the room began to swirl in his vision. He felt like he was free falling through the air and the walls were spinning like a child's top. Strings of pain laced across his brain. He immediately felt like lying down again.

“Is this what it feels to be hung over?”

Derrek was not a stranger to liquor but possessed the enviable knack for never suffering from his drinking the morning after. It didn’t matter how much or little he consumed, he always woke bright and cheerful with the start of each new day.

This day, however, was far too different. He stomach seemed to flop within him like a beached fish squirming with its last strength for the safety of water. His body was sluggish and unresponsive, as if his thoughts were unable to make the journey to his limbs.  

He turned to the window, immediately regretting the action as sharp pain responded to the blast of light filtering through the torn curtains. He immediately collapsed against his moth eaten pillow, seeking refuge beneath its stained comfort.

What had happened last night?

It felt like a bad dream and nothing was distinct. He remembered being surrounded by half naked men, really disappointing wine and some questionable acting. There was something else that skittered just at the forefront of recollection. A recognizable voice that made him think peculiarly of spoiled fish.

Also, there was something about orbs. Something that seemed important enough to warrant further investigation.

Ignoring the pounding of his head, Derrek tumbled from the twisted embrace of his blanket, crawling pitifully along the floor until he found some trousers and a decent tunic. Most his other clothes appeared in too disrepair, either torn and covered in dirt and ink, to be wearable.  

He pulled on his boots and grabbed his lute and coin purse before stumbling feebly out his door. 

He had to lean heavily upon the rail as he nearly rolled down the stairs. There was little activity on the main floor of the tavern. The matron was puttering about, sweeping beneath tables covered in chairs. There was a stirring behind the bar and Derrek stumbled his way over.

“Innkeep!” he hollered, his voice thick and slurred.

The large man stood up from beneath his counter. Derrek couldn’t help but reflect on how most innkeepers were often quite large and dressed in similarly stained aprons.

“I have a name,” the man grumbled.

“Your finest meats and cheeses, if you’d please. I have a busy day ahead!”

The innkeep eyed Derrek warily.

“First, I thought you said you’d given up on meat.”

“Your finest cheese then!”

“Second, you hardly look like you’re ready for any day, busy or not. Wild night?”

“I don’t remember,” Derrek said, slumping against the counter. “Think you’d mind adding a mead to the order?”

“I’ll give you water but I can charge you the same if it would make you feel better.”

“Unlikely,” Derrek replied, his lips flopping against the polished wood. He found if he rolled his head at just the right angle, the pressure of the counter seemed to alleviate sixty percent of the pain flashing about his brain.

“Will you be participating in the Challenge today?” the innkeeper asked, eyeing Derrek’s lute.

“I have aspirations,” Derrek muttered from the counter. He lifted his head as a small tray of cheese and a great mug of water were slapped down loudly beside him. “By the way, I didn’t happen to have any visitors last night. Either while I was here or away?”

“Don’t rightly know, I wasn’t working that late,” the innkeep said. “Marta! Oi! Did this fine gentleman have any callers?”

The Matron looked up, slapping the broom handle in her palm.

“What do I look like, eh? Some sort of fancy herald?”

“Don’t give me that lip woman! You know very well that he has been expecting friends for a few days now. Would you turn away all potential customers because you’d rather sit drunken before the fire?”

“Don’t take that tone with me! If it weren’t for my work this whole place would crash down about her piggish head!”

The pair’s raising voices weren’t helping with Derrek’s headache. He tried to politely wait it out by stuffing some questionable bread into his ears. He then focussed his attention on the aging cheese and peculiar water.

“No worry, it wasn’t important anyway.”

“Look, woman! Now you’re upsetting the clientele!”

“Me? He looks positively sick after eating that foul mess you call food!”

“Well, we could serve some decent meals if you learned to cook like a proper wife!”

“Just add it to my tab,” Derrek smiled, pushing himself to his feet and staggering towards the door.

“Hold on a sec,” the Matron called. “There were some folks asking around for you the other night I believe.”

“A woman and two men?”

“I don’t remember all of them,” the lady replied, scratching her frazzled mane. “But I do remember the fat one. Carried an instrument like yours. Seemed to suggest you were old friends or the like. Wouldn’t have let him near your room otherwise.”

Derrek nodded.

“Much appreciated. Oh, and if the three I described before do come, tell them to wait for me up at the Academy.”

Derrek stumbled out the door.

He wasn’t sure where he was headed but given his present state of mind he wasn’t sure of anything. He mostly acted on the urge to find some decent drink and the growing certainty that if he didn’t find some money soon his current room and board would catch on that he couldn’t afford the tab he was quickly accumulating.

And so he did the most foolish thing one could possibly do in the City of Roads.

He wandered.

It was a well known idiom that even if one knew where they were going it was unlikely they would get there in Etreria. The streets had the knack of swallowing up the aimless. Citizens treated the lost posters as just another form of decoration, often besetting on the poor pamphlets with their brushes and paints to make them more decorative than actually participating in any search for the lost souls.

Likely, there was little effort made for the vanished because most knew it was pointless. To say there was a seedy underbelly in Etreria would give the mistaken impression that there was a respectable body to be blemished. Because of so many clashing cultures, no one knew how to properly regulate them. Most foreigners arrived with their own preconceptions of what the laws of the land should be. It was joked that Etreria was home to the most courts and fewest magistrates in the lands.

The original fort still stood, a tiny bastion of lawfulness that, instead of attempting to clean up the bursting civilization growing around it, merely just walled itself in and hid from the ever growing problems. If anyone was ever caught breaking the law, it was almost impossible to figure out how to punish them.

Instead, the wealthiest merchant families turned to hiring their own guards and mercenaries to protect their interests. Thus the main artery roads that saw the most trade were heavily watched but the further one strolled from those main thoroughfares, the more the laws descended into the rule of the wild.

“Und stratz mit ze uldensackt, flutens.”

Derrek paused, noticing his addresser emerge from beneath the tattered remains of a long abandoned stall. 

“Hello.”

“Lost, fluten?”

The man was a dirty sort; the kind that found his bed beneath the awnings of forgetful merchants at night and sorted through the wastes for his food. He had distinctive tattoos printed upon his face in pale imitation of the markings of the eastern gangs. Though his clothes were grimy and worn, his fur rimmed hat looked perhaps the most aged.

A startling wave of nausea washed over Derrek and he tipped, leaning against his confronter and looking up at him with bleary eyes.

“You… you look travelled.”

“What are you on?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing as he pushed Derrek back. Derrek leaned against the stall to keep himself upright.

“Leboe. Dian. Take.”

It wasn’t perhaps his most comprehensible sentence, but he hoped the message still got across.

The thug looked at Derrek with confusion. He drew a rusted knife from his belt.

Derrek shook his head.

“No. No, need Dian…”

He would have continued more but felt the muscles of his throat begin to contract and he turned, the remnants of his breakfast and whatever he had consumed the evening prior ejecting upon the ground.

The thug merely turned to his compatriot waiting in the shadows and nodded his head further down the dank alleyway. Derrek just waited, still hunched over as his digestive system worked over what little else it was holding. However, after ridding himself of the undigested food, he begin to feel a slight alleviation in his headache and his stomach felt less like it was tossing on the open seas.

Soon, the sound of stamping feet echoed down the back alley. There was incomprehensible grunting and one of the men pulled Derrek upright. He wavered before a rather rakish individual with much cleaner clothes and a large black patch tied over one eye.

“Take him,” came the stern reply.

Almost immediately, Derrek was hoisted upon someone’s shoulders and bounced down the alley. He really couldn’t gather where he was carried, but there was the sound of a scratching gate before he was pushed through a door into a dank basement.

He heard orders shouted as his lute was pulled from him and he was hoisted upon a table. Hands pinned his limbs as old One Eye appeared above him, peering down with its concerned namesake.

“Drink.”

A cup was lifted to his lips as a hand opened his mouth. Derrek felt the burn of the liquid wash against his throat.

And then he felt nothing.

Why zombies? Why?

I confess I am a little uncertain the rules and regulations of blogging. However, I am going to give this a try. With that in mind I will make an attempt to post on Wednesdays - hopefully on a weekly basis. And since I have been reading books of late, I thought I could start with a book review.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Doomsday Vault 

 by Steven Harper

What I thought I was getting was a Steampunk adventure with a bit of romance in the background – perhaps a bit trashy, but less so than the other softcover Steampunk novels I was looking at. What I got was a book about zombies and clockwork automatons. 

First, I hate zombies in practically every form. There are very few exceptions to this rule and this book is not one of them. Not only that, but when you try to explain the formation of zombies it always sounds a bit silly. I suppose I should concede that germ theory did come into play around the mid-1800s. And viruses were discovered by the 1890s. Though, no one in 1857 knew that bacteria caused disease and they certainly did not suspect viruses of infecting bacteria. So when they tried to claim the cause was bacterial and the cure a virus, I was offended by this point of science. I was also unimpressed that the same bacteria which caused some people to become mindless, flesh-eating zombies also caused a select few to become super-geniuses. 

Second, the romance between a twenty-two female and eighteen year old boy did not sit well. The boy was simply too boyish for the woman. So the age difference came across poorly for me. This could also have something to do with personal biases. But they played up the boy as a kid when we first meet him and the woman as a mature old maid. Face it; boys of eighteen are still kids.

Third, I don’t like humanoid automatons. They are far too complex. To have technology that is still far beyond what exists today and is supposedly created more than 150 years ago is past my suspension of disbelief. Perhaps that is unfair. I could accept one or two pieces of advanced technology, but when everything exists – from wireless communications, to dirigibles, to complex automatons (including birds that record voices, humanoids that act in every capacity of servant, and a collection of huge mechanical suits), to horseless carriages – I struggle to see the time period. Also, where is the energy source for all this equipment? It is certainly not steam.

Finally, and by far most importantly, the writing was less than brilliant. The narrative was rough in several sections, particularly when modern cursing came into play. This is supposed to be a period piece, written in Victorian England, so please write like it belongs in that time. I suppose the main female was supposed to show the restraints of the period, the social obligations and restrictions. But her conflicts seemed contrived at best. Her struggle to fit into society and her strong desire to break convention were not a compelling tale. Her fiancé was clearly designed to be evil for no good reason. Also, the ending was ridiculously silly – her Aunt manipulated everything! Oh dear.

This may be the first book in a series, but is going to be the last book I read.

Balls The Third

Must we pick up with our spoony bard? We must.

Writer's Confession - often when I didn't know how to start a section I'll just begin with describing the setting and see where things go from there. This can lead the narrative into bizarre directions but I just try and roll with it.

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

 The city of Etreria was a city of crossroads. It sat near the border, fed by the famous Eleven Worldly Trails and the magnificent Spine of the World. These twelve trade routes insured an endless supply of travellers and merchants that caused the city to swell with gold and supplies. To say that Etreria was a wealthy city was to say the Infinite Sea merely a puddle. 

In its earlier days, the city was little more than a modest hill fort, protecting a small lay-over camp for the traders on the Spice Road. It served little strategic value, it held little desirability for farming and was so far from any serviceable rivers to hardly be considered worthy of any further development.

 And yet, miraculously, the damn place kept growing. The traders from the far east began to set up small trading posts beneath the bored eyes of the presiding knight captain and his men. This provided greater incentive for the distant men to carry more and more goods west, garnering the attention of the thrones to the north and south. However, armed conflict over the miserable spit of rock was far more trouble than the kings wanted, so they commissioned the creation of roads connecting their lands to that outpost.

 With the sudden interest of foreign regents, the ruling family decided that there must be some value in the oft ignored post where military commanders went to be forgotten. Thus, better infrastructure was funded and suddenly three interests were competing to create the most enticing avenue to funnel the confused foreigners.

 The kings entered a fierce trade conflict, each maneuvering to obtain more goods from their foreign visitors than their rivals. What they bought didn’t matter; vases, silks, spices, pets, herbs, goats, grains, berries, alcohol, beads, strange rocks and hats were sold for more than any of the traders would value their worth. With a sudden demand for everything exotic, more and more traders were sent and the roads connecting to Etreria from all angles were paid so much attention that they became renown throughout the kingdoms.

This unexpected boon in trade grabbed the attention of other kingdoms both near and far and suddenly a whole host of new players were throwing their hands in over the fort. But no one dared send a military force to claim the city through force for each ruler feared provoking a collation from the others to permanently oust them from the valuable markets.  

And so, the rocky, infertile lands surrounding Etreria were covered in the snaking paths stretching to the far corners of the known lands. Each route vied to be the most enticing to the ever growing number of merchants, seeking to cover their routes with stretches of guard posts, comfortable inns, tax credits and even pleasing banners.

 Unfortunately, given so much choice, the foreign merchants became paralyzed by the decision of who to trade with. Instead, they squatted right down at the foot of the old Etreria fort, building their own storehouses and shop fronts to sell to each investor right at the end of the Spine. It wasn’t long before merchants outnumbered the soldiers and competition sprouted amongst the traders for who could sell the most to their eager customers. They did everything to undermine the fellow sellers: marriages were arranged, courts were created to tie opponents in a mountain of bewildering bureaucracy, assassins were hired to quietly eliminate the more troublesome and adept individuals and some even went so far as to cut their prices. 

 With the merchants so entrenched, it wasn’t long before the kingdoms followed suit. And then, Etreria became a jumbled city of peoples, customs, litigation and general market driven mischief. This hotbed of cultures and ambition could not have been a more perfect place for the College of Bards to settle. And so the minstrels and wastrels arrived, adding ever more colour and confabulation to the City of Roads.

 It was a city Derrek had only been to once before but one he had vowed to return. He hadn’t planned on it being as soon as it was, however, but now that he was here he couldn’t help but feel that it was the ever gentle prodding of fate. His journey with his companions had brought him far and wide but to bring their weary feet to Etreria, right near the Challenge, seemed far too fortuitous for it to be anything else. 

It was his time to be named Seeker, he knew it. All his experiences, all his adventures, were in preparation for this moment and this time. He just had to pen them down and find the right recourse to express them.

And so he sat beneath the candlelight facing a dozen empty parchments and a full bottle of untouched ink.

His head rested in his palm and mead rested in his spare hand. He stared unblinking at the blank faces of the paper - his mind a complete desert of ideas.

He didn’t know what to write.

He took another swig from his emptying cup, glaring furiously at the papers as if he could will his thoughts upon their surface.

 It was a maddening state to be faced with the greatest opportunity but to have nothing to put towards it. He had been here once more, this exact city and this exact place.  

And it hadn’t ended well then.

 “Hopeless.”

He raised a wavering hand over the table, swiping the parchments dramatically from the desk to flutter freely in the air. He watched the last sheaf drift on lazy currents to the floorboard before stooping over and picking them all up again.  

 That was the fourth time he'd attempted that method but still no ideas sprouted. Even playing the part of a troubled playwright wasn't producing results. Perhaps he needed more conviction in his delivery.  

“A pox of a thousand and one fleas to infest your armpits!” he screamed. He threw one sheet at a time from his writing table. He then stared at them expectantly upon the floor.

Still nothing.

This was going to be harder than he planned.

A welcomed knock came upon his door and he jumped to his feet, hurrying over for the expected

refreshments.

To his disappointment, it was not the serving wench from downstairs upon his step. Instead, it was the flamboyantly dressed Mikael.

“Friend! What a pleasant surprise it is to see you again!”

 Mikael burst through the door in a flutter of fantastic cloth and waving hands.  

“How long has it been? Three, maybe four years? What have you been doing with yourself? You look absolutely fabulous, I must say. Is that a new jerkin? It looks absolutely smashing on you, really brings out your figure. And what a fabulous colour as well! Did you pick it up from here? I don’t recognize the design.”

 The man plopped down upon Derrek’s chair, lifting to inspect his cup carefully. He tipped the drink to his nose, his small nostrils tentatively testing the scent of the beverage. Immediately, a look of disgust painted his face as he sprung to his feet.

 “You know, we should really catch up. Last I heard you were bounding off to study at some school or some such. There must be so much to cover!”

He walked over to the window, pulling against the warped wood until enough space had been cleared for him to pitch the mead out.

 “I know this terrific tavern… though it’s not really much of a tavern. It’s more like a feast hall. Though there’s less feast in the ‘traditional sense,’” he accentuated those words with his two fingers, “but it is nevertheless a very entertaining place. What say you, old friend, shall we paint this town for old times sake?”

 Enough time lapsed between the young man’s words for Derrek to blink. Clearly an indication for him to take a turn to speak.

“What are you doing here?”

 It was perhaps a more forward route than Derrek had planned to ask. However, the words had been sprung to life from the tip of his tongue before any reigns could be harnessed about them. Freed now there wasn’t anything that could be done save wait the response.

 “Derrek! Confidante! Word on the street was that you were back in Etreria and I thought to myself, ‘Mikael, it has been ages since you’ve spoken with your good friend. Proper decorum would necessitate that I make an appearance upon his stoop, would it not?’”

 “I’m sorry,” Derrek said, walking over to his desk and straightening his papers with an air of trained professionalism, “but I am a little busy. Not much time to party and all that.”

“Nonsense,” Mikael said, waving his hand. He strolled over, placing the cup upon the writing desk with finality before clasping Derrek’s arm. “If there is one thing I know, there is always time to party. You’ll have plenty of time to work on your manuscript or ballad or whatever it is you do.”

 There was no point in arguing. It was all Derek could do to grab his jacket before being ushered out his cramped room and down the rickety stairs of the inn.  

“How did you know I was back?” Derrek asked.

 “Oh, words have feet and such,” Mikael smiled. “When they finally reached me I knew I just had to drop what I was doing and come see you right away. And, might I add, you are looking mighty handsome after this time. Been eating well?”

 "The stomach doesn't cramp anymore,” Derrek said. “I spoke to an apothecary and they suggested it was too much meat in my diet. So it's been nothing but vegetables and fruits.”

 “Oh, I hear you,” Mikael laughed. “I could not agree more! Not one bit. Course, it goes without saying that our four-legged brethren are our most trusted companions and we do them a bad turn by throwing them on our dinner plate.”

Derrek shrugged.

“They just make my stomach upset.”

Mikael led him into the busy street still bustling with the shuffling bodies of merchants and visitors attempting to push their way from the stalls and into the numerous taverns and theatres that dotted the street sides.

Great paper lanterns were strung overhead, their soft red light illuminating the roads beneath. Long banners were hung down store fronts with elaborate designs to both convey the owner as well as advertise the weaver's great artistic flair.

A woman of deep ebony skin emerged from her crate, stopping Derrek and Mikael as she held up her slender arms. Bells were fastened to leather straps that ran down the length of her arms and body until wrapping tightly about her ankles. She clicked her fingers, the chime of small cymbals ringing cleanly in the air. 

The performer looked seductively at both the men before beginning to writhe and twist her body in tantalizing form. Each bell bedecking her smooth skin gave off the sweetest of chimes as her almost silken gown billowed elegantly about her body.  

Immediately, both men reached for their coin purses.

Derrek felt the retreat of dastardly fingertips retreat into the pressing crowds as Mikael pushed his way forcefully past.

“My apologies, milady, but we’re not interest!”  

Once cleared, he turned to inspect Derrek’s belt and smiled.

“I see you still haven’t lost your reflexes.”

“Tired distractions lacking originality. This city is better than that.”

“I knew it would come back to you!” Mikael laughed, pulling him ever further through the streets.

The sights and smells washed over them while they forged their way along twisting boulevards. Due to its nature, Etreria loved roads and lay them where they could causing the most peculiar shaped alleyways and streets. Paths would hook in on themselves with no reason and budding buildings would create zigzagging passages beneath their overhanging balconies. It was the sort of city one could easily get lost in; swallowed by the turning paths, shuffling mass and drowning colours.  

At last Mikael and Derrek emerged before a massive hall with a grand façade. It was almost entirely wood, with grand carvings covering the entire front. Intricate interwoven ribbons were etched about great sculptures of primitive men with bulging muscles wrestling various flora and fauna in their wild nakedness. The doors to the structure had been thrown wide open, the heat and laughter from inside spilling out in reckless revelry. 

“Welcome to the Hall of Bears!” Mikael announced.

“Official name?”

“Affectionate.”

Derrek was dragged up its steps and pushed inside.

It was clear the architect was shooting for some northern motive. Once passed the entryway, an enormous fire pit ran straight down the middle of the massive front room. Metal spits held a large collection of foods slowly turning over the flickering flames. Bordering either side of the pit was a pair of large tables with a thin bar splitting their lengths. Beside this area, the tables lined the walls leaving a large space separating the middle seating and the rest. Where a head table would have been was an open stage with large red curtains running along its back. 

“Boys!” Mikael called as he entered. “I’m back!”

A raucous cheer rose from the gathered men as goblets and glasses were raised. The heady scent of fine wine and spirits dominated what otherwise should have been a space filled with the mouth watering scent of roasting meat.  

However, there was no scent of stuck boar to fill the air below the vaulted timber roof. Only vegetables, roots and fruits were rotating upon the spits. Derrek couldn’t help but also notice a distinct lack of serving wenches.

“Not my typical scene,” Derrek said.

“Come now, my troupe has prepared a special show just for you.”

“An unexpected honour.”

“A celebration for the reigniting of old friendships. Come, we have a seat prepared.”

Derrek was brought to the front of the middle spit. A large man with a penchant for the furs of a wild barbarian moved aside while patting the space invitingly. Derrek slowly buttoned upon the top of his shirt as he smiled and sat down.  

“What can I get you?” a bare-chested youth asked walking up to him.  

“He’ll have an Ascandian Spirit,” Mikael said, patting Derrek’s shoulders. The young man nodded before departing.  

Derrek cleared his throat, running a hand through his luscious blonde hair. The crowd appeared a mixture of rugged aged workers and younger, preened youths. It was the sort of place that Derrek, with his almost feminine features and shape, easily stood out amongst the crowd. 

Derrek smiled politely as his server returned with his drink. Once the servers back was turned, he carefully tested the contents to make sure they were genuine. 

“Fantastic!” Mikael smiled. “Now give me some time to get ready and we’ll get the show started.”

The man hurried towards the stage, scampering up its side steps and disappearing behind the curtain. Derrek looked around, noticing with some trepidation that all eyes were on him. There were almost twenty patrons, the only two women occupying a far corner beneath the shadows of a large, detailed pillar of a man and buck butting heads.  

A soft rumble caused Derrek to turn towards the exit as he watched two of the working youths pull the massive doors closed.  

“Shouldn’t we keep those open. Perhaps for fresh air?”

The bear of a man sitting beside Derrek merely folded his arms.

“Don’t want no one interrupting the show.”

A soft drumming echoed from behind the curtains hushing the remainder of idle conversation. The drumming grew louder, joined quickly by the rhythmic stamping of feet. As if rehearsed, many of the patrons began to thump their hands against the tabletops in chorus.  

Derrek turned quickly to his wine.  

Suddenly, a man burst from the curtains. It took Derrek a second to recognize Mikael Lors beneath the great ironed helm with enormous deer antlers protruding from its studded sides. He had a single red cloth wrapped about his near bare body which he clutched to his chest with his left hand. Derrek hadn’t seen Mikael for a long time and during their absence the boy had obviously misplaced quite a bit of weight. There were still the faint reminders of his rounder days, noticeably in the soft padding of his neck. His skin also seemed slicked, as if he had just been dipped in oil.

Mikael strode boldly to the front of the stage, addressing the gathered crowd with a great, ringing voice.

“Behold my fellow travellers! We stand upon the brink of a great journey, nay, a transformation! For before you stands the great Baldr of the Northern Wilds, a legendary god-man who stood before the might of oppression and tyranny. Behold! For you are about to witness the thrilling tale of liberation and salvation! It is a tale of forbidden love and treacherous betrayal! A tale of personal expression!”

Mikael raised his hands to the hair, the cloth falling from his shoulders to catch about his waist. Beneath the cloth ran a deep red line, clearly paint but fashioned in such a way to appear as a terrific wound that ran all the way down to his navel.

Derrek, of course, had heard the tale of Baldr and the supposed fate that had ended with the legendary man cleaved in two. It seemed a most fitting play given their locale but there was something in Mikael’s delivery that made him sit on edge. Derrek couldn’t pinpoint it, but some mischievous gleam in the young man’s blue eyes tickled the primitive sense of self preservation.

A loud gong rang behind Mikael and the curtains were immediately whisked open, revealing the rest of the cast. Derrek was surprised to note two girls amongst the troupe since he had been convinced he knew the direction this production was heading.

All the men wore fur or tattered breeches with their bare-chests gleaming as if slicked with sweat. The women wore longer costumes of tanned leather. Derrek supposed they were going to portray the wild wolf packs but they looked more armoured mercenary than furry animal.  

Another ring of the gong sent the three males rushing to Mikael’s side as they all crouched behind him, reaching around and pressing their fingers against the lead’s wound. A final ring and, in unison, they all pulled their hands back, streaking the red paint as if the blood were exploding from his chest.  

One of the women produced a flute, beginning a rapid melody to represent the frantic rise of tension as Mikael squirmed beneath the clawing hands figuratively ripping him apart. The drumming began and many of the patrons joined in, building the feverish tempo.

“Come with me, fellow travellers!” Mikael cried. “Come with me to the end!”  

He burst from the grasping arms, leaping from the stage to land upon the middle table. Derrek now realized why space had been cleared and quickly snatched his drink back as Mikael stumbled past, his loincloth now mostly dragging behind him as the cloth fell through the revealed metal rings bound about his hips. 

As he descended down the centre of the room, courageous patrons reached up to grasp at the cloth still dangling from his hips, tearing at the fabric with their fingers. The drumming and fluting quickened in beat as the other men of the troupe crawled along the stage like beasts upon their stomachs. They followed the clearly symbolic trail of entrails in their master's wake.  

It was all quite post modern but a little heavy handed.  

“Please, how long do you plan to drag this out?”

The voice cut through the revelry like a loosed arrow, killing the musical accompaniment with one, shocked note. The other actors ceased their writhing and Mikael slowed his flight.  

The patrons turned towards the shadowed table and the interrupting question. Once again, some prickling warning ran down Derrek’s spine as his ears echoed the words from a familiar voice. 

“We… we were at least going to finish the act,” Mikael whispered.

“I’m not paying you for this mindless drivel. Do it now!”

Without further warning, the women drew wicked daggers, leaping from the stage towards Derrek. More surprising, the men stood, producing weapons themselves somehow concealed beneath their meagre clothing.  

And it was clear they were coming after Derrek.

He sprung to his feet, hurrying and looking about him trying to size the situation up. However, all the large, burly men in the audience seemed to shrink away from the actors flying off the stage and taking refuge at the furthest edges of the room. Some patrons fled to the front doors, banging uselessly against the barred massive wood.

Reflexively, Derrek reached behind him for his lute but then realized immediately that he had been pulled from his room so quickly he'd forgotten to bring it with him.  

The first woman was upon him, striking out with her blades. Derrek didn’t even bother standing for a fair fight. He immediately doused her with the remainder of his drink, before throwing the cup towards the other and scampering for cover.  

He cast about for some escape, noting the holes near the roof to vent out the rising smoke from the fire pit. Derrek looked at the pillar he knelt behind, noticing that the intricate carving had plenty of foot and hand holds.

He began his ascent.  

There were shouts below him, and he noticed the troupe not even pause as they came tumbling forward. There was no hesitation as they leaped upon the carved bear and muscular man, scampering over them as if it were no more than shimming up a rope. In seconds they were just below him, one reaching up and pulling rudely on Derrek’s boot.

Derrek lost his balance. He landed upon a table and rolled off, laying upon the floor in pain. He turned his head and watched with fascination as Mikael detached the two hoops at his side, holding the items before him with their curious flame styled blades.  

They looked remarkably like wind-and-fire wheels.  

“Sorry old friend,” Mikael said, bending over in little more than the remaining thin strap of red cloth covering  his decency. He pushed one of the blades to Derrek’s throat, the metal uncomfortably warm.

Derrek then heard a sharp clapping.

“Now, that is a performance I can enjoy. A bewildered, cornered animal with just the right touch of betrayal.”

Walking from the shadowed pillar was a face that he could now identify. Her wavy brown hair tied severely back in a tight knot that appeared to pinch her features and add even more severity to her face. Her freckled features were lined and worn by endless scheming and double-dealing.  

“Mairen. I didn’t know you enjoyed this kind of show. If you really wanted a date, you could have just asked. You know, like a normal woman.”

“Save the witty banter, I can barely stand it from Keirn,” Mairen said.

“So Mikael is part of your network now too.”

“It shouldn’t be surprising anymore what one can buy with money. Now, you know what I’ve come for, bard.”

“I'm not done my play.”

Mairen leaned down, the heavy smell of her perfume filled with the scent of desperation and ruined lives. 

“I’ve come for your balls,” she said.

“Which ones?”

Mairen drew a long, crooked dagger.

“Well, I believe that is really up to you now, isn’t it?”

Rivals and Ritalin

Something different for today. I was going to post another piece from that continuing saga about Derek but there's been something more pressing on my mind. And while my sister got the brunt of my rambling about it earlier I thought perhaps I would try slapping some of it up on this blog since that's what it was created for.

Recently I got around to watching the BBC Sherlock - a rather interesting retelling of the classic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle character in a modern setting complete with cellphones, computer hacking and a cursory understanding of modern science.  I have no excuse for seeing this show so late since my sister recommended it months ago. Course, she did mention it around the time I saw Elementary - an American take on the same premise. And Elementary is probably the most offensive use of Sir Doyle's work that I've ever seen (and I watched both Guy Ritchie movies).

I should preface that I absolutely love the old Sherlock Holmes stories. When I was young, my mother bought me a huge anthology of the tales and I can still remember clutching the large, red covered hardback in my tiny little hands. Everytime Sherlock exclaimed that he had the solution to the mystery I would slam the book shut and wouldn't open it until I had puzzled out the answer.

Or, an answer since inevitably half the time Sir Doyle cheated and kept important information or even culprits until the climatic reveal at the end. Certainly a way to keep your audience guessing, but it became quickly apparent that the secret to Sherlock's expansive genius was less reliant on keen analytical reasoning and more a matter of the little jerk withholding information until he made everyone else feel wholly stupid.

Still, they were fun so I always approach retellings of the tales with a bit of apprehension. Whenever you like the source material it's always a gamble whether someone's reinterpretation of the events will be anywhere near the same enjoyment. Hell, Howl's Moving Castle is the perfect example of that (perhaps a discussion left to another time).

So, I sat down ready for a grossly disappointing hour and a half when I prepared for a Study in Pink (oh boy - obviously a take on a Study in Scarlet with a wholly less clever name). After getting used to Benedict Cumberbatch's peculiar look - which isn't that far a stretch from Holmes' description anyway - I was pleasantly surprised to find a Study in Pink to be an actually engrossing story. It was, I dare to say, even better than the original and perfectly integrated into our modern times.

It was hardly without flaws, mind you, but most of them are pretty minor. For example, there's a moment when Holmes corrects a jealous police officer that he is not a psychopath but a high functioning sociopath. Sadly, five seconds of research would tell anyone that the two terms are synonymous and Cumberbatch's character would certainly have known that even if the writers didn't. Anyway, minor quibble over a writer's small attempt at humour.

I suppose I should pause here and warn that there are going to be ample spoilers from this point forward. So, if you care about those things, I recommend you watch the series first if you care to hear the rest of my words on the matter. Currently, it's only six episodes long so it's not too great an investment.

There, now that that's out of the way...

My biggest grievance with a Study in Pink was the bizarre hamstringing of Moriarty in at the end. A quick little lesson on the third most famous character from Sir Doyle's serial: Moriarty was a character hastily created in a short titled The Final Problem. He was made with a specific purpose; to kill Sherlock Holmes so Sir Doyle could get on with writing about more important things... namely dinosaurs.

In this regard, Moriarty was less the 'legendary rival' of Sherlock Holmes that he's commonly perceived as and more just another villain for the great detective's Rogue Gallery. Moriarty's sole tale was began and ended in one particular narrative that involved flinging both characters over the lip of a waterfall and never to be seen again.

Until Sir Doyle realized he could make quite a bit of money by reviving the detective and thus retconning was created.

The reason for Moriarty's popularity can only really be attributed to Sherlock's description of him in The Final Problem. The professor never really performed much in terms of narrative impact save for a timely air tackle and if it weren't for Sir Arthur Doyle hyping his prowess I'm sure Moriarty would have been forgotten along with the likes of Jack Stapleton (bet you didn't remember him even though he's the villain of the most famous Sherlock Holmes novel). The only reason Moriarty was given such a fearsome reputation was to ease the blow of Sherlock's death in the story. If Sherlock died ridding the world of a great menace then perhaps people would stop bugging Sir Doyle to write more tales about him.

Sherlock (the series) decided to hype the great Professor before his grand reveal. Which, while a noble prospect, actually became a rather annoying issue. The problem with forcing Moriarty into the narrative prematurely is that he had no business being involved in the issues. A Study in Pink is a story of a rather pedestrian serial killer. Moriarty gains nothing by association with him and actually loses quite a bit since now the authorities are aware of the master criminal's presence... because he was giving money to the cabbie for some imperceptible reason. The reason Moriarty is so sinister is because he's portrayed as the puppet master; the invisible hand behind so many criminal actions that he's essentially the Emperor of the Underworld.

This aspect is completely abolished if every lowly criminal scum and every despicable crime is directed by his hand. Someone stealing candy from a child doesn't have to be motivated by Moriarty's apparently boundless depravity. Sometimes crime can be unrelated to each other.

Anyway, it was a single moment of the show trying to be cute and failing. Except they replicated the exact same issue in the next story, The Blind Banker. Which is unfortunate since Moriarty had more reason to be involved in that story but now him being everywhere was starting to come across as contrived. The Great Game sealed the issue in fantastically bumbling fashion when Moriarty is revealed to not only be an obnoxious twit but also a "consultant criminal" who is far too fast to sell out his clients to the authorities with absolutely zero gain.

The Great Game is perhaps the stupidest episode I have ever seen. The characterization of Moriarty wasn't fresh but idiotic. There is no way that a nattering young man with impulse control issues could ever achieve the complex web of criminal control that he's suppose to obtain. No one in their right mind would work with him. And the deus ex machina of there being a "sniper on the roof" was played far to ridiculously for it even to have such an important role on the story.

Clearly the writers felt the same since the first episode of the second season resolved the "cliff hanger" standoff between Sherlock and Moriarty by the writers literally phoning in an excuse to resolve it and never speaking of the issue again. Except, after completely bumbling the character's appearance they decided it was still prudent to bring him into every episode following until the absolutely retarded Reichenbach Falls. So, I have to correct my previous paragraph - The Great Game is the second stupidest episode I have ever seen. Reichenbach Falls is far and away the dumbest, least thought out story I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Nothing in the episode makes sense and already these three sentences I have written on it are more words than it deserves.

Which brings me to the issue of rivals. Rivals make fantastic literary characters, especially for serial stories. They add that personal element to the main character's struggles. Played well, rivals can even be as popular or even more liked than the actual main character. But they require a certain finesse in their execution. Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes can never be rivals in this literary sense. The two characters are far too great a threat to each other that they can't have a protracted engagement since neither benefits by leaving the other alive. Moriarty has far too much to lose with Sherlock ruining his plans and his organization. Sherlock has far too much to lose with a criminal who is willing to kill anyone and everyone that interferes with his aims. The moment Sherlock becomes a threat, the master criminal wouldn't play with the detective but dispose of him as quickly as he could.

For a rival to work, there must be some compelling reason for each other to not put a bullet in the other's face or slit their throat when they first meet. In this regard, The Joker and Batman are far stronger rivals. Both characters are motivated by philosophical prerogatives that forbid them from killing the other. Batman believes that all people are decent and must face the justice for their crimes (and he apparently has a rule against killing even though he plays fast and loose with that one). Joker believes that everyone is a corrupted monster and is just one step away from plummeting into the abyss. So strong a paragon are they of their own beliefs that just outright killing the other wouldn't prove their point. They must either drive or redeem the other in order to prove they are correct. Thus, you can have both commit monstrous acts against the other but they would never actually slay their nemesis. It would be akin to mentioning Nazis in an Internet discussion; the very act immediately ending the debate and proving the offender unarguably wrong.

Thus, ultimately, rivals only work if they have more to gain by the continued survival of their arch-nemesis. If your character is better served by just killing his enemy and forgetting him then they aren't good rivals. They require a compelling personal reason to maintain the relationship - otherwise it just comes across as silly and illogical. It creates a disconnect that threatens your suspension of disillusion.

Remember - if your audience asks "Why doesn't X just kill him?" and you can't come up with a compelling answer for that then you have a big problem. These characters aren't rivals but enemies and are better regulated to the simple rogues of your typical serial then trying to hamstring some greater eternal struggle.

Also, can someone get Moriarty some ritalin. Goodness that portrayal was awful.

Balls Continued

When last we met our fearless heroes they were balanced on an impractically placed ship. They were also letting some mysterious pirate captain get the better of them. However, one name seemed curiously absent from this encounter.

Our eponymous bard appears to have sat this little adventure out. I wonder what he could be getting himself involved in...

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

“I just don’t know where I see this going.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be here. They’re only two days late.”

“I don’t mean that,” Aliessa sighed. “Have you not been listening to me at all?”

“Weren’t you saying how annoyed you were that the others weren’t here and how you couldn’t wait anymore?” Derrek asked.

He looked past the irritated woman, eyeing the man climbing upon the stage with suspicion. Aliesse leaned back into his vision, expectation written all over her face.

Derrek regarded her politely.

“Yes?”

“Do you even remember what day this is?”

“The Seventh of Wintermarch according to the Aretessian Calendar, also known as Trolfynnan Day in honour of the Corindian god of flutes, whistles and general drunken revelry. It is the day that many bard colleges decide to hold a festival in his honour and to test the mettle of all registered minstrels through challenges of skill, knowledge and trivial uselessness.”

“… and our anniversary?”

“Yeah… that too.”

Aliessa sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. Her exaggerated attempt at agitation caused her nestled newt to scamper from his perch upon her wrist and seek refuge beneath the slip of her shoulder strap.

The young woman of elongated delicateness wore a shimmering dress of shifting emerald and turquoise scales that appeared almost as if it were fashioned from the skin of some exotic beast. Her hair had been gathered amongst several colourful wooden pegs in which her pet snake had wound herself amongst like a long streak of cardinal highlight in her chestnut hair festooned with soft pink petals.

She had even worn delicate shoes that appeared as if they had been fashioned from the very element of ice and exposed carefully painted toes that seemed to refract into a rainbow of colour within her footwear. Not that Derrek could see this as her cat had curled upon her feet to nap as the evening progressed.

All in all, the girl was woefully overdressed for the establishment she currently occupied. Upon her arrival, all the patrons had turned to ogle in their muddied and tattered leathers and cottons. It was perhaps the long, curious staff that kept them mostly at bay. The curving fingers of the top seeming to trap an ever shifting eye within that maintained a wary, unblinking stare at anyone that showed too much interest.

The woman sighed, reaching for her drink. From beneath the table sprung a small ferret that bounced across and pushed her cup to her outstretched fingers.

But Derrek didn’t care. It was the man that was standing upon the stage, shouting at one of the audience before him and gesticulating wildly towards that chair that drew his attention.

“You know,” Aliessa said, setting down her cup, “when your friends had set off on their quest, I thought this would have given us the perfect opportunity to spend some time alone. It seems I’ve hardly seen you since you’ve been tromping off across the countryside for what seems like years now.”

“Mhmm.”

“And when you said that this weekend was going to be special I thought you had taken the time to arrange something pleasant for the occasion.”

“Yeah.”

“And instead you dragged me to the Copper Laurel and haven’t even said a word to me since entering the door.”

“Sure.”

“By the blistering winds of Arcadia! WILL YOU PAY ATTENTION!”

Aliessa slammed her hand upon the table, causing the cups to jump and spill their contents across the stained top. A small dish of nuts spun, tipping the food upon the dirty floor before immediately being beset by the ferret.

All the present eyes turned to the couple, save one pair. Derrek still looked warily upon the man at the stage, wrestling the stool from the distracted patron.  

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the man called, his voice high and screeching like someone scrapping their fingernails over Derrek’s eardrums, “but I’m trying to put a show on here!”

“I’m sorry,” Derrek said, finally blinking. “Was there something you said?”

Aliessa stood, a small gerbil tumbling from the folds of her dress.

“I’m going to use the chute.”

She stomped away, pursued quickly by her mini-menagerie.

Derrek merely motioned for more mead and kept a cold stare towards the fat man now fixing himself upon the stool.  

“Right. Let’s get this start. So an ugly orc walks into a bar, right? And he’s got this parrot on his shoulder. Well, the bartender takes one look at that parrot and his eyes get real big. Then he’s all like ‘that’s pretty neat, where did you get it?’

“’In a cave!’”

The man gave a terrific squawk and fluttered his arms in mimicry of the colourful animal. The great rolls of his arms, squeezed out of the pressed but stained white shirt, flopped wildly about as he gestured. But only dead silence greeted his performance. Derrek merely shook his head.

“Guess I’ll have to explain it later,” the man called. He shrugged, picking up his lute and plucking at the strings a couple of times. Derrek could already tell the instrument was out of tune, but the man made no effort to fix it. Instead, he broke immediately into the Ballad of Baronug Crossing, his straining voice belting out the lyrics raucously over his hamstrung cords.  

It was a painful experience, made even more intense by the slowly built clapping from the crowd. By the final stanza, they were cheering and singing along with the tune, mindless of the creatively void performance. At last, the song came to an end to mediocre applause and a few celebratory coins before the bard stood, kicking the stool to the ground and boldly striding down the steps.

He took enough time to smile and chat with a few passing patrons before making a beeline towards Derrek.

“Ah, friend, long time no see! How long has it been since the mighty Derrek Gungrik graced this fair city? I hardly recognized you earlier.”

“Alec Carver, still training in the practice of the lute I see?”

“Haha! I am a graduated master!” the fat man laughed, slapping Derrek upon the back. “I do hope that my performance hasn’t dissuaded you from joining in with the festivities.”

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t want to overshadow you once again. I mean, there’s only so long people can put up with your music once they actually hear talent.”

“Aha! Indeed! I’m so glad to hear that your lengthy exile hasn’t softened that wit of yours. I suppose you couldn’t enter the competition seeing that you are not a registered minstrel. Pity.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to reveal you for the fraud that you are.”

“Ha, you wish, dunderic. But I see your date has decided to come back for some reason.”

Aliessa returned slowly to the table, eyeing Alec carefully.  

“My lady! Still treating with second rate, two bit musicians after all these years.”

“Good to see you too Carver,” Aliessa smiled.

“I suppose that university of yours never found a cure for your unfortunate condition then?”

Aliessa merely crossed her arms.

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

“The lady doth still protest,” Alec smiled. “A pity too, you would be quite beautiful if you ever got that seen to.”

“Careful Carver. Don’t forget, should I desire, I could always turn you into the toad that you are.”

“But you couldn’t transform yourself into a maiden? Hoho, you pair are a real laugh. Good luck with the challenge, Drek, it’ll take more than miss fancy fingers to get you past the preliminaries.”

Alec turned, giving a carefree wave as he walked out. Aliessa turned to Derrek, her cross expression never changing.

“The Challenge? You had no intention of celebrating our anniversary, did you?”

“You know how much this means,” Derrek said. “The winner of the Challenge receives the title of Seeker of the Cord!”

“I don’t care about your silly titles.”

“Title! Seeker is more than just a title. If I received it, they would be clamouring for my plays from her to the Boiling Sea! Derrek Gungrik would be a household name. People would start appreciating my unique melodies.”

“Fine!” Aliessa cried, reaching for her bag. “You do what you think is most important and seek this stupid title.”

“Where are you going?”

Aliessa shook her head as she stomped away, her cat and ferret bouncing after her.

“Aren’t you going to wait for the others to return!” Derrek called.

“They can find me at the Academy!” Aliessa shouted, slamming the door as she left. Derrek leaned back in his chair, looking at the half finished mead.

“If I knew she didn’t want to wait, I could have spent my time registering,” he grumbled. He turned to watch the next performer to take the stage. At the very least he could continue to scope the competition until his drinks were done.