Nighteyes5678

Look at me, not holding up the game for once! Huzzah! Also, I want that plushie.

Abbot Tristain, beloved of Ilmater, servant of all who served in the White Hill Abby, wished that his back would stop aching. He’d already given himself the gift of folding a cloak to kneel on, though the rich dark soil of the garden felt feather-soft against his fingers as he dug through it. The sun that had warmed his back and the top of his head where his silver hair had given way was finally sunk down behind the horizon. The trissk-hissk-hissk of the evening insects provided a lovely rhythmic base of the song of the moonlight lark to soar above. It was his favorite place in the abby at his favorite time of day doing his second favorite activity. He even had a clay mug of iced wine next to him, jeweled beads of water slowly making their way down the side of the vessel to grace the ground with their gift, catching the dusk glow on their way. The taste of the sweet wine lingered on the back of his tongue, soothing the thirst that gardening always brought with it. The garden was set away from the rest of the Abby, far enough that his god’s family would give him peace unless his counsel was sorely needed. He’d been gardening since he was a boy, though not here. No, he’d grown up to the west in the meadows along the forests where the small freckled deer ventured out to nibble the tender plants. According to his parents, he’d always had a green thumb, and they thought he might be a druid or called by Chauntea to be her servant. It surprised everyone when, instead, he’d felt called by the Crying God. Tending to a garden of plants was a true joy, yes. But tending to a garden of souls was something divine. He sighed and eased on his heels, knuckling the small of his back with a low groan. Some of Ilmater’s faithful were given gifts of regeneration or self-healing. Tristain’s own calling meant refraining from healing himself or calling upon divine healing from others. A sacrifice that had seemed easy to make when he was young in a body that didn’t ache more each day. It had become more of a labor of love now that he knew the limits of the body and the reality of age. A sacrifice he’d make again without question. Coming to the abby hadn’t been easy. The death of Abbot Markus had been tragic. A loss that rippled through the entire region and felt by all who loved Ilmater. And a loss felt more keenly by Tristain, a brother in almost all senses of the world moved out of the realm. They’d never go riding again, leaving the cares of the world behind as their horses hooves ate up the ground. It had been a time of their youth, too quickly gone, but the two had kept in touch as they could. There’d been much on Markus’s mind in the twilight of his own life, and it had been at his friend’s behest that Tristain had agreed to take up where he’d left off. He’d never longed for power, never sought being an Abbot, yet this was a garden in need of a kind discerning hand or else it would be overrun by the weeds. A shadow crept over the small garden as if called, and Tristain wiped the sweat from his brow with the brown sleeve of his robe. He knew without looking which brother had arrived, and in the privacy of his mind, he whispered a prayer to Ilmater for guidance and wisdom. And patience. Brother Justin tried his patience more than any other, perhaps because if Tristain ever relaxed, he’d find himself liking and trusting the shadow monk. Thankfully, he’d been forewarned and thus forearmed. “Good evening, Abbot,” Justin said as he knelt down across the garden row, taking obvious care not to crush any of the plants beneath his thin-soled boots. Every movement and word the man used was careful, chosen for a purpose and reason. All the more reason that, without knowing the true reason, it would have cut deeply when it became obvious that Justin did not care for Tristain. The dislike had started long before the business with Torben, though that had brought many things out into the open. “Ilmater smile upon us both,” Tristain said as he picked up his clay mug. Glossimire movement within the rim made him glance down, expecting to see dragonfly wings or something similar. The pale amber wine was clear and free, and he frowned. “What brings you to my garden?” “The report on The Menagerie that you requested has come in,” Justin said, his curiosity exposed. A message in itself as he was typically reserved as a rule. “It was not easy to procure.” “No, I imagine it was not.” He took a long lingering swallow of the wine, letting the liquid cool and burn in turn before swallowing. From the monk’s empty hands, Tristain surmised that the report awaited him back at the monastery, or was committed entirely to Justin’s memory. The latter would be unfortunate as Tristain had requested discretion and made it clear he would appreciate being the only recipient of the information. Not that he would believe Justin if the man told him that he was oblivious to the contents of the report. If there’d been any other way for Tristain to get the information he required, he would’ve taken it. There was little sense in asking the fallen to spy on the fallen with integrity. Yet there were shades of shadow and not all of them were cast by the same devil. At times, Ilmater called his children to walk in the twilight and be wise while being kind. Justin studied him in silence for long enough that Tristain found himself swallowing again, a tickle in his throat as if something was stuck there. The insect hum dominated as the birds grew silent, their time of twilight finished and they sought their nests with their companions. Soon, the glowbugs would be out with their dance among the grass and flowers, bringing with them the fluttering chaos of the bats that hunted them. The air had cooled more, making Justin’s robe stick obnoxiously to his back, yet he wouldn’t speak first or make the first move in this game he was forced to play. He was rewarded when Justin made a deep sound of annoyance. “Abbot, I won’t mince words. I swore myself to your predecessor, and you are not him. While Ilmater calls me to service and duty bids me to obey you in all reasonable things, I’m not willing to trust your judgment on what is ‘reasonable’.” Not after Torben. It needn’t be said, for Tristain heard it loudly in the pointed silence that followed. It was a part of the game, where Justin pretended that Tristain was some petty human-centric thug who sent a young bugbear off to die in the ice-encrusted north, while Tristain allowed those rumors to spread and take hold. Better that than he tip his hand: he hadn’t sent Torben off to die, but he sent him off to save him. From Justin’s taint and influence, and the dark designs the man had on his life and future. Which meant he had to grimace and incline his head. “I understand that you don’t have as much faith in Torben as I do.” Justin’s look turned, briefly, murderous. “I can’t stop you from dressing your bigotry in piety, Abbot, but neither do I have to pretend to swallow it when we’re away from the others’ gaze. Before I turn this report over to you, I need you to tell me what you care about the fate of a band of Adventurers who made more enemies than was wise.” There were layers of truth and strands of knowledge all tangled in a gorgon’s knot. Tristain knew that he was expected to weigh his words carefully, so he did so, looking out into the silhouetted grass and plants beneath the rising moon. He parsed things out and, finally, found his answer in the hum of the insect’s nightsong that enveloped them both. Creatures of shadow expected shadow and would never fully trust the light. “The Menagerie’s fate was foretold. As was one who would survive the grave on that day. I cannot share the prophecy as it is not mine to give nor do I have the exact words myself. But,” Tristain said as he leaned forward, letting the moon’s light catch his eyes and the sweat on his brow, “this request comes not for me or from me, but from one who grows many flowers.” It was gratifying to see Justin’s eyes widen as the words sunk in, and Tristain just wished he had more light to pick out the details better. “There was a survivor,” Justin admitted, then sighed and rose to his feet. Even with his lasting injury, he always managed to be more graceful than Tristain’s age allowed him to be. Still, he followed and was humble enough to let the other man see him struggle. “Come, I have the report back in my quarters. It’s still sealed.” “I never doubted you,” Tristain said with a smile, speaking truth for only the foolish thought that a scorpion could be anything but. The report would be thorough and, while it would likely focus on the adventurer that survived, he had no doubt that it would mention any others that survived. After that, it would be a simple matter of getting the information north so that when Torben did arrive, all would be prepared and ready for him. The Summer of Glory was dawning and soon, the ice would crack. Ilmater’s will be done.

The map of the realm of Ulgarth sprawled across the oaken table, peppered with wooden and stone markers that indicated troop positions, settlements and defensive structures, towns and cities all in a dizzying array of information, and it was crooked. Not very, not so anyone who stood above it looking down would notice much. Up there, Major-General Nokir d’Sivis imagined it would look perfect. Even standing on her chair, mindful of the fact that the stone floor was ever uneven and made her chair lean to the left, Nokir wasn’t as tall as most of the humans who made up the war council. It was a fact that all gnomes acknowledged, and accepted. Some with more grace than others. From her vantage point, however, Nokir could see that the map had been bumped and jostled enough that it was crooked. And there was an ant making its way across the Dustwall Mountains, aiming to the gray pebble that stood for the Iron Gate. Fitting in a way that she couldn’t quite articulate. “There have been rumors of orcs for years now,” General Holtz said, his gray bristlebrush mustache moving as he talked. He had more lines on his face than the map did, though his arms and chest filled out his uniform in a way that suggested he hadn’t gone soft. He swept the birch rod in his hand and tapped the mountains near the ant. “The Kingdoms to the north have already investigated here and here. Nothing.” “If there was nothing,” Major-General Thiran said with a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes, “why would there be rumors still? What purpose would it serve?” “There doesn’t need to be a purpose,” Holtz said with a snort. “You get a bard bored enough and there are stories and song flying around without a hint of truth to it. Unless you have reason to believe otherwise, Nokir?” The sound of her name made Nokir stand up a little more straight, though she didn’t try and be as tall as the two men. “We’ve had confirmed gray orc sightings to the north, sir. Sources I trust. And more troubling, several closer along Gailul Mins.” She also had several agents dispatched south to the mountains there. It seemed that rock couldn’t get taller than a man without being home to something foul. Both men glared at her as if she’d done something unforgivable. “There’s never been orcs in the Golden Mountains,” Thiran said, because apparently he could only imagine enemies living where he decided they could live. It showed a tiring lack of imagination, a trait all too common among the humans that ruled this land. It’s why she’d risen so high so fast in the army, no matter what her damned sister might say. “Perhaps they were lost,” she said with a thin smile. Holtz snorted, smile mostly hidden beneath his mustache. “See if you can get some agents who will bring me a head. Preferably one that can still talk.” “Yes sir,” Nokir said, only mildly distracted by the fact that the ant was attempting to carry away the gray pebble. If only the Iron Gate could be moved that easily, it would make anyone who controlled the mountain pass rich. “Pardon my interruption,” a gray-cloaked courier said from the door. “Major-General d’Sivis, you have someone requesting your attention in your quarters.” She didn’t recognize the courier, which alone didn’t mean much. There were more of them scurrying around than ants in a hill. Try as she might, she never did get all of their names before they skipped off to one of the other baronies. It’d be rude of them if she wasn’t often the one sending them away. “Permission to withdraw, sir?” She looked to the General in time to see his distracted nod, and hopped down from her chair to walk briskly toward the door. The gray-cloak had already gone, too busy to wait around for another order. Suormpar was a fine enough city once she’d gotten used to the smell of fiertallin processing along the river’s banks. Its chalky dust covered everything in the poorer districts, but even here she could smell it on the wind when it was strong enough. Thankfully, the keep was up on the hill, providing a better view of the mountains gleaming in the sun than it did of the poor. When she bothered to climb the wall to look down over it. That was the nice thing about mountains. She could always see them. Even if they were probably hiding orcs. She went toward her chambers feeling like she was missing something important. The door to her outer room was open, the interior illuminated by the windows that were unshuttered with the curtains drawn. They faced the river, which wasn’t her favorite view, but she had lost the fight for the mountains. Particularly because these windows were built to gnome standards. As was some of the furniture. She had her own set, and then larger versions of everything for the humans she worked with. It gave the room a mismatched appearance that always made her smile a little, even though there was a strange man sitting in one of them. He was handsome in the way of western men, with sun-baked skin and black hair swept back from his sharp clever features. He was dressed simply in a tunic and trousers, free from embroidery or decoration. His leather boots were worn, though, with knits and dings that one only got from traveling by horse. He also had a sword, though it was unbelted and leaning against the chair by his side. And he was reading her copy of There and Back: a halfling’s travels to the ice rim and jungles. A childhood favorite, one of the few books she kept that her sister Rillik had given her. A book that she kept in her chambers, locked in the safe that wasn’t meant to be found as opposed to the three that were. It was insulting, and impressive, and she thought about putting a dagger through his throat. Her thoughts must have carried, for the man looked up from his reading and smiled. “You didn’t need to rush on my account.” “I didn’t,” she said, and stepped inside to let the door shut heavily behind her. However this went, the men outside would just get in the way trying to help her if they even managed to arrive before affairs were settled. “Have you read that book before?” “No, I can’t say I have, so please don’t spoil the ending for me.” He closed the book, placed it on his knee. “Baltin arrives home, more poor and rich than when he first left.” “Ah,” the man said with genuine regret. “I had hoped the title was deceiving instead of spoiling. Alas.” “Sorry,” Nokir said as she walked to her chair that faced his. Sat down with a casual flop that just happened to bring two wands and the tattoo behind her left knee closer to reach. “I was told you have a message for me. Who are you.” His thin eyebrows raised, then he sighed and rubbed at his temple with two fingers. “It was breaking into your safe, wasn’t it? That’s what has put you in a bad mood. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” “Did you try?” “No.” He sighed again. “Sorry for that, too.” He had an accent, though Nokir wasn’t quite sure what kind it was until he said the last phrase. Only men from Estagund made ‘no’ sound like ‘nou’. It was slight, as if he’d spent time trying to erase it. Which also meant that he probably wasn’t from Estagund and was just trying to see if she’d notice. Dealing with other spies had taught Nokir that it was best to change the rules. If they were both off balance, she could count on herself to recover more swiftly. So she threw a dagger at him just to see what would happen. It was the needle-point one that she’d gotten coated and sealed in Lethien. It drank magic like a tunnel-trapped dwarf went after ale, and it scrambled mage’s wits. Which is why it was quite annoying when it froze in mid-air in front of his face, silver light shimmering. “Well, that was rude,” he said, pale green eyes crossed slightly to look at the dagger that should be in one of his eyes. “You did read my book,” she pointed out. Divine magic was a pain in the arse to suss out. Too many gods, too many sources, and all of them were a giant middle finger to her decision to hit him with an arcane-eater. The tattoo behind her knee would do nicely, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to see his insides quite yet. “Ah, point.” He reached up and gingerly plucked the dagger from the air. “This is good work. My name is Estallian. I’ve come to ask you a question.” “Just one?” “If the question is good enough, then one is all you need. May I ask it, or would you rather try and summon the deadweave orb?” He hadn’t gotten up or changed his tone from that insufferably calm and friendly one he’d been using this whole time, but a dagger of ice tore down her spine. No one knew about the purpose of her tattoo. Not even her father, who inked the damn thing, knew what it did. Not truly. Yet, apparently, this asshole did. Just as he knew how to bypass her defenses, and just as he had effortlessly changed his accent to be from the Underdark reaches. “Alright,” she said as she tried to figure out how fast he might be at coming up with an antidote to Calastra’s Kiss, or if he’d be prepared for that poison as well. “Would your barony be interested in having control of Imaskar Pass when the Gate of Iron was finally open?” Thoughts of poison and daggers and gods and devils and magic and ants fled from Nokir’s mind as she blinked at him. He was serious, and she suddenly believed that he could do it. So she smiled and relaxed in her chair. “I’m listening.” Estallian smiled.

I'd allow it.

*looks up, blinking. Slowly puts down the tarrasque down next to the several elder dragons and beholder swarm.* Yes. A lot of story. Not dying soon at all. Yes. *deletes cut-scenes and starts again with a sad sigh*

Delightful turtles!

In non-fiction writing, there are two ways to write something: 1) To be easy to understand; and 2) To be difficult to misunderstand. Since much of philosophy and logic is finding the gaps and assumptions in thinking chains, they're most often written in the second style. Which, of course, then leads to a lot of defining and clarification. Which does drive me a little bananas. And this is coming from someone whose favorite saying is "Let's define our terms!!!"

Is it evil, or just misunderstood? Either way, it'll be arriving here.

Without reading Harmon's explanation of the story circle (though I'll probably now hunt it down if I have free time and remember), I'm going to guess that the circle describes a whole story or book. The Scene/Sequel pair are the building blocks that make up the story. I could be wrong, though! I'm just having trouble seeing multiple ones of those in a standard novel.

It should be said that above is novel/story theory stuff. In terms of play-by-post, it's complicated, right? With one group I ran, I explained the scene/sequel (I do like Call and Response as terms!) to them before, and then in the OOC we delineated whether it was a Scene or a Sequel. Which was fun since I, as the DM, could always interrupt a Sequel with a Scene event (you're talking around the campfire, all relaxed and accomplishing your emotional reactions, when suddenly a zombie bear rumbles in!) or twist things. That was the rare exception, though, as you don't want to tense things too much! Also, another favorite thing of mine is to have established this pattern and have a conversation be planned as a Scene, but it unexpectedly turns into a Sequel as suddenly people are more caring and empathetic than the MC expected. It tends to help land emotional punches more powerfully. But, for a single post, it's not going to be an entire Scene or Sequel. It's going to be a piece. When I'm playing a character, I tend to have an idea of what my character's Goal is, or what they need to work through in a Sequel. And then I do MRU rules to make sure things stay clear. ()

A request like this really allows me to pick a topic and run. Genre, in many ways, is a sales thing, not a writing thing. If you want a book that contains X, it's much easier to have a word to describe all/most/many books that contain X and lump them together in a section in a bookstore. Otherwise, you're trying to find a book about vampires and you're stumbling over WW2, romance, and thrillers! But wait, the discerning reader will say, vampires could appear in ANY of those books you just said! There are vampires in WW2, romance, AND thrillers! What the heck?! That's simply because Genre is best described as setting reader expectation. As a simple example, if you read a romance book and got to the end and the two (or three, or four, or more) lovers didn't end the book together, you'd feel surprised. And not in a good way. You feel cheated. [Stop. I know you're about to mention Romeo and Juliet. Just...stop. That's a tragedy, not a modern romance. If you're going to throw that at me, then I'll remind you that Shakespeare's comedies includes The Merchant of Venice which is a story about revenge and anti-Semitism. Genre was different hundreds of years ago.] Genre primes the reader. Lets you know what to expect. If you open up a historical, you'll feel confused when there's magic because it wasn't listed as a historical fantasy. Each genre primes the reader in different ways. Seanan McGuire is a smart clever lady who says things better than me. This is taken from her: "I’m fond of saying that there are absolute genres and genres that are as much about the mood and feeling of the story as they are about following strict rules. This division, imprecise as it is, is what allows for mix-and-match genres. Science fiction, for example, requires a certain amount of technology beyond our own: things that were science fiction twenty years ago may be modern fiction today, as innovation catches up to and passes by them. Horror, which is more of a mood than a set of absolute rules, becomes the overlay that can be slapped onto almost any absolute genre. Science fiction horror? Got it: Alien, Cabin Fever. Fantasy horror? Wishmaster, Troll. Horror adds to what’s already there. It modifies and accents. Think of it this way. Some genres build the house. Other genres come along and decorate it." So what then about fantasy? Fantasy, most loosely, is the inclusion of things-not-of-this-world-as-we-know-it. That doesn't even have to mean magic, it could just be another world (secondary-world fantasy, which is what Redemption is) and we ought to remember that there's a thin line between fantasy and soft science fiction. (Hi Star Wars! I see you!) We can get a little more specific, because fantasy is also about more than just magic or faeries. It tends to be the most moralistic genre (horror chases a close second) due to its traditional centering of Good vs Evil stories. It is also, then, an extremely political genre. Even the modern fantasy that rebuffs that reliance on Good vs Evil is still entering into a conversation about the nature of good, and the nature of evil. What does this have to do with Robin Hobb? Hush, I didn't have time to write a short essay, so you get a longer one. *** One thing I love to do is destroy. Just dig my fingers into something beautiful and flay it, spread apart its insides, and try to make sense of the mess within. That's why I- Wait, why are you calling the- You didn't think I meant... Ugh. Stories, people. I'm talking about stories, not people! Come on now. Broadly, most western fiction can be broken down into Scenes, which then can be further broken down into Scenes and Sequels. Yes, I also wish that writers, famed for their ability to use words to accurately describe things without being confusing, had chosen more than ONE WORD to describe TWO THINGS. I'm going to blame a literary critic or English professor. If you want a deep dive into all the nitty gritty of this, I'd start here: For our purposes, it's enough to say that Scenes are What Happens, and Sequels are the Response To What Happened. Scenes start with Goal, which leads to Conflict, and ends in Disaster. Or, more simply put, our character Wants something, something gets in their way as they try and obtain that want, and it doesn't ultimately solve the story problem. Sequels are the Reaction, which leads to a Dilemma, and ends in a Decision (which is, by the way, the next Goal of the new scene). Sounds simple and formulaic? Sure, it can be. But every western story is the same at its core. Skeletons are the same across the animal kingdom, yet all the different ways of using the bones to riff off of structure adds variance. Start slapping on meat and muscles and guts onto that skeleton and you really get new things. Finish off with skin and skin-decorations, and you've got something as different as the pigeon is to the snake. The space and focus of each component starts to affect pacing, and that pacing and focus also creates genre. Examples: Let's describe a thriller. A thriller's focus is the Conflict, and Disaster. That's the action. The Goal is only useful so we know which direction we're running and why, but let's face it, usually we're there for the fight scenes and the breath-taking heart-pounding pace that the story races along. Characters tend to be dynamic and larger than life, and...they don't tend to change much over the story. And as such, most of the words in the book are going to be on the Conflict and Disaster, and then we'll race along the character's reaction, split second agonizing over what to do, and then they race off to the next goal hardly spending time on the Decision. How about Mystery? There, the focus is usually on the Dilemma and Conflict. The detective or person trying to solve the crime (Mystery, by the way, is a genre that just means there is a presence and the focus on a crime. That's it. The detective mystery and who-dunnit mystery that usually comes to mind is a sub-genre of Mystery, but not the whole thing. It confused me, so I thought I'd share) spends a lot of time analyzing the crime scene. They ponder over what the clues mean, and try to extrapolate what the criminal could've been thinking, or what the motives of the victim were when they walked down that dark alley alone, and they struggle to put it together. That's the Dilemma. Then, they make a new hypothesis which leads to their new goal, and they then go test that in the real world. This active gathering of information is the Conflict, as different characters don't make their lives easy for various reasons. Very little time is spent on the results of that evidence gathering or the character's reaction to what just happened, skipping mostly to the analysis and pondering. How about Romance? Almost entirely Sequels. There's a meet-cute or a misunderstanding or a sex scene or a date, and then afterward, there's usually BOTH character's reactions to what just happened, spending lavish descriptions on the emotional journey. They'll spend a lot of time on the Dilemma of why the guy just deliberately (it was deliberate, wasn't it? No one in their right mind could've said that and not expected me to burst into tears!) humiliated them in front of their parents, or if they're going to be rejected if they share some Dark Secret from their past. They'll come to a decision, yes, and often times that will be inaction until something really kicks them down the road. Horror? Conflict, Disaster, and Reaction. Suspense? Reaction, Dilemma, and Conflict. You get the idea. As you can see, it's not that genres of different ilk ignore or exclude different elements. They're present, they're just given less weight. Fewer words. Smaller space. **** This leads us, finally, back to Robin Hobb's fantasy. She tends to structure her books with a weight on Sequels instead of Scenes. One can have, after all, a character driven fantasy epic that is more Scene based. That tends to be what you think of when you look at classic fat fantasies. They have a lot of characters who are all doing things, and we spend a lot of time looking at the things that they're doing. There are dragons, after all, who need to be slayed and the dragons don't care if your partner hurt your feelings. They would like to eat your feelings along with the rest of you. Them and their horde of undead that they're puppetting. This focus also helps define stakes. If you have a book that is very scene heavy, then the stakes tend to be huge. World ending. Epic. Lots of people at risk, dark deadly danger, and nothing will ever be the same. A more character focused book can have smaller stakes and feel compelling. Sometimes, a world ending event is just the character's world, and that's all that matters. That's enough. But in Hobb's books, she spends a lot of time on the interior worlds of her characters, particularly Fitz. And that focus affects her pacing, and it creates an engaging exploration of a character's life. Yes, exciting things happen, and there are tragedies and triumphs. But she cares most about how Fitz responds to those tragedies and triumphs. How do they affect him? How do they move him to action, or inaction? And if you want a good writer to study for Depth as I talked about before, you could do much worse than looking at anything Robin Hobb has ever written.

My apologies for the delay in my post. It's now up where my place holder used to be.

Done!

Tall grass rose around Julia as she lay, body stretched out to present a low profile. Her hands pressed on either side of her shoulders, palms warm from the sun-kissed soil. Gentle wind made the yellow-green grass make a little hustle-rustle whisper that was sadly too gentle. Julia would give everything for a stronger wind, even though it would threaten her cover. A proper wind would blow the damn mosquito away. It hovered by her ear, somewhere. No matter how she tried to find it, squash it, puff it away, the thing avoided her awareness. Thanks to her mossy hood and snug brown leathers, there wasn’t much of her skin available for it to bite. Just her hands, and then, she’d be able to find it. It didn’t take the bait. Instead, it just lurked, somewhere, and sent out that high-pitched whine that cut through her ability to focus on anything else. A whine that was off-key. If the damn thing was a proper mosquito, one that knew how to hit and sustain a note, Julia would be able to accept it. Let it pass through her and leave, just as she ignored the creepy prick of ants that crawled along the crease of her wrists. Just as she accepted the smell of smoke, acrid enough to bring tears to her eyes as the black colum rose into the cloudless sky. Just as she was able to keep from moving to wipe away tears or sweat, both the result of the fear that threatened to creep back over her. The ground beneath her trembled and whispered as boots thudded against it. The stomp of hooves, the rattling shudder of supply wagons. All markers of the strange small army that had been gathered, the same that lay waste to the poor bastards whose ashes would be spread over the plains and, hopefully, nourish some growing thing. Nature sought to bring life from destruction, always, and Julia wished that was the fate in store for the whining insect. It made it nearly impossible for her to relax her mind and disappear into the landscape. It was just that it was the wrong note! Since she was young, Julia could always tell when notes were off. The bards called it “perfect pitch” and taught her enough to know that creating music wasn’t her passion. Far more important to her was the fact that all things sang, especially people when they talked. And lied. She’d honed and practiced that gift into a sharp edge, then mixed it with her other talents and weapons. All which meant that she ought to be able to slowly stalk the army before her, evading their clumsy attempts to post guards, and learn what she needed before vanishing undetected. It’s what she was being paid for. Normally, that was all she needed, and Julia wasn’t scattered enough to allow more to disrupt the calm of her mind. No, she wasn’t here. She was a polished glass, perfectly reflecting the world back to itself so she wasn’t here at all. It took a full minute for her to push herself up two fingers width from the ground, ease forward until her toes were pointed at an angle and her palms were by her chest, and lower herself down again. The grass around her didn’t stir more than the breeze, and there wasn’t any sound for it to carry. Better yet, when she surrendered her weight to the ground once more, she must have crushed the mosquito as it, finally, fell silent. As if she cast a spell, the silence swept over her and it no longer mattered that time crept by as she ghosted across the field on her belly. Her awareness swept out, senses alive, and without a thought marring the still pond of her mind, she simply wasn’t where the senses of the guards were. Nor, when the mage swept his awareness out, was there anything for him to find. Magic accepted dirt and grass and ants and rocks as unremarkable. That’s all Julia was, and so he knew nothing. The army started setting up camp as the sun drew closer to the horizon, making long shadows that allowed Julia to stand and make better time. Tents indicated where the leaders were, and the system of tension and anxiety that flooded the tired soldiers guided her into the spaces of calm and emptiness that evaded them. Their words floated through her, leaving information behind. This was the third caravan they’d sacked in their search. A clumsy tool wielded like a scalpel. Even these killers knew that the blood they spilled was pointless, the furious thrashing of a bear caught in a trap. They wanted to go home, they wanted to spend their coin, they wanted to be done. Yet they couldn’t, not until they finished stomping and thrashing the plains until those above them were forced to accept failure. Julia reached the faded blue of the command tent, accepted that the oiled fabric was solid, and then accepted that she was nothing. With a single step, she passed through the barrier and sank down to a crouch by a field desk. The light here was dim, but that didn’t stop the woman who sat there from scribbling on parchment spread in front of her. The hiss-scratch of the nub mixed with the way the woman’s breath moved the air within the tent. Moving slowly to the side, Julia studied the woman further. Her thick black hair was braided in a crown, a Rashemi style that also explained the dusty hue to her skin. The thick cloak that she’d worn before was thrown back, draped over her camp chair to reveal broad shoulders and muscled arms. Her clothing was simple, almost utilitarian, with a faded violet shirt tucked into sensible breeches. A contradiction in terms, particularly because this lady was far from the Lake of Tears. Before, Julia had planned on leaving undetected. Something about the tired lines around the woman’s smoky-grayblue eyes and the stubborn cast to her jaw drew Julia in, changed the plan she hadn’t yet put into thought. Since that was a decision, a ripple cast across the stillness of her soul. Enough that the woman’s quill ceased and a frown curved her full mouth. “You are very good,” she said in a voice as smoky as her eyes, though she didn’t even look over to where Julia stood. “My tent is warded in more ways than even I know. That you stand here with me ought to be impossible; Althmet swore to me that it was. What is it that you want if not to kill me?” “How do you know I don’t want to kill you?” Julia asked, curious as the woman’s voice contained no hint of a lie. Just simple frustration and annoyance at a percieved truth being shown to be wrong. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, and I know that you allowed yourself to be detected,” the woman said briskly, setting her quill down in a way that was careful not to smudge the still-wet ink. “If you want to kill me, you have questions to be answered first. And if this night isn’t my last, I have too many things to do to waste on idle curiosity.” “That’s fair enough,” Julia said, surprised to find that she liked the other woman. She walked around to the front of the desk and flopped into the camp chair, legs spread wide in a show of casualness. It also brought her hidden sheath closer to hand in case she had need. “You hunt a woman. I hunt a man. Instead of tripping over your men as they stumble about in the pools of blood they make, I thought we could share resources.” “My best sources suggest that any man she might be with is a simple caravan guard. All of them were mundane. Unremarkable.” She leaned forward slightly, regarding Julia with a cool gaze. “Why do you hunt him?” “I accepted coin. Isn’t that enough?” “Normally, yes. But that’s not all, is there?” Julia lifted an eyebrow, impressed. She wasn’t the most skilled liar, but few could easily call her on one. “I suppose not. I’m being paid because I needed to finance the hunt. I’m doing it because he killed my brother, and I mean to ensure he dies screaming.” Julia carefully sat up straight, leaned forward. “Is that enough truth for you?” If the woman was beautiful before, she became stunning as she smiled. “Yes,” she said, relief flooding her voice. “It is. Hathran Emalda Shoul. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “Julia Willowborn, and same. Hathran… do you act on orders from an Othlor?” Emalda inclined her head. “You’re well informed for one so young. Not many know the song of old, or the whispers from beyond.” “I had an odd childhood,” Julia said with a crooked grin, then stood. “Shall we?” “Yes.” The older woman was about to stand when the tent’s flap was thrown open by an out of breath older man flanked by guards. His eyes rounded when he saw Julia, and the air around him crackled as he drew on the powers around them. “At peace, Althmet,” Emalda said, amusement in her voice. “We’re all friends here.” Julia was careful to keep her face still, for that was the first time the woman had lied. No matter. She’d worked with worse for less, and the dead had debts that needed to be paid.

Rude! You're supposed to politely disagree!

I shall take the "Does A Fraction of the Work, Claims Most of the Credit" badge!

LN silver-tongued lawyer. This was in Deadlands, though I've played versions of the character before (including Shadowrun), and I was playing a gnome gunslinger who logically planned for a lot of situations (I was the type to have sealed envelopes that I had the DM sign to show they were unopened) and was reaction-based in his combat style. Anywho, our party was new to the area and needed a base of operations. So we took a job from a farmer couple out of town that was having trouble with some beastie killing their cattle. I solved two problems with one stone by fast talking the couple into buying "new and improved" security for their farm so that when we left, they'd still be protected. Course, it'd take more than they were planning, but that's fine, because there are low payments and a reasonable interest plan so they.... ....anywho, I owned their farm before I was done, even before we killed the beastie. So he was like that. Apparently, the rest of the party became fed up with Daniel's antics that they conspired with the DM and turned on Daniel right after an encounter that left him pretty wounded (because they planned it that way) and tried to kill him. I was a little miffed (in my defense, I was also much younger and less mature), so I pulled out all the stops, killed most of their characters, and had Daniel make a clean escape. Then when everyone's tempers cooled, I asked what had happened and why, took their constructive feedback seriously, and have never played a character like that again. As a PC. You ought to watch out for a character like that as NPCs though.....

Yup! Those are a lot of the reasons he's a master of the craft! ^_^

* Because I was keeping the post simple (and I was having bad insomnia so writing this was far better than screaming into my pillow, but it does lead to certain oversights on my part), I didn't talk about "fancy" openings to story. These are the two most common: voice openings (most common in first person, where the narrator or POV will do a lot of introduction without any story or setting, which would be absolutely dull if the character Voice wasn't so riveting), and summary (Star Wars text crawl! But not limited to that.). What these different starts pretty much all have in common is that they shift the order of things a bit. You have your Start, then when the story narrative actually starts, the writer will drop down into that depth of setting I talked about. They'll ground you to the bottom of the lake, nice and hard. * I was a little curious how long it would take for Stephen King to get mentioned. My advice? Love him, read him, don't study him. He's...so good. Spooky good. And so much of what he does is almost impossible to see or figure out why it works. He's a confounding mystery, one we can aspire to, but he's not the easiest to learn from by studying. * There's a fine balance between starting too far into the action and doing what's called "Walking to the Story". That's the problem you get when the depth opening is there, but the narrative starts (frequently) with the POV taking a leisurely stroll before anything happens. How you solve that is point #3: ...with a problem. Often, those story starts don't have a problem that the character is actively trying to solve. Look at it this way: you can have an orphan who has had a tragic life and a whole list of problems, and they can spend a long time telling us about all of those problems. It feels like when you haven't seen a friend (you know the friend I'm talking about) for a long time and when you sit down at the cafe with them, they spend an hour telling you all the things they have to deal with and how they feel stuck in the muck. I'll stick around for that friend because I care about them and love them. But if that was how a Speed Dating session started? Or even a first date? NOPE. I'm gone. I don't care. But, if that orphan is trying to find a perfect gift for their best friend, the one who has stuck with them through thick and thin, the one who rode a goat through the rain in order to deliver a package of scones for them to share while they were still hot, THE friend that means everything to them and so the gift has to be absolutely perfect or they might not KNOW how incredibly important they are--I'll read that story every time. Sure, I got a lot of the problems woven in, but the character cared so damn much about the Thing that I'm happy to be there and listen. So, you know, it's all about pacing. Which is a huge topic all on its own.

A while ago, Rumrunner asked about how to do setting without being obnoxious about it (my words of course). To start to answer this, I’d like to share one reason I absolutely love reading: it’s the only way we get to experience the world as someone else. All other forms of entertainment have us experience the world as ourselves and simply encounter new things. Only reading can shove you so deep into someone else’s head that you think THEIR thoughts and feel THEIR feelings. We call this “depth” in writing. Look at it this way. Imagine your story as a lake with crystal clear water, a dock jutting out into it. When a reader enters into your story, the depth of the dive is how invested they are. If someone is swimming along the surface, we call that…skimming. They can leave at any time. They’re aware that they’re reading, they’re aware of the words, and they’re aware of their surroundings. Often, they’re looking for a reason to bail. If a reader dives a little deeper, they’re more immersed in the story. To get to the surface of the lake and climb onto the dock, they have to swim upward and expend effort to do so. It won’t happen naturally or easily. They’re less aware of the fact that they’re reading words, and more aware of the character that they’re following. They’re starting to become aware of the character’s surroundings, and they’re invested. And if you get a reader to the bottom of the lake? They’re staying there. When their bladder finally forces them to put the book down, or they realize that it’s 4am and they have a 7am alarm set, they’ll feel that delicious sense of jarring. The character’s thoughts will still be in their mind, the story problems will feel more immediate than their own. At least, for a time. The goal of a writer, then, is to get as much Depth as possible. To yank a reader down to the bottom of the lake and hold them there until you’re done with them. It’s here that we get to experience the world as another person. We see what they see, feel what they feel, think how they think, and solve problems like they do. The character’s mind becomes our own for as long as we read. This is powerful. This is mind-control. This has lasting effects on our readers. So, how do we do that? How do we create depth in writing? It’s…tricky. But it starts by knowing why people read: character, it’s all about character. Which means, according to the 7 Plot Outline of storytelling, every story begins with: 1) A character 2) in a setting 3) with a problem… [4) who tries to solve that problem 5) and fails, then tries again, and fails, and 6) finally puts it all on the line and tries the very last time 7) and then we see why the story matters. This is the outline that the bulk of all western fiction follows.] We start with a character because that’s what’s most important. The character is our viewpoint, our entrance into the story world. And yet, we can’t just exist in Janet’s Void, a white blankness that expands as far as the senses can perceive. Which is why we’re in a setting. This is where things get tricky. All setting is character opinion. I promise you that the above sentence alone will transform your writing. Let’s break it down a bit. Nothing can appear on the page that doesn’t get filtered through the senses of the character, and every word is the opinion of the character. This basically flies in the face of all the English teachers that had you write descriptive essays. Those awful things where you were supposed to describe a bowl full of oranges sitting in a kitchen for a page. They wanted you to be “descriptive” and “evocative”, yet there were no characters involved and no narrator with a voice. So you just get…a flowery list of big ol’ adjectives that don’t do much at all. Instead, we want to focus on what our character experiences. There are five physical senses (more if you’re non-human or magic is a thing) and each of them is hardwired into our sense memory: Sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. Most early stage writing is all sight with a bit of sound thrown in. I’m no exception. A story I tell often is back when I first started working with my writing mentor. I turned in a short story (about 8k words or about 35 pages) for him to look at. He handed it back untouched with a sticky note: Highlight every line of setting. I had…maybe…four or five lines in the whole dang thing. I described the characters, the monsters, and the like, I just forgot to say where it was happening. And it feels thin. Flat. Surface reading. An early trick to combat this is to use all five senses every five hundred words (or every two pages, give or take). This forces you to stay in the character’s viewpoint. In fact, basic Depth is typically the first 400-500 hundred words of a story. Which means that, if you remember our story start, we’re doing this all with nothing but a character in a setting (with a problem, but we’ll touch on that in a second). What does that mean? Are they just standing there? Maybe. Maybe they are. Remember I mentioned sense memory? It’s the memory that brings in the character opinion, which then makes everything reveal things about the main character. Our opinions are shaped by our perception and past. We humans are optimized to notice patterns, using tricks to speed up our ability to recognize the pattern and, more importantly, what is clashing with the pattern (the tiger’s stripes lurking in the tall grass, for example). We’re constantly comparing and contrasting the world around us with our memory and existing patterns, and everything will be colored with that opinion. These opinions? They often show up as adjectives. Which makes your character have a history. They’re a real person. And now, they have a problem. It doesn’t have to be the story problem. Often, it’s not. It’s just something that isn’t right, something on their mind, something that occupies them. This is important because it does two things: 1) It focuses our lens, and 2) it builds reader empathy. I know, I know. Writing advice is always “start with action!” And so you get stories where the main character is fighting with their best friend, or getting chased by ninjas (both these things can be done, but it’s advanced). But remember, the reader is just meeting this character. Imagine you’re walking into a room of your best friend’s house just in time to see their brother, whom you’ve never met, shouting at an unknown dude. Both are red in the face, fists clenched. It feels personal. It feels… intimate. If you’re like most of us, your response is to leave. Quickly. Maybe get your friend, let THEM handle it. That’s what it feels like when you start a story with too much charge. We have no reason to care about any of the characters, so our instinct is to flinch away. It’s human nature. But we need a problem, first, because it focuses our character and our lens. It gives our characters a reason to notice details, a reason to care. It focuses the story as it gives us momentum. The character must be trying to solve said problem. It can be as small as a rock in their shoe, or as large as torrential rain soaking through their clothing. Because these problems are ALSO relatable. Confession time: I’m not lich, nor am I working for one. I’m betting that’s the case for most of you. So those aren’t very relatable. They don’t engage my empathy. But, an unexpected guest? Your boss showing up when you’re not expecting him? That I can relate to, and so I can relate to Estallian even though I might not ever have had to deal with my boss’s skin writhing as he stands in my living room. That rock in the shoe? That’s happened to me. Getting caught in the rain? Yup, happened to me too. They’re relatable, and so they engage the reader’s empathy. Which then creates buy-in, which then becomes investment, so that when you start to have stakes, the reader cares about them. First, the reader must care about the character. We achieve that by having a character in a setting trying to solve a problem. Again, readers read for character, and all setting is character opinion. Before I wrap this up, let me give two practical thoughts. First, make it a focus to include all five senses every five hundred words. Second, practice with your paragraphing. Have one paragraph be what happens, and the next be how your character reacts to what just happened, which leads to an action based on how they just felt, which….then cycles back to another action. As you get more practiced, this becomes second nature. The paragraphs can be sentences, if needed (of course, paragraphs can just be a sentence, too!), or it can stretch out longer. Finally, I believe in homework! That is, all writing is practice, which is why no writing is ever wasted. But we can make our practice more efficient, so I like to share those tricks when I can. Two assignments, one study, and one writing: Study: find a story that you really love. You find it gripping. Compelling. Go to the beginning of the story and figure out what is 500 words into it, give or take a few hundred (usually you’ll want to give it more time). Then, type in the opening into a blank word document. Let the words flow through your fingertips. Actually type it out! Seriously! Finally, reflect on what you just wrote. What do you know about the character? What do you find relatable? What setting is there, and how does it reveal things about the character? Where does the Plot start? Writing: Pick a setting. Say… a tavern, or a shop. Now, close your eyes and pick a character who is experiencing the tavern for the first time and LOVES it. Write that story start, five hundred words. Just nothing but that character loving that tavern. THEN, close your eyes and imagine a character who is experiencing the SAME tavern for the first time and HATES it. It’s a different character, but the same tavern. Write that story start, five hundred words. Nothing but that character hating that tavern. THEN, close your eyes and imagine a character who is experiencing the SAME tavern for the first time and feels VERY NEUTRAL about it. Write that story start, five hundred words. Remember, all five senses. If you do either (or both) of these exercises and want me to, I will give you feedback. We can talk about it. This is a big topic and I just scratched the surface. But it took me 1800 words to make that scratch, so….

The dead man turned to face Estallian as he came into his living room. The dead man stood tall and severe, draped in desert robes tattered by the scouring winds. They fell back along his arms enough to reveal brands scorched into the withered flesh. Skin cracked and split enough to reveal the flesh beneath. Which writhed. Not like maggots, but like a knot of centipedes churning in some endless dance that pleased only themselves. A similar knot had formed in Estallian’s belly and throat. He forced it down. This being was meant to be here, expected to be here. Just…not yet, not now. And worse, Estallian had found him considering the small box that sat on his mantle made of simple pine and decorated with colorful sand patterns affixed to the lid. Such an object should not capture his attention. Yet it did. Estallian schooled his face to calmness and made himself meet the white orbs that served as the dead man’s eyes. His brow was noble, his nose commanding, and he would be handsome if not for how his skin rippled as if something crawled beneath. And if Estallian had not known that his regard either meant incredible power or horrific death eternal. “You honor me, Endless One,” he said as he dipped into a respectful bow, one that never quite let his eyes fall from him. He wished that he had come at a different time, that he wore something more refined than the simple tunic and breeches that were more comfort than style. Surely his appearance didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be put off or insulted by such things. He had come to Estallian’s home. Early. Did he know? “Whether my presence in this forsaken hovel is an honor has yet to be seen,” he said, words washing over Estallian in a scorching press. The sun, unsheltered, at mid-day. Fire that had escaped the guard stones and found the rug. “Your presence is ever an honor. Even, frequently, the final honor.” Estallian straightened and gestured toward the worn lavender chair by the gutted hearth, his favorite due to its perfect feel and certainly not for its looks. “Will you stay awhile?” Flattering words insulted only when they were said insincerely. Estallian meant each one. This being held his oath and soul within his robes. When Estallian had first come upon rumors of him, he hadn’t believed it. The world held a great many terrible things, yet nothing had captured him quite like the nearly forgotten tale of a prince fallen long ago only to rise again on the winds. In the time since his pledge, he’d considered what manner of creature he was. Undead, to be sure, but the essence of him was unlike any he’d ever encountered before. More importantly, he’d born witness to his hand at work and he had yet to see him fail. Each gambit, each action served a multitude of purposes. The depth of his mind captivated him. What good were gods when they were bound by shackles of past regret and failure? The being before him was something other, yet attainable without the approval of Ao. The thought of which made Estallian’s hand clench, then relax. The Endless One regarded Estallian for a moment longer, then wordlessly sat in the offered chair. The wood creaked. Cracked. “You confound me at times,” the Endless One said, hands resting on the faded velvet that began to blister beneath his withered touch. “You have long been a servant that I can entrust delicate matters to. You know discretion. A light hand. And-” his voice sharpened to a point “-when to leave alone things that do not concern you.” He knew. Of course he knew. Estallian had known that investigating the affairs of Galt might mean punishment if—no, when—the Endless One became aware of it. The initial task had been simple enough, though not without risk. Green dragons were often tetchy when men evaded them enough to deliver a message and escape unscathed. The words he spoke meant nothing to him at the time. They had come to him unbidden on the wind and etched themselves into his mind until he opened his mouth in the dragon’s presence. They left the same way leaving his tongue dry and tasting of sand and dung. The dragon had let him go as if he no longer was worth her time. One word Estallian had understood: Galt. It had turned out to be a forgotten nothing of a town pressed against mountains that should have crushed it long ago, just as history had. The people there were nothing. Unimportant. There were no resources worth having, no treasures left buried, nothing to suggest why his master would know its name, much less order a powerful creature to. Against his best judgment, Estallian couldn’t forget it. He just had to visit, had to see. He had come upon a stinking pile of putrid rotting corpses that not even the maggots would favor. The mark of the green dragon’s wrath was clear. Bodies strewn about, slain without protest. The few houses that were destroyed seemed to be obliterated in a peak of rage, not in a battle. No survivors. Save one. Not that Terryl had been easy to find. Another town, another life, located only because Estallian had expended considerable effort and resources doing so. And, once found, Terryl told an interesting tale though he wouldn’t remember doing so at all. The story had made Estallian aware that he had made a grievous error. Upon returning home, now, that assumption was confirmed. Death sat in the chair before him. Terrible and aware, yet without him, what did Estallian have to live for? “I would beg of you one thing,” Estallian said, surprised that his voice did not shake more. The Endless One’s lips twisted as if he’d been fed something foul. “You know me better than to think mercy something I can be begged for.” “Not mercy, master. You know that I live to serve you and if my time of service is complete, then it would not be a mercy to prolong my life. I beg of you one answer to a question.” Never before had Estallian seen his master appear surprised. Nor did he think that the dead man could even have such an expression etched on such a commanding face. The white eyes rounded, and the Endless One tilted his head in apparent wonder. “You stand on death’s door because you failed to accomplish your task without embellishment and now, instead of mercy, you beg further insight into matters that are beyond you? I thought you wise, Estallian. This is twice you have disappointed me.” It was a risk, a bold one. In times before, when witnessing rare interactions among others of the Endless One’s servants, Estallian had beheld them beg. Explain their actions. Plead for understanding. All such attempts at survival were met with obliteration. His master had no patience for weakness or foolishness, nor did he work with those who were unable to discharge their duties without fail. And yet, Estallian had also, once, beheld a woman who had failed in her task and been forgiven. She hadn’t done any of the things the others had. Instead, she’d faced the unblinking gaze and weathered the heat of his disregard. She’d used simple words, unadorned with tact or deceit, and accepted responsibility. Such a gambit wasn’t an option. Not with this. No, the curiosity that had driven Estallian to boldness would have to be followed with more of the same. “I have seen your undead servants without number, Endless One. I have beheld you speak on the wind, and unmake the works of the mighty with a word. If you wished, a flock of birds would have carried your message to the dragon, unwitnessed and unremembered.” Estallian licked his lips. The dead man’s face gave nothing away. Nothing. The only way out was through. “Instead, you choose me to serve your purpose. You call upon me when you want my mind and abilities. I am as I ever have been, and so, I have a question.” The white eyes narrowed. The purple velvet on the chair lost its color and withered in a moment beneath the dead man’s fingers. “Speak your question.” “Why did you save the kobold and bugbear when it was you who sent their doom?” Again, surprise on those commanding features. A patch of the armchair’s side smoked and caught fire. The walls of Estallian’s not inconsiderable chamber seemed to press inward. Quite suddenly, it became hard to breathe, a great weight pressed on his chest. “If I had not warded this place before your return, I would be forced to cause your tongue to unravel within the fanged prison you call a mouth,” the Endless One said. Though his words were terrible, he strangely did not sound angry any longer. “Why do you presume that I know of these two, much less had anything to do with their continued survival?” “I have yet to discover anything you do not already know, Endless one,” Estallian said, a glimmer of hope kindling in his chest. “Nor have you ever done anything without reason.” The fire on the armchair gutted itself. A thin strain of smoke rose in the air before it was seduced into the Endless One’s nostrils. “Perhaps I was hasty to call you a fool. You have yet to explain how I could save two mortals from afar.” Estallian licked his lips, wishing he had something to drink yet he didn’t dare go for one before the undead lord. To do so would be to reveal mundane fleshy weakness and he suspected he hadn’t yet bought enough coin to cover that debt. “The boy’s name that was saved from Galt is Terryl. When he was a young child, his father left his brother and his mother and traveled south to Galt. He did so without a rational explanation. All he told his family and his wife was that a restlessness had taken hold in him. Everywhere he looked he saw a ceaseless prison of monotony that threatened to drive him mad. On the surface, this makes no sense as he was a button maker. His whole world is monotony!” Estallian paused to take a breath, hoping for some signal that he was traveling towards life instead of crawling his way down to death. The Endless One did not move. And he never blinked. “Thirteen years later, Terryl was assigned to repair his family’s cellar. Wood decayed and warped, threatening the home above. Behind that, stones had done the same. Knowing his father’s exacting standards, Terryl worked the rubble until he discovered a cave to the Underdark, yet one that also could travel safely away from Galt. The makers of this particular tunnel were rock gnomes hundreds of years before, years that were not long enough to threaten their craftsmanship. Decay again, first of wood, then stone, then a thing of beauty and care.” The Endless One raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow as if to question why that might lead to him. Estallian glanced at his beloved armchair that withered beneath his master. Who conceded the point with a gesture of his hand. “Finally, Terryl went to the forest on the morning of the attack. This wasn’t unusual as he adored the forest and often foraged for goods. On this morning, however, he was supposed to meet the girl he was courting when he suddenly felt the urge to pick for her violet arrows, a flower that he now realizes that she doesn’t care for at all. For that reason, and that reason alone, he survived the dragon’s attack that you ordered and collapsed safely where he would have died if not for the bugbear who happened to brave the village in case a soul needed saving.” Estallian warmed to his topic and leaned forward, gesturing with his hands. “Mortals often speak of fate, master. Or those touched by Fate. But I say that all of that is of the same stuff that shackles them to the gods. A fear of something greater beyond their ken, so they look to those who used to be mortals for favor because they are able to be known and understood.” “Master, there is no Fate. There is only you.” The Endless One said nothing. For a very long time. Sweat broke out on Estallian’s face and neck. Foolish, he’d been so foolish. Was it too late to take back his hasty speech, to try for the mercy that had been declared impossible to get? No, he must go through. So he sat with the dead man in his living room and waited. “No matter what you do,” the Endless One said in a voice as unyielding as the desert sun, “Kelemvor will not return your brother’s soul from his garden. Kells is lost to you.” The words cut like a knife, blinding pain that brought dizziness and robbed him of strength. Estallian sagged back, gaze going unbidden to the small pine box that sat on the mantle. Covered with sand held there by sap, drawn in a clumsy child’s hand. The only thing left to him that Kells had given. And the only thing of sentiment in Estallian’s entire home, placed where he might look upon it and remember why he had searched out the Endless One on his throne of bone and ash, why he had given his life to the sole pursuit of his brother’s life and his early death. A death that, if not for Estallian, wouldn’t have come at all. He’d never spoken of this to anyone. When he’d pledged himself, he’d given his need for power and knowledge as the reason for his service. Those things were not untrue; he desperately desired both. Yet they were a means to an end. A resource meant to spend to buy something infinitely more valuable. He’d never told anyone this, yet the one who sat before him, not on a throne of bone and ash but on the desiccated chair that wouldn’t last the day, knew his brother’s name. “There is nothing you do not already know,” he breathed, knowing for certain that all of his cleverness had done nothing but bring him to his own death. “I see you, Estallian. You have earned my regard. Time will tell if that is something you will treasure or rue.” The undead man stood; the chair crumbled to dust behind him. “You gave a ‘how’ in return for a ‘why’, so I will tell you this. If you wish to catch a bear, bait the trap with berries caught in honey and not with lettuce or fish.” The Endless One walked to the mantle once more and picked up the pine box with surprising care. As if it were the treasure that Estallian believed it to be and not merely a collection of poorly processed wood with discarded dirt stained by insect pulp. As with all things, it yearned for separation and a return to its base parts. Indeed, the power that he wore like a cloak wanted to grant that wish, to show the power of many divisible instead of this amateur whole. Estallian watched him, breath caught in his mortal throat, unable to dare hope for anything but destruction. The Endless One felt the weight of that gaze and knew that this servant had yet to live out his usefulness. He was a creation whose crafting had yet to be complete and thus, it would be untimely to discard him. So he turned and placed the box carefully on Estallian’s lap. “There is more than one way through death’s door. If you heed my words, there may be hope for your dream. Harbor them close or lose them to the gale that approaches.” The Endless One raised a single finger and pressed it to Estallian’s brow. Power flared and the man’s skin broke open, revealing bone which in turn cracked to show the gristle within. Agony would follow and the Endless One cared not for such things. Instead, he twisted the shattered physical flesh of the helpless man while he screamed. It formed a lilly at last, petals delicate and raised to the sun, a vivid scar made of bone, meat, and skin. And, as he stepped away from his marked servant, he pulled back most of his power so that the scar faded away as if it had never been. Estallian was left whole and unmarked. In his struggle, he had knocked the box onto the floor. The impact broke the lid. Scattered the sand, leaving the sad excuse for a picture marred and incomplete. Without another word wasted in this place, The Endless One pulled the web of wards thrown up around the hovel and stepped out of the window into the cool night air. His form broke apart and a discarded cloak fluttered to the street below. The moon, full and silver, hung above the city and in such a cloudless sky, an owl might see the cluster of winged things that flew to rejoin Gadianton with himself.

In my defense, I asked Varen how evil Gad was, and he said, "Unlimited Evil." So, dragon vs 5th level. Sometimes, the pests just need to be flattened before they can level up.

This is a big and really cool concept! I hope to get some time very soon to talk about it. Would it be annoying if I only talked about how it applies to writing fiction with answering questions about adapting it to pbp, or is there a different focus you'd like?