All posts by sonworshiper

Bordermarches: Magic

An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is directly proportional to how well the reader understands said magic.

That’s Brandon Sanderson’s “First Law of Magic.” His comments on the subject are well worth reading (as is any book he has written, in my experience). He has a Second Law posted as well, and in that post he explains a great deal about limitations, weaknesses, and costs associated with magic.

I presented a broad introduction to the world of the Bordermarches, and I later posted an explanation of how science relates to the setting. However, my goal has always been to write a fantasy setting, and that almost requires some form of magic.

Magic can be very vague, something “out there” that the populace is aware of but no one really understands. The Lord of the Rings is a great example; there just isn’t a lot of detail about what sort of powers or limitations are placed on Gandalf.

Then again, Gandalf’s magic isn’t the point of the story or the solution to the conflict.

Magic can also be clearly delineated, almost a “science” of sorts for the populace in a given setting. I think of Sanderson’s Mistborn series as an example of this, where most of the “rules” are well-known or at least are discovered in the course of the plot. I’d even toss Wheel of Time into this category to some extent, as those who use the One Power are usually taught specific patterns and weaves which accomplish various goals, almost like combining precise amounts of chemicals to get a desired reaction.

I loved Mistborn (and most of Wheel of Time), so I’m not surprised that I automatically wanted to come up with an explanation for magic and a system to lay out most of what is possible by its use.

What I wanted to avoid is the ubiquitous “I can do anything because *poof* MAGIC!”

Video games can use systems like “mana” or “willpower” to explain and limit how much magic a person can wield at any given time. But for my taste, that doesn’t work well in writing. I can’t really see writing, “Lyllithe wanted to cast a spell, but she was tired.”

Tabletop RPGs have their various systems as well; in old school D&D, your wizard had to choose from the spells he or she knew and memorize a few for the next day. The character would only have access to those spells, so the player had to guess what might be useful for the next few encounters and choose accordingly. In the newest D&D, your wizard has a few powers that are “easy” enough that he or she can use them all the time, but the really powerful abilities still have to be chosen on a daily basis.

Still, I can’t see writing, “Lyllithe had already used up her memorized spells that day, so she took out a dagger and began stabbing Deviols.”

And again, most of these are systems that let you use magic simply because you can.

I wanted a somewhat technological “magic” for the Bordermarches, and I wanted something more pseudo-science than just “Magic does whatever I want.”

So, in a butchering of the physics I learned in school, I thought about potential energy and kinetic energy. Kinetic energy is the energy of a thing in motion; potential energy is the energy that could be released if the object is set in motion. Borrowing from Wikipedia’s explanation, think of a roller-coaster. As the coaster is lifted up to the top of the hill, it builds potential energy. Something is working against gravity to raise the roller-coaster. So when the coaster stops at the top, it has its maximum potential energy. When it goes over the edge, it has kinetic energy, and at the bottom, its kinetic energy is greatest.

Matter (or technically the mass of matter) has energy.

Magic in the Bordermarches is about “refocusing” that energy from a body of mass into… well, whatever. It can be refocused into different mass — turning a sword into liquid, turning a rock into a ball of fire that the caster hurls at enemies, making the stone floor of a building temporarily gelatinous in order to trap an enemy when the stone reverts back to its original form.

Mass is energy is mass, so you can shift one to the other to another using whatever resources are available to you. Imagine siphoning the kinetic energy of a waterfall into a super-heated stream of fire you spray toward your foes. Picture “catching” and refocusing the arrows of your enemies into balls of lightning you throw back at them.

There has to be a limit to this world-bending. 

I came up with a few.

1) If you’re a natural human, and thus not tied by blood to the elemental races (more on that later), then you have to have an eyepiece called an Ocular in order to manipulate magic.  I liked the idea of an eyepiece because it can be almost anything: a monocle, a pair of glasses, a special lens installed in a plate metal helm, a glass suspended over one eye like a pirate’s patch, and so on.

An eyepiece can also be removed in combat, rendering the caster ineffective. And these eyepieces are numerous, but given the “fallen empire” setting of the Bordermarches, the means of making new Oculars has been lost. There’s a limited number of devices out there.

2) Having an Ocular doesn’t give you access to limitless power. The quality of the device affects the amount of energy it can refocus. Push too much energy through it, and you risk burning it up, like a blown fuse.

3) Your available power also depends on what resources you’re willing to use. The exchange from one form to another is not favorable. The thousands of gallons of falling water in the waterfall may fuel a stream of fire for mere seconds.

4) Perhaps the most important limitation is that you cannot take energy from a living thing; you can’t refocus a person into a puddle, or turn a dog into a fireball.  Only inanimate objects can be used for refocusing.

So how does Refocusing work?

First, the caster takes energy from a source he or she can see. Since I like the idea of borrowing from Christian themes and concepts without going full Narnia-style allegory, I chose from Scripture (with my wife’s help) the terms of binding and loosing. The wearer of the Ocular looks at a source of energy and Glancebinds, drawing energy into the Ocular, up to the device’s inherent limit.

The caster can choose to draw on more energy than the Ocular can safely handle, but this risks great pain, permanent injury, and probable destruction of the device in the process.

After Glancebinding, the caster has a choice. They can Loose that energy, turning it into a different kind of mass or energy. This is how they can liquefy a stone floor or turn a waterfall into a fireball.

They can also Shackle the energy instead, charging up a ring or circuit of metal on their person. A wealthy caster might wear several circuits, and a wise caster will keep all those circuits charged, ready to be Unshackled as a source of immediate energy in time of need. The drawback is that charged circuits glow bright, so it’s tough to keep their presence a secret.

I feel like I’ve touched more on Sanderson’s Second Law than the First.

Oddly enough, though I was inspired by Mistborn and Sanderson’s First Law to create a magic system with clear rules, I believe Refocusing follows the Second Law more closely. The caster can do almost anything with the energy/mass they Glancebind. They’re just limited by what and how much they can Glancebind.

I did better capturing the First Law in my system of how Divine power works… but to explain that, I need to explain the relationship of the Divine to the world of the Bordermarches. So that’s next.

No Recipe

“If you two don’t stop making all this noise, I swear I’m going to get my broom and beat you with it.”

I’m thinking of my mother, the day after her birthday.

That’s a horrible quote to start with, perhaps, but it did happen. My brother and I were wrestling around on the living room floor during some TV show that Mom wanted to watch, and we would not be quiet after repeated warnings. So she went to the hall closet, brought back the broom, and started whapping us with it.

We both froze, looked up at the sight of our kindly mother beating us, and burst out laughing.

I think that prompted more beatings with the broom.

We were teenagers at that point (maybe I was only 12, but close enough). Gentle hits with a broom weren’t going to make us cry.

And my Mom is the sort of sweet person who you’d never expect to hurt anyone. I want to say, “She’d never hurt a fly.”

But that’s not true at all. Bugs are definitely on her target list.

Sure, she freaks out when she sees one. But after about five seconds of fear, she becomes violent. She’ll grab a newspaper or shoe or flyswatter (or a broom) and beating the poor insect invader into pulp.

Telemarketers also feel the sting of her wrath. For a while when I was younger, we had a rash of crank calls and telemarketers around dinner time. Mom had a whistle placed near the phone just for these occasions. She’d pick up the phone, say “Hello… oh, it’s YOU again.”

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

My wife knows this from firsthand experience, the accidental victim of a whistle-blower.

Be careful when you call my Mom.

I share those memories not because they are typical, but because they’re so unlike everything else I remember. Mom was always supportive of me while I was growing up, and she remains so today.

She would sit for hours as I practiced or played piano, and she would always tell me how “One day God is going to use that talent of yours, I know it.”

She was generally soft-spoken and slow to anger, and she patiently worked to help her husband and two boys get it all together.

I’m not saying my Dad didn’t do anything. One of his favorite things to do (or so it seemed to me) was to cook for us. Sometimes he’d use recipes to make various family favorites, like “tunnpannkakor” (Swedish pancakes) or cinnamon sugar cookies. (There’s a link to a recipe there… it’s close to what I remember. I might need to make these soon!)

But most of the time, Dad just winged it, cooking whatever he felt like, however he wanted. He’d grill up chicken and hot dogs and burgers. He always made delicious combinations of spices and vegetables, usually some kind of hearty chicken soup. It seemed like his recipe was, “What do we have to choose from? Hmm… I’ll use this, and this, and that, and… that. Done.”

My mom always used recipes, measuring everything out precisely. If the recipe says 1/8 tsp, then you better use 1/8 tsp and not accidentally 1/4. Everything had to be exact, because that’s how you made that particular dish. That’s just how it was. Follow the recipe, and you won’t mess up.

She’d make “mostaccioli,” which is actually just the name of the pasta she used, something I only learned after growing up, moving out, and shopping for myself. It’s ground beef with tomato sauce (“you need the 29 oz can”) and tomato paste (“just one 15 oz can to thicken it up”) mixed together and spooned over a bed of the aforementioned pasta. Sometimes she’d make italian sausage for my Dad and brother. Looking back, it’s remarkably simple, but to me, it was an Italian masterpiece.

There was the famed “tomato soup casserole,” egg noodles and ground beef with a couple cans of Campbell’s soup poured in and stirred up. Her pizza-burgers are one of my brother’s favorites: saucy meat covered in mozzarella and piled on a half of an English muffin, then baked to perfection.

Raspberry Poke Cake was also a delight. It’s just a normal yellow or white cake cooked up according to the directions, then poked with a fork repeatedly. Then you spoon raspberry Jell-O across the top and put it in the refrigerator to cool.

She possessed some culinary magic–at least so it seemed to 10-year-old me.

No matter how complex or simple the dish, she had a recipe and she followed it.

For years, she would make chicken ramen soup for my brother and me to share.  While we ate, she would read us a nighttime story before bed. I had forgotten all about it for several years until we had some again, and I realized “This is the soup you always used to make!” Imagine, being delighted at the discovery of 20 cent packs of ramen noodles, with their 1g of sodium.

By then, I was starting to earn money here and there, and I was often accompanying my parents to the grocery store. So I was able to either get my own ramen or beg them to buy some. I made cheap ramen all the time–always cooked in a pot with boiling water, never just microwaved, in order to get the flavor and texture just right. It got to the point that I knew exactly where to fill the pot to make the ramen, so I didn’t measure out the water.

My mom would ask me, “Why don’t you measure out the 2 cups of water? You need 2 cups. We have a measuring cup right on the shelf in the cabinet, you know.” After all, that was the recipe.

As all parents know, there’s no recipe for raising children. Certainly, we benefit from the experience and advice of others who have gone before, but every kid is different and it’s all guesswork until you find what’s best for your child and you.

My parents struggled with how best to raise my brother, and then once they thought they had something figured out, they discovered that my personality was completely different from his. Similar problems needed different solutions. So they struggled all over again, doing the best they could to help me out.

I’m sure my mom would have been very happy back then to find a “recipe” of some kind.

I’m also sure she didn’t need one. Her mothering magic–unconditional love–was enough.

Happy birthday to an amazing woman that I am proud to call “Mom.”

Forgot Something

And now for something a little different…

You’re the Demon Hunter. You cut swaths through the gathered hordes like the wind sweeping away chaff. Your traps rend the flesh of your foes. Fueled by your deep hatred and your rigid discipline, your arrows punch through demonic flesh. You are so powerful that you can fight your way into the depths of Hell itself to face the greatest of Evils.

But you didn’t bring a rope.

“There’s the door I want. Too bad I can’t jump, or climb down. Nope… gotta fight my way through another few hundred demons to get there.”

FAIL.

Adventurer fail