Word of the Day, Writing

Word of the Day: Velleity

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Here’s another fun word of the day exercise, this time for “velleity.”

I had no idea what that word meant, so here’s the definition:

  • velleity \ vuh-LEE-i-tee \ , noun;
    1. Volition in its weakest form.
    2. A mere wish, unaccompanied by an effort to obtain it.

Now you can say you learned something today! Yay for educational blog content!

Ok, on to the story.

Velleity – 1,220 words

“What’s it gonna take to get you to rise up and be men?”

Preacher’s voice echoes in my ears, and I snap my head up, taking in my surroundings. I sit at the jungle’s edge, drifting off, cradling Erma, my “second wife.” She’s wrapped in my poncho. Rainwater runs down my back and pools beneath me. I see my breath in the chilled night air.

The compound before me is stirring. de Corsa is about to move. Seven pickups sit in the courtyard, engines running. He doesn’t fear the authorities. Probably owns half of them already. But de Corsa isn’t stupid. The US-sponsored counter-drug missions may not be effective, but he’s not going to parade a shipment of cocaine in front of them by daylight.

I pat Erma. “Time to get ready. He’ll be out soon.”

Bodyguards file out, taking positions. “Like anyone’s really going to storm his compound, right?” Erma says nothing, just watches.

They’re carrying M-4 carbines, AK-47s… a few have P90s. Everyone carries a shoulder-holster sidearm. I know from past observations each of those pickup trucks has an M-60 in the flatbed.

“He must be getting softer after all these years, you think? Not like anyone’s given him cause to be scared since Valentin.”

She’s quiet still, snug and dry in the poncho. Never likes waking up, that one. I check my gear as I chat with her.

“No one but Preacher,” I continue. “And everybody saw how that played out.”

I see him again, pacing at the front of the church a week ago, screaming at the congregation like a good Southern Baptist. “You all turned the other cheek and bowed your heads when de Corsa took over. But it wasn’t love moving you. It was fear!”

His voice rang out in the silence. Tears ran down his bright red face, across straining neck muscles. “I know!” he cried out. “I did it too. I thought if I put my head down, preached nice useless sermons, handed out some fruit now and then, it would all be fine.”

He pounded the podium and pointed at the caskets behind him. “It. Is. Not. Fine!”

Wasn’t nothing in them… there wasn’t enough to bury after the car bomb killed his wife and girl. But I saw something inside of Preacher now, and I wasn’t sure if it was the Lord or the Devil.

Preacher decided to stand up to de Corsa, and he told us we should too. I saw heads nod in the church… the same faces that closed up shutters and locked doors when de Corsa came to town the next day.

Maybe they all knew what I knew. There’s always another de Corsa. You kill this guy, someone else will come along to run the operation. Or a few someones, and they’ll fight it out. Either way, the townfolk lose. The devil we know is better than one we don’t.

That’s what I been telling myself for the last fifteen years. Back then the big name was Valentin. I put a bullet between his eyes. Erma was there for that one, too.

Don’t know if it was Valentin’s boys or their rivals, but two dozen townfolk got rounded up and butchered in the street a day later. One was my lady friend. One was our son.

When Ana died, I learned what it would take to get me to sit down, look the other way, pretend to not hear the cry for help.

I feel a twinge in my chest as I see their faces again, but I shut that crap down fast. It’s not even scar tissue now. “No distractions, Erma. Let’s do this.”

Erma still won’t say anything. Gives me that cold shoulder of hers, the one that won’t quit until I’m honest. I know what she’s thinking. Why now? You been hiding all this time, why step up now?

Valid question.

“Men like de Corsa need to know not everyone quivers when they walk by.”

Erma doesn’t respond. I don’t think she buys it.

“He’s an animal, a wild jackal tearing at the weak, picking the bones clean. You don’t coexist with a beast like him. You take him out.”

I really hope she lets up on me, but I know she won’t. She just sits there, cold, lifeless. Like Ana.

Not my lady friend, not that Ana. “It’s Preacher’s daughter,” I finally admit.

Erma’s listening now.

“You weren’t there,” I tell her. “You were downstairs.”

They dragged Preacher through the streets, let everyone see him broken and bleeding. Said he assaulted the compound, killed a few men with a shotgun he got from God knows where.

They left him lying on his back in the dirt, and de Corsa’s limo pulled up. He walked out, kicked Preacher in the ribs, laughed as he doubled up. Then de Corsa calls out for everyone else to hear, “You killed my men. So what? You think you hurt me?”

He pulled out a gun and shot his own men. Two of them, dead right there on the road. “They don’t mean anything to me,” he explained. Then he signaled to his men, and they pulled a little girl out of the limo. She was tied up and gagged, but everyone could see it was Preacher’s daughter, Ana.

Preacher broke down, crawled toward her. And de Corsa ambled alongside him. “Oh yes, it’s her. We took her after we drugged your wife and left her in the car. She’d fetch a pretty penny across the Pacific.”

Then he shot her. And while she bled out, he turned to Preacher, hard as a headstone. “Where’s God now? Is He coming to get me?”

Preacher didn’t say nothing, but we all heard him sobbing into the dirt. And then de Corsa put the barrel to Preacher’s head and fired.

And I stood in my living room and watched through the blinds. de Corsa waved his gun around a bit, threatened everyone else. Seemed disappointed when no one answered him. I watched him spit on Preacher and get in his limo and drive away.

“That’s why, Erma,” I said. I had her attention now. “I didn’t do nothing. And I could have.”

Better late than never, Erma seems to say. I reach into my cargo pocket. Three-thirty-eight Magnum rounds are a bit bigger than most, but they’re wicked accurate and pack a better punch at range. My clip has five rounds.

I only need one.

I pick up my Erma SR-100 and sight in on the mansion’s side door. It swings open and two more guards step out, weapons ready. Then I see him.

He takes two steps into the courtyard, laughing with one of his henchmen.

I squeeze. De Corsa’s head disappears. His body slumps forward, hitting the nearest truck with a thud I swear I can hear from six hundred meters. His men panic, waving guns around.

I press the remote trigger in my pocket. Seven trucks go up in roiling flames, then the eighth bomb next to the gas main takes down half the compound. Fires light up the night sky, and I hear the screams of men knocking on the doors of hell.

“What’s it gonna take for you to rise up?” I can answer your question now, Preacher.

I’m sorry; it took Ana.

Writing

Worldmender Excerpt

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As promised, here’s an excerpt from the second story idea I wrote about earlier.

This one is for Worldmender, and it takes place about a third of the way into the story. I wanted to get the feel for the atmosphere and how the character’s unique gift works.

            Tavener Dendriss squinted at swirls of sand and acrid smoke as he looked out from the wooden shanty. Scattered clouds shone in the night like soft lamps, reflecting the fires in the capital city of Sulkath below. A few buildings stand unharmed, the King’s palace among them. But the walls and defenses are rubble.

            Explosions rattled the shanty’s timbers. Dust fell from the ceiling. The Voices wailed in Tavener’s mind, and he winced.

“the burning, the ripping, it hurts, how it hurts, isn’t it over yet”

            He shook his head and ran his fingers through close-cropped red hair. The Voices have always been quiet in the city… but for ages now, Sulkath has known only peace.

            Tavener knelt and rested his palm on the floor. He imagined replying to the Voices, whispering pictures They would understand. They never listen to my words. Hardy thistle swaying in gusts of wind. Stoic mountains unfazed by storms. A tranquil pool surrounded by dry grass nestled between sand dunes. Serenity.

            A boulder crashed into the smooth waters. Wildfires swept across the grass.

“they come, they come at last just as she promised but they are no different, they are no better, they bind us and rip us and mold us and remake us into whatever they desire, so much fire so much flame, their hunger never ceases and –“

            Tavener steeled his resolve and tuned out. He caught one last whimper.

“why don’t they go back home”

            Silence filled his head, but it did not last.

            His companion, Brightwell, watched him with a furrowed brow. “You look pained.”

            She huddled in shadow at the back of the shanty. He caught her checking the contents of the deerskin pouch for the fifth time today. “All part of the plan,” she says. But I’d sure like to know what’s in that bag.

            Her wavy auburn hair, streaked with sand and dust, curled around her face. Most of her once-green cloak and robe now matched the color of milk tea. She looks like a street urchin in need of a meal and a bath. Or two.

            He glanced down at his clothes. I’m sure I look no better.

            And Tavener had seen what she could do. She is no child in need of your protection, his conscience warned. She has deep wisdom, even if you do not yet understand it.

            She rose and drew near. “Is it the Elements? The voices you spoke of?”

            “It’s nothing. The battle is upsetting them.”

            Brightwell laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “My king, the one true king, has come. All will be set right. Tell the Elements they will not suffer much longer.”

            “I stopped listening. It’s easier than trying to convince them.”

            “Few things worth doing are easy, Tav.”

            He looked away. The moon crested the ruined skyline of Sulkath. “Time to move. Benestayn and Gherris won’t be patient.”

            Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the night. Can’t tell her how I really feel. Sure… your King has come. But Sulkath already has a king. And King Nafalis is not going to roll over and die at the sight of an opposing army, even if it is from Kandurien.

            Tavener picked his way through chunks of stone and scorched wood. Every building on this street suffered damage in the battle. The lower castes call Kandurien heaven on earth. But Kandurien’s armies tore right through the slums on their way to Nafalis. Who’s to say their King Hun-Shin is any better?

            The Voices answered in song.

“we see… we know… we watch the lands below… wherever our winds go… all flesh yearns for kandurien… all men wish… all men pray that hun-shin will rule one day…”

            “Cute,” Tavener muttered.

            “What’s that?” Brightwell asked. She trotted down the street to catch up, picking her way between piled bricks and craters in the hard-packed sand.

            “Voices of Air love to rhyme.”

            “Oh.”

            Tavener smiled. She tries to understand. That counts for something.

            He stopped and crouched behind a crumbling wall. Brightwell bumped into him, but he did not notice. The Voices drowned out everything else.

they come, they search, they will hurt you if they find her, like they hurt us when they rip and tear and bend and

            “I hear footfalls ahead, marching,” Brightwell blurted out. “Soldiers.” She looked all around for refuge, like a spooked rabbit.

            Tavener tugged Brightwell’s arm and ducked into an adobe hovel with a gaping hole in the front. A fire across the street cast flickering light into the single large room. Brightwell pulled her hood down as far as it would stretch, then hid behind Tavener. He understood. There’s little chance any of them will recognize her, but she’s still a fugitive.

            He thought of her deerskin pouch and its secret contents. Even Kandurien cannot afford to lose their Lifesingers.

            Three soldiers marched up the littered street as if all was well. The crisp swing of their boots kicked rocks and rubble out of the way. Silver trimming glistened on their coats, silver gauntlets reflected firelight. Despite his doubts about the invading King Hun-Shin and the armies of Kandurien, Tavener caught his breath at the sight.

            Men of Kandurien, in the flesh, here in Sulkath. I scarce believed this possible.

            An image of a stocky red-haired Dendriss filled his mind. Sammal, brother, you would have rejoiced to see this day.

            One of the soldiers spotted Tavener and turned. He raised an empty hand as a sign of peace and proclaimed, “Citizens of Sulkath, King Hun-Shin has seen fit to liberate you from oppression and usher you into his merciful care. Do not resist. We are here to help. Food distribution begins in the Palace Square at dawn.”

            The soldiers then continued on their way, scanning the buildings for other survivors.

            Tavener glanced at Brightwell and winked. “Acting like refugees worked, just like I said it would. Nothing to worry about. Now we need the rain you promised.”

            She smiled and nodded. “It’s coming.”

“so dry so barren no rain ever, she knows much but she must not know how the Waters come, so thirsty, when will the Waters come”

            A glimmer of hope sprung to life in Tavener’s heart, and he patted the ground.

            Soon.

            He heard the faint and unfamiliar Voice of Water scoff in the distance. Tavener sent a picture of sheets of rain, remembering every detail from the one time he’d seen it as a child.

            He received an image of cracked, parched earth baking under relentless sunlight.

            Brightwell rose and jogged down the street, away from the soldiers. Tavener gave chase.

            Soon. But first, we start cleansing the city.

            Memory came unbidden. Tavener pictured the last time he saw Sammal. They were two of a dozen new slaves, brought from afar to entertain the crowds. The arena master paced in front of the line, reciting his expectations and rules. Sammal spat at him as he passed by.

            The man paused his pace but not his speech. He drew his sword and cut Sammal open like a rotten pomegranate, then warned the others, “You are easily replaced.”

            Seven years in constant fear of death…

            And now the high arches of the tall circular structure and the statues of arena legends loomed before Tavener. Brightwell strode forward without stopping, but Tavener paused, hardening himself for what came next.

            Brightwell turned. “Tav?”

            I’ve told her of the Voices here… but she can’t understand. She never had to hear them.

            He sighed. “I’m all right. Let’s get this done. I hope that rain is coming soon.”

            She smirked. “It’s almost here.”

            The Voices were a low buzz, constant in the city. It was difficult, but he learned to ignore them. At the Rose Garden arena, that was impossible. Twisted by centuries of violence, they raged without ceasing.

“break them tear them someone come and cut their flesh and spill their juices hot and tangy, metallic and thick and sweet to slake Our thirst for just a little while longer, so long since men danced upon Our soil to pour out their lives and wet our parched throats”

            Tavener trembled as the rants continued. He forced himself forward to the stairs that led down into the arena’s oval floor. Brightwell took his hand. “It’s going to be fine, Tav. I’m here.”

“kill her kill her slit her throat and rend her skin and carve her until the life drips down and fills us with delicious warmth”

            They stood on windswept sand in the center of the arena. Though the stands were empty, Tavener heard shouts and catcalls of spectators from his past. He felt the lust of the warped Voice of Earth here, and its constant desire for more blood.

            “Now, Tav.”

            “Now what?”

            “Now it’s time for you to convince the rain to pour from the clouds.”

            Tavener heard Water’s distant laugh again. He glared at Brightwell.

            “This was your plan?”

            She nodded.

            Few things worth doing are easy, indeed.

Word of the Day, Writing

Lodestar

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Polaris

Here’s a “Word of the Day” exercise, using the word “Lodestar.”

For a refresher, “lodestar” means:

1. Something that serves as a guide or on which the attention is fixed

2. A star that shows the way

3. Polaris (a.k.a. the North Star)

Obviously, what that word needs is a zombie apocalypse.

 

Lodestar

“Mama, I thought you said we were there.”

I pat Bitty’s shoulder while scanning the horizon. The sun is setting behind naked trees. The sky is glowing orange and red. My fingers clench around the shotgun pump.

Nothing on the road but our wagon. Nothing in the trees. No moans on the wind. We still got a chance.

Jonathan, my eldest, pipes up. “This is Lodestar, ain’t it?”  O.B. gets excited.

“Daddy’s getting that all sorted, Ji. You boys hush now. Watch your sis.”

Bitty fell out of the wagon yesterday and split her lip. Nothing serious, but her crying attracted attention. Dad only had seventeen shells left, plus a few boxes of nine-mil. Can’t be wasting it ’til we know for sure.

Knockers whinnies and stamps his feet, eager to be on the move. His ears twitch at a sound nearby.

I hear the voices now and then. The men on the wall don’t sound friendly. Dad isn’t happy neither.

“Supplies, at least,” he says. “That’s all we’re asking. Give us a chance to buy or trade.”

Can’t hear the response, but I hear the laughter, and it’s enough.

I pat Bitty again, I think to comfort me more than her. She sucks her thumb and looks around.

It isn’t even the husks I’m worried about. Can’t trust people anymore neither. You meet someone out in the open, you best keep eyes on target and hand on steel, because you know they’re looking for a clear shot at your back.

I see the bodies again. I try not to, but they keep floating to the top of my mind every time I stop watching the land. Found what looked like a family of six today. We told Bitty and O.B. to close their eyes… told them it was the husks. We told Ji too, but he’s too sharp to believe that.

I’m sure he saw the tracks. Boot prints. Probably saw the bullet wounds and clean-cut flesh. Husks got claws and teeth and that’s it.

Ji’s smart, no way around it. At least he had the good sense not to talk about it in front of the other two.

Everyone’s got needs, I know. I just wish folk could be folk again, with welcoming smiles and warmth in their eyes. Lord said “the love of many will grow cold.” But I don’t think no one expected it to be this bad.

I try not to think about the sweet smell of barbecue that comes wafting our way on the breeze. This town might eat well tonight.

Well… not ‘well’ maybe, but they’ll eat their fill for a change.

The silence catches me off guard. I panic for a moment until I hear Dad plead with the gate-men. He’s carrying, and they know it. They won’t pick a fight with him.

Probably.

Ain’t seen any husks in four days, at least. Even then it was only a handful on the horizon. Nothing creeps me out more than the slow pace as we roll by in silence, eyes glued, watching them for a reaction. That time, they just lumbered around out there, near a farmhouse. Think I heard a few pigs squeal.

Guess even husks can’t resist bacon.

“What’s so funny, Ma?”

I hear Dad getting angry at the men. “Sorry, Ji. Right now, not a damn thing.”

I already know what’s next. I hear him stomping our way, cursing under his breath.

He hops up onto the driver’s seat and takes the reins from Ji. “Idiots. ‘You got nothing we need.’ Pish! How about extra hands to work the land? Extra weapons to hold the wall at night?”

Ji’s shoulders sag. “This ain’t Lodestar, is it, Dad?”

Dad sighs. Sounds like Jesus giving up the ghost. My heart breaks, and I hear him sniff.

No, no tears. Can’t have that in front of the kids.

“I’m sorry, hon,” I blurt out. “I thought I might’ve read the map wrong.”

He doesn’t move, but I hear him take a deep breath.

“This ain’t Lodestar, boys,” I explain. “We’re almost there, but it’s still a few days north. I thought we made better distance than we did these past few, and I got messed up.”

Ji squints at me, but O.B. lights up.

“Think they’ll have rabbits there,” he asks, “like back home? I wanna get a big fluffy grey one, name him Mister Carrots!”

Bitty laughs, and I manage a smile.

“I bet they just might, O.B. Let’s get moving and we’ll know soon.”

The wind picks up. The sky is all deep violet and maroon. We’re further north than we ever expected to be. Well into Canada by now, or what used to be Canada back when names and borders meant something.

“Tell me ’bout Lowstar!” Bitty squeaks.

Dad inhales deep, ready to put the burden back on his shoulders. Then he turns, red-eyed but grinning.

“It’s going to be the best, Bitty.”

He speaks in a hushed tone. We need to give the kids hope. We need to avoid attracting husks too.

He’s trying.

“It’s where everyone’s headed… all the good folk. They got walls a foot thick and taller than trees, to keep the husks out. They got fresh water, ’cause there’s a stream running right through the town. They even have some greenhouses to grow fruit.”

“Mmmmm!”

“You remember strawberries, Bits? I bet they got big red strawberries. Maybe even a raspberry patch like back home.”

They keep talking kind of quiet, and I reminisce. Home. Seems like ages ago that we pulled out of Alabama. Summer seemed a good time to travel, and all the talk said Lodestar was in the West Virginia hills. Then we got there, and they said it was on the shore of Lake Erie. Then we got there, and got a new map.

Not that we needed a map, really.

The sky above is almost all black.

Bitty whispers, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

And there it is. The North Star, pointing the way to hope.

Dad is putting on a strong face, and Elizabeth is happy, so the boys are content even in the midst of all this. They huddle in blankets and watch in awe as the sky fills with stars.

I wish I felt the same sense of wonder, but I can’t shake one thought:

We’re running out of “north” soon.

Awesome Children, Gaming

+1 Sling of Angry Birds

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We’ve been playing a tabletop role-playing game for Family Game Night.

Tonight we took a break to level up the characters.

I also took some time to level up my son’s interest in the game.

Justin (7 years old) has a rogue character named Clayface, and he seems to be enjoying himself. The problem is, all Clayface ever really has to do is shoot his crossbow at everyone’s face.

When I ask, “Justin, what do you want to do?” that’s always the answer.

“I shoot the goblin in the face.”

“I shoot my crossbow at the spider. In the face.”

“I want to shoot my crossbow RIGHT IN HIS FACE!”

So I thought, how am I going to get Justin to think more about what different things he might want to do?

That’s when I thought of these guys:

Justin is an absolute nut about Angry Birds.

And this is a silly family game where anything can be allowed.

So why not give Clayface the rogue a slingshot and a sack of birds to use as ammunition?

For the next session, I get to hand Justin the sheet below. It may not get him sneaking around and role-playing a rogue, but it will get him thinking about what he wants to do in the game, even if it turns into, “I fire Little Red into the goblin’s face!”

Angry Birds in D&D 4E form
Writing

Walking Death: Ch. 1

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As promised, here’s the first story excerpt. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Walking Death, Chapter 1

The year the Empire fell began like any other in recent memory: celebration.

The Assassin knew the night would end with blood.

She crouched at the edge of the cliff overlooking the city of Veneshal. Black strands of hair brushed her tanned cheek, and she swept them away, eyes fixed on her goal far below. She peered into the distant shadows and dove.

Her grey cloak whipped behind her as she plummeted three hundred feet toward the highest tower of the magnificent building below. A cloud of black dust burst around her, and she froze in the air a hand’s length above the stone. Her foot touched down with serene poise.

The Assassin observed the rooftop below. She stood invisible in the night, hooded and covered in loose grey fabric, hidden from the city lights. Glimmering rings sat on pedestals around the manors of nobility. They twinkled in the night like stars fallen to the earth.

   Refocused magic. Arcanists are present.

The contract required a public killing, so the Assassin expected confrontation with a magic-user. She felt neither fear nor excitement at the challenge. She merely noted the complication and planned her reactions.

Throughout Veneshal, ornate paper lanterns hung above commoners’ doorframes in such great numbers that the few clouds and the rippling bay around the port city glowed like amber.  Music and the clamor of the New Year’s celebration rose to the assassin’s ears.

But no celebration echoed as loud nor building shone as bright as that on which the Assassin now stood. The Baricund dominated Veneshal’s skyline, both a fortress and the grand mansion of the Condral family, nobles with blood ties to the Emperor himself. Tarrandin Condral oversaw all trade that came through the docks, so he possessed enough wealth for frivolity. He held feasts and diversions year-round. Tonight’s celebration surpassed them all. Based on the plan the Assassin had been given, several thousand favored attendees would be inside the Baricund. The crowd outside doubled that number.

   Irrelevant to the mission. The ground exits are a worst-case option. Not even a team of Arcanists can keep up with me once I get outside.

There were fifteen guards in the courtyard below, sweating in shining plate armor. The unlucky few assigned to crowd control. Probably another score of guards within.

No one watched the rooftop.  The cliff face jutted out high above the Baricund.  Rappelling down was impossible.

   Then again, no one has seen powers like mine.

She gazed down at the stone roof and pictured the floor plans she memorized.  Tarrandin would have withdrawn to the private ballroom by now, surrounded by four hundred chosen guests.  His top lackeys and businessmen, most likely. Anyone connected to Hazfis Ral.

Ral’s criminal ties spread throughout every major city and town across the Empire. On receiving her mission, the Assassin wondered whether the enigmatic figure that indirectly purchased her services was Ral himself.  Counting Tarrandin Condral, four of her last seven targets worked in Ral’s network.  He’s cleaning house, or someone is sending him a message.

But the Assassin was not concerned about Hazfis Ral.  The man with the money does not matter. I have a contract; I will fulfill it.

She picked one stone on the rooftop and reached out in her mind.  Shadows stretched and oozed like spilled ink running across a sheet of paper. At her command, the darkness gathered in a slow swirl around her chosen stone until she could not see it. A whip-crack broke the silence as the stone shattered. The pool of shadow exerted tremendous force on the adjacent stones. Jagged lines spider-webbed out from the edges.

The hidden figure sprang from her perch, extending her hands toward the roof below.  Lines of fine black dust appeared in the air between her and the mass of darkness.  The ceiling crumbled. Stones plummeted and smashed the ballroom’s hardwood floor. The Assassin slipped through the new-formed hole, followed by the swirling plume of dark flecks left behind as the pool dissipated.

Partygoers froze. The orchestra stopped. All eyes turned toward the ceiling.

As the Assassin fell, she Stretched a new jet of shadow downward, pushing away from the ground to soften the impact. At the same time, she Pooled again, pulling a mixture of darkness and rubble into a funnel around herself.

When her foot touched the ballroom floor, she released all that she gathered. Broken rock sprayed out from the swirling cloud in every direction. Fabric and flesh tore with equal ease throughout the room as the Assassin Scattered all she had Pooled.

Screams echoed in the chamber. Men and women scrambled over each other in a dash to the exit. The Assassin scanned the crowd for anyone pushing against the human tide. Tarrandin’s bodyguards fought the panic and frenzy of the crowd, jostling their way through the rush of bodies. They wore no armor to speak of; they were still guests at a banquet and so were dressed in formal attire. Three wore eyeglasses. Three Arcanists. Manageable.

Pureblood human Arcanists used eyepieces called Oculars in order to manipulate magic. The potential energy of inanimate objects could be bound by the eyepiece, Refocused into a new form, then loosed in combat against a foe. Arcanists were the most destructive force in the Empire’s employ, but the Assassin felt no fear or worry. One at forward-left. One at forward-right. One at right flank… and weapons all around.

The Assassin’s powers could not touch an Ocular. She did not fully understand why. But the people wearing the devices were just flesh and blood. Jets of shadow dust reached out past the approaching bodyguards and Arcanists to yank several chunks of fallen rock toward the Assassin–through her foes.  Bloodstained stones thudded on the ground at her feet, followed by eight bodies. Two wore Oculars.

This was the opposite of Stretching, an ability she called Flexing. She could use the shadow to pull at an object. A large object could serve as an anchor for the Assassin to propel herself through the air. A small object could be Flexed or Stretched at high velocity as a projectile weapon.

The third Arcanist still stood unharmed. The stones she flung toward him splashed to the ground, Refocused into muddy water.

Six guards rushed her. Arcanist first.

She drew two long curved knives and leapt into the fray. The Assassin spun, parried, dodged, and slashed at the guards, but always her eyes remained fixed on the man with the Ocular. Her blades became a blur, her cloak a swirling shadow.

   They can only Refocus what they can see. Be faster than sight.

The ground under her softened like quicksand. Not fast enough! The Assassin Flexed at a nearby guard, pulling herself into the air and shoving him down into the puddle of liquid stone before it solidified around him. She landed with a slash across another guard’s arm, and he dropped his sword. This she Stretched toward the Arcanist, but the blade shimmered into droplets of metal. They sprayed past him and splattered across the wall.

She felt no frustration at this failed attack. The distraction served its purpose.

With a flick of her wrists, two silvery spikes flew toward the Arcanist. He swept at them with his arm, but they flew straight and remained intact. His eyes widened. Yes, they’re warpsilver too. You’re not the only one with fun toys.

The Arcanist fell to his knees, clutching at his eyes. A fist-sized stone on a stream of shadow dust punched into his chest and slid him across the floor.

The Assassin recovered the precious spikes, then turned her attention to the remaining guards. She Pooled shadow around herself. The guards grimaced, muscles straining against the sudden weight. None of them fled from her, a credit to their bravery.

   They should have.

The first two bodyguards reached out to capture her. To the assassin’s eyes, they looked like tired men slogging through a swamp. Their fingertips reached for her, and she exploded in motion. She punched out with both fists, knocking the breath from their lungs and bending them over. Then she sprung onto their shoulders, pushing them downward while jumping over their falling bodies to snap a sharp kick into the throat of a third guard.

In the midst of the chaos, one of her enemies raised a monocle to his eye. The Assassin smiled. You were wise to keep your power hidden until now.

Her foot brushed the ground and her leg spun around to sweep the third guard into the air. Then she Stretched, launching him at the new Arcanist. Thought so… you can dissipate a rock or blade, but you won’t risk hurting your ally. The Arcanist hesitated, and the guard crashed into him. Both went down in a heap of limbs.

Two bodyguards lunged toward the crouching Assassin, and she Stretched against the ground. The floor could not be moved, so the Stretch tossed the Assassin into the air between the guards. Her knives flashed, slicing into their necks. Then she Scattered, sending them away with a wave of force and black specks.

The Arcanist regained his footing, about to unleash the Refocused fireball in his hand. The Assassin threw her knives, speeding them along with a Stretch. He quickly shifted elements from fire to air, pushing the knives off course with a howling wind. The blades flew wide, curving behind the Arcanist. Then the Assassin Flexed, yanking them back point-first.

The wind stopped as the man fell. Bloodstains formed in his chest where the knives nearly pierced clean through.

The last bodyguard had the good sense to run. The Assassin gave no chase. Witnesses are part of the plan.

A third of the guests remained, eyes fixed on the action. In the center of the ballroom, the Assassin was alone with Tarrandin. He slouched at the table with heavy-lidded red eyes. The empty glass on its side clearly was not his first. This will be over soon.

The Assassin stepped forward, drawing two more knives.

Then Tarrandin grinned. Slurring in an alien language, he lifted a steak knife from the table and sliced his palm. He painted a small symbol on his forehead with the blood.

   So the rumors were true. He was a Kem’neth, a human filled with demonic power. She recognized the symbol. The sign of Deceit.

She paused in her approach. Ninety percent reduction in likelihood of success. She felt no sense of defeat, no fear of failure, and no exhilaration at the surprising challenge she now faced. Only an observation that she could very well die.

She brandished the knives and lunged.

Culture/Politics, Scripture commentary

Oaths and Vows

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“Now is the hour! Riders of Rohan! Oaths you have taken, now fulfill them all, to lord and land!” – Eomer, The Return of the King.

I love the Rohirrim.

Forth, Eorlingas!
If we’re going to die, we’re taking a lot of you with us.

When I read the books as a kid, I did not grasp the power of their commitment to their oaths. I didn’t really consider that they were riding to presumed death because “we promised.” Consider this conversation:

Gamling: We do not have the numbers to defeat the armies of Mordor.

Theoden: No, we do not. Yet we will meet them in battle nonetheless.

Why? Because honor and oaths demanded it.

4 When you make a vow to God, do not be late in paying it; for He takes no delight in fools. Pay what you vow! 5 It is better that you should not vow than that you should vow and not pay.
– Ecclesiastes 5:4-5 NASB

Oaths are powerful, so long as they are upheld. But they really only matter to the one who makes the oath and the one to whom it is made.

The lap of luxury
Life is an aisle-way, I’m gonna scoot it all night long…

Wal-Mart’s customers aren’t held to fitness standards. I know, that’s a real news flash, right? (I’ll skip links to unfortunate pictures of Wal-Mart customers.)

Imagine walking into your local Wal-Mart and stopping random folk to conduct a weight and waist measurement. Try conducting an impromptu fitness test on the first person you see riding around on a scooter cart. How many push-ups and sit-ups can they do in a minute?

You’re not going to have much luck.

No one would expect you to, either.

On 28 Dec 1994, I stood in the MEPS center in Chicago and raised my right hand. I swore an oath of enlistment. At that moment, a new set of standards applied to me… standards I wasn’t even fully aware of at the time. I would soon learn about all the various regulations that my superiors expected me to follow. And if I ever failed to uphold standards, I was reminded that this was a voluntary choice on my part. No one drafted me. No one held a gun to my head. I raised my right hand of my own free will.

In January of 1997, I remember kneeling at the altar of my church and re-dedicating my life to Christ, not just as the “Get Out of Hell Free” Savior but as the “Not my will but Yours be done” Lord. No one forced me to my knees or put words in my mouth. I made a choice.

I wonder what would happen if I went into Wal-Mart to give a spiritual fitness test to random customers. “These are the standards. It’s all written here in the ‘regs’ of the Bible. This is what you need to measure up to. How’s your prayer life? When was the last time you served someone in need? More than simply walking into a church, have you connected with like-minded people in the last year?”

I might have better success than I would with the AF PT test, but that’s beside the point.

The question is, have those people made a commitment that demands adherence to the same spiritual standards I follow? Did they raise their right hands to God and swear an oath, or fall on their knees to dedicate their lives to Him?

If not, then why should I expect them to live up to my religious standards?

My wife has often asked, “Why are we trying to hold the world to our standards? They aren’t followers of Christ. Why should we expect them to live like something they’re not?”

Maybe we followers of Christ need to focus on how well we’re measuring up to our own standards first.

In the Air Force, I failed to meet PT standards. Now I’m working to correct that. I can look around and say, “But that guy looks fat in uniform. And those civilians are really out of shape. And I know a lady who can’t run to save her life but she gets an Excellent because she’s a twig.”

None of them are taking my test for me. I raised my hand. I swore an oath. I have a standard to uphold.

Some will say, “But what about preaching against sin? Jesus didn’t just love people. He also said,

‘Go and sin no more.'”

Absolutely. But I’m concerned with the way we communicate that message.

NOT made of vitamins
You mean they’re NOT healthy?

I could walk in to Wal-Mart and yell or even gently discuss all the facts about heart disease and proper nutrition and the benefits of exercise. I could make it as simple as “Eat less, move more.”

People already know that. I don’t think anyone would have a sudden epiphany. “You mean the food I eat and the sitting on the couch I do all day is making me fat? Thank you! I never understood where it was coming from!”

I think the message on a lot of sin has already gotten out there. When we rant against favorite target sins like homosexuality, pornography, and abortion, we’re saying what people already know. “The Church thinks porn is BAD?”

Also NOT healthy
This is bad for me too? Why didn’t someone tell me?

When we focus so much on telling people their faults, many times, we’re repeating what they’ve already heard. And we’re probably talking to people with absolutely no interest in what we have to say.

In most cases, people pursued Jesus. They wanted to hear what He had to say, because He ministered to them. In some cases, He initiated the conversation, and even then, He first demonstrated something to give them a reason to listen.

When we are in relationship with people, or when we demonstrate love through genuine action instead of mere words, people might care to hear what we have to say.

We need not and must not ignore the detrimental effects of sin. We must be honest about that. Yet we need not be combative or prideful in our efforts. The collateral damage we do in that case far outweighs any momentary benefits.

May we focus on the oaths we have taken, the vows we have made. May we show ourselves faithful. Because I suspect when people see that we are real and our love is sincere, they might even start caring what we have to say.

And we might be able to say it right.

Scripture commentary, Worship

Morning Snack #2

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35 Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? – Romans 8:35-36 NASB

OM NOM NOM
Fig Newtestaments, maybe?

I’m thinking of this verse, pondering the greatness of the love of Christ, and remembering the past/present/future style of the first Morning Snack.

There’s nothing in my past that can disqualify me.

“While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us…” Romans 5:8 (and here’s the passage in the Message).

“…anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone…” 2nd Corinthians 5:17 (MSG)

If God showed us such love when we were His enemies, cut off from Him by our sins… what makes me think He’s going to not accept me now that I belong to Him?

There’s nothing in my present that can separate me.

“I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you.” – Hebrews 13:5 (NASB, but here’s the Message again)

“I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” Galatians 2:20 (here in context)

You can’t get un-crucified. There’s no take-backs. If you came to Christ, He is in you, and God has a “No Return” policy.

There’s nothing in my future that can overwhelm me.

“In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.” John 16:33 (NASB)

“Greater is he who is in you than he that is in the world.” 1st John 4:4 (NASB).

God grants us grace that trains us to say, “No” to sin and He limits the strength of the temptations and trials we face.

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. – Romans 8:38-39. 

Writing

Story Excerpts

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Dear readers,

I greatly appreciate the attention you’ve given the various rants and ramblings on my page.

We all have dreams that drive us to do something more. I think there’s a wide range of intensity to those drives, from

Gee, it would be nice to…  to I really want to… to the “Bucket List” style I will do this before I die.

For example, I started playing piano when I was five years old. I took eight years of lessons, and then stopped because I wouldn’t practice anything unless I wanted to learn the song. “Bach? No. Guns ‘n’ Roses November Rain? Sure!”

In 1998, a friend urged me to start writing songs for church. “Not me,” I protested. “I can’t do that.”  I barely believed I could even sing in public.

“Be it unto you according to your faith,” he challenged, referring to Scripture. “Little faith, you reap little. Big faith, you reap big.”

That afternoon, I went to church early, before the worship team practice, and sat down at the piano. Okay, God, I prayed. If this is really something for me, then fine. I want to do it. Whatever You have for me to do with this ability, I want to do it.

Essentially, it was a Gee, it would be nice.

I wrote four songs that afternoon.

Nothing tremendous or breath-taking or #1 hit on the Billboard charts or anything. But it was something new for me, and a confirmation that there was something more worth pursuing.

Since then, I’ve written over 100 songs. Many of them have been for use in whichever local church my wife and I were attending at the time, related to the messages the pastors preached. Again, no chart-toppers or big concerts or anything. But there’s a gift there, and I know the purpose for it.

Now I come to writing. I love writing, but never would have presumed I had something that would interest a wide audience. And yet I have ideas bouncing around in my head, story lines that beg to be told. They started out as campaign ideas for a tabletop role-playing game group, and have grown and evolved over the last five years.

I’d like to start sharing them with you all.

If you like what you see, tell me so. If parts seem unclear or poorly structured, let me know. I can only get better with feedback.

I hope to make this a weekly post for a little while, to see how it goes. I’ll be presenting three story lines for now.

Worldmender – In a land broken and scarred by ages of war and misused magic, a slave and a runaway aristocrat try to repair the damage, one twisted site at a time. Their unique gifts grant them ever-increasing favor and fame, until they meet the legendary King whose bold plan might set everything right again… or destroy all they have worked to achieve.

Walking Death – During the last days of the greatest empire in history, a remorseless assassin is filled with unexpected doubts. Forced to question all she knows about herself, her powers, and her masters, she searches for answers and does not like what she finds. On the run from former targets, employers, the organized rebellion, the whispers of Deceit, and the full resources of the Emperor, even the shadows she calls home are no refuge.

Prophecy of Cora – Five reluctant but competent adventurers accept the call of the Lord Mayor of Aulivar to form a swift-strike special tactics unit. When their first real mission proves far more challenging than expected, they must determine which is the greater danger: their external foes, or their internal struggles. The truth has a way of rising to the surface, even the secret sins of the distant past.

I look forward to sharing these worlds with you.

FreeWorship Lyrics, Worship

Song: How Great You Are

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Link to song on SoundCloud: How Great You Are

Friday night, I got to spend a little time banging on the keys, playing and singing songs to worship. Some were to prepare for Sunday, and some were simply because I enjoy them.

I found a few chord progressions I liked, and started putting some lyrics together for a melody that formed in my head. Then I realized I could combine these lyrics and the music with the words of the old hymn, “How Great Thou Art.”

That hymn is a favorite for my Dad, who is 100% Swedish. A young Swedish pastor penned the lyrics after a stroll through the woods experiencing the glory of God revealed in nature. Like many hymns, it quickly turns attention to Christ’s sacrifice and atonement for our sin on the Cross, followed by a reminder of the glorious hope of eternity with God.

The bridge I added, the part with “Sing my soul how great this God,” was meant to be the crescendo of praise in the song. I wanted the music and the words to be something that builds up to a point where I throw everything I have into worship, into the music, into my relationship with God, into living for Him. After all, what good is a song that sounds great right now as I sing it but does not remind me or challenge me to continue living out its message?

How Great You Are

Verse 1
      O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
      consider all the worlds Thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
      Thy pow’r throughout  the universe displayed

Chorus

Then sings my soul   My Savior God to Thee
How great You are
God, how great You are to me
Praises bring to the matchless King
God how great You are
How great You are

Verse2

And when I think             that God His Son not sparing
Sent Him to die, I             scarce can take it in
That on the Cross             my burden gladly bearing
He bled and died to        take away my sin

Bridge

Sing my soul how great this God    Everlasting      Ever  loving

Sing my soul how great this God   Never ending  Never failing

God how great You are   God how great You are

Verse 3
When Christ shall come      with shouts of acclamation
and  take me   home what joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow               in humble adoration
and then proclaim “My God how great Thou art!”
Now sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee

 

Writing

Bordermarches: Curses

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I’ve introduced many of the features of the Bordermarches so far: magic, science, the Divine, and Gracemarks.

Now I’d like to present the opposition to the Divine.

Though I do enjoy good vs. good storylines, I also have a place in my heart for the “simple” clear-cut good vs. evil conflict.

Given my intent to take advantage of biblical themes and perspective, my evil is a lot like Tolkien. It doesn’t create anything new. It corrupts that which was originally made pure.

There are seven Daemons working against the purposes of the Divine in this fantasy setting.

In response to Light and Truth, there is Deceit.

To oppose Strength and Passion, there is Rage.

Nature and Growth are countered by Corruption.

Justice and Order are pitted against Chaos.

The rival of Knowledge and Creativity is Ignorance.

Love and Beauty struggle against Hatred.

The foe of Eternity and Life is Destruction.

My good buddies Merriam and Webster tell me that “Daemon” probably comes from a Greek root that means “to distribute.” The term implies oversight of a thing. These seven Daemons are no different, distributing a Curse similar to the Gracemarks of the Divine.

Serving darkness is not without benefits…

There are key differences. While a Gracemark is under the control of the bearer, the Curse, or Kem, can take control of its host. When this happens, the bearer is more like a husk or shell, a puppet on strings pulled by the influence of the Daemon. Once under the sway of the Curse, the bearer’s true form is revealed, that of a massive horned demon twice the size of the average man.

How YOU doin'?
Kem’neth should look like this, even if it’s blatant stealing from Legend… because Tim Curry is amazing.

Gracemarks are given either as a divine favor or as a symbol of acceptance from a religious order, and they are not transferable. Curses, however, can be granted as a gift of power to a servant of evil, or they can be transferred to an individual who kills a Cursebearer. The person who slays a Kem’neth (or Cursebearer) is usually given the option soon afterwards to accept or reject the Curse. Some people are exempt from the offer: Devoted of the Light and Soulforged of Justice are two examples.

Gracemarks generally give two or four powers associated with their Aspect of the Divine. Cursebearers receive all seven powers, one related to each Daemon, although they each have one strongest power.

No one man should have all that power…

Deceit inspires followers to buy in to the Cursebearer’s lies. But more than that, Deceit allows the Cursebearer to appear to be in two places at once during combat, projecting false images into the minds of enemies.

Rage incites bloodlust and murderous intent in the hearts of others. It also grants the Cursebearer terrible strength.

Corruption warps the hearts of others to serve the Cursebearer’s purposes. It can also twist creation to serve the Cursebearer’s needs, turning Nature against the Cursebearer’s enemies.

Chaos allows the Cursebearer to release bolts of uncontrolled energy. In pseudo-science terms, the Cursebearer tweaks physics on a quantum scale.

Ignorance keeps minions in check and muddles the minds of enemies.

Hatred permits the Cursebearer to detect and track particular enemies over long distances.

Destruction allows the Cursebearer to draw on non-sentient life nearby in order to regain energy or empower magic.

Everything floats down here!
Kem’neth should also sound like Pennywise… because Tim Curry.

There’s only one way to kill a Kem’neth…

The one other advantage of the Kem is a limited immortality. Having given themselves completely over to the service of the Daemons, the Cursebearers are only vulnerable in their hearts. Even if decapitated or torn in half, a Cursebearer will eventually regenerate; the heart must be destroyed in order to put the Cursebearer to death.

Kem’neth can come in both genders and all races, but humans are the predominant race.

That statement doesn’t mean much unless I introduce the various races in the Bordermarches, so I had better do that next.