A Confident Captain...

Broken rays of light struggle to fight through wafting clouds of smoke, as a soft roll of thunder seems to echo from every side of a massive battlefield. Tense exclamations are quickly muted as nearly a hundred soldiers crouch close to the earth and frantically peer around to try to make sense of the blurred images contorting in the smoke. Thousands of acres of burnt grasslands spread out all around the soldiers and the smoke seems intent on blotting out the very sun in the sky. Hasty signals are passed from soldier to soldier as they can’t see more than 3 feet ahead of them. A brown garbed sergeant desperately tries to form a defensive formation against the foe he knows must surround them by now.

Barely over a hundred feet away, steely gray eyes remain locked on the urgent motions of the sergeant and his company. Unfazed by the smoke and acrid burning smell, Captain Maulkin studies his target with serious contemplation. So still is the Captain that even the great destrier beneath him refuses to move, allowing the carrion flies buzzing in clouds to land on its body without complaint. After a few minutes of study, the Captain moves his large gauntleted hand in a small circle and from his right comes a soft trill, nearly birdlike in its quality. As that call elongates and drifts upon the wind something stirs across the field, suddenly forming itself into a crashing and twisting shadow army racing through the smoke. Hoarse calls and yells ring upon the air and all of the brown clad soldiers tense into a sudden formation and attempt to form a shield wall. The thunder of hooves echo prominently in the ears of all around, the dense clouds of smoke making it sound as if it was coming from right on top of any person that could hear it.

With elegant grace the Captain swings down from his mount to close his eyes and lean his head back to the sky. Soot drifts down from above to smear his beard gray, but still he waits and listens to the chaos erupting around him. Ahead of him the unaware soldiers react to the crashing sound of a Calvary charge nearly upon them; some break and run to disappear into the haze, others are more disciplined and follow the sergeant’s bellows to form tight ranks and present weapons front, others seem immobilized by fear which directly counters those blood thirsty few who can’t bear the wait for combat and scream their challenges into the smoky blanket. At what seems the very last moment on this earth, the charging hooves carve a beat directly into the veins of every soldier present and then suddenly the sound is gone. A hesitant pause silences nearly every noise from the company of men, as they gape in surprise at the sudden reprieve. One heartbeat lingers, then two, and with that the Captain snaps his arms up into a commanding gesture.

The puzzled soldiers have just begun to relax, most standing and staring around in bewilderment as they try to discover what happened and if they were actually under attack or just hearing echoes from much further away. The sergeant is just about to bark an order to present an orderly front and stay alert when he happens to see just a glint of light flashing off the helmet of one of his men. Turning to face behind him, he is shocked to his core at the sight presented before him. Striding confidently towards him comes a ghostly apparition, heavy boots crunching down into still smoldering grass and empty arms stretched outwards towards the sky. Smoke drifts up from the scorched earth and gently embraces the ornate green armor in a fitting caress as the world around the sergeant explodes into fury and death.

No emotion mars the pristine visage of the Captain as he glides forward towards his dying enemies. Thick wooden shafts whistle down from the sky to embed themselves in relaxing soldiers, one man manages to lift his shield in time to catch an arrow right in front of his face but the very next moment he is skewered from behind as a fellow soldier reacts poorly to a shaft buried in his throat. With two more strides, the Captain has nearly reached the enemy forces and he once against closes his eyes to savor the moment as his troops continue to rain destruction down in front of him.

Frantically shouting orders, the horrified sergeant tries to protect his men. It seems to be working for a brief instant, as order is returned and shields begin stopping the onslaught of arrows. Turning to face the warrior striding confidently into his midst, the sergeant begins to think they might have a chance. With a terrible rending sound, a massive boulder erases hope as it collides into the tightly packed formation and smashes armor, bones, blood, and tissue into a solid meaty paste.  Another boulder thuds in with a sickly crunching sound, and then the sky is filled with them. Dazed and bloodied, the soldiers try to find shelter or escape reality but there is no relenting from the arrows carving lines of pain and death complimented by the totality of a thudding boulder.

Sinking to his knees, the sergeant is aghast at the loss of his entire company so quickly. Just a year ago, nobody would have thought of challenging the Dalison House. Respected for being the first Royal House, their reputation had slipped a bit but enough people still feared them that they went basically unchallenged. Now they were dying, and too fast to count. Who did this to them, to him? Almost as if taunting the sergeant, the barrage of boulders and the hail of arrows peters out to leave a field empty except for smoke and blood. Twisting slowly from his kneeling position to gaze around him, tears freely fall as the sergeant realizes that not a single man was left alive. Despair rips all reasoning or action from his grasp and he dumbly watches thick metal boots stride through the remains of his men until they stop right in front of him. “No more will you disgrace this world, you have proven yourself weak and unworthy of life” comes a gravelly pronouncement out of the haze and then light ripples along a blade and the sergeant cares no more.

A few moments pass, with just the Captain standing near the headless body and gazing upon the ruined remains of the Dalison soldiers. Then other figures begin to materialize from the smoky surroundings and approach the silent captain. The first to arrive reaches out a gloved hand to give the Captain a small cloth which he uses to clean his blade silently. “Captain, we still have reports of three other bands of soldiers still nearby. Two from House Rodhale and it looks like one from House Obelyn.” Looking at the speaker, one of his closest aides, the Captain responds “Are we sure they are two different Houses? House Rodhale and Obelyn both wear blue that can be confused in this environment and lack of visibility.” Nodding his assurance, the aide continues “Aye, Captain. The scout actually heard one of the troop ask where Lady Obelyn was supposed to meet them. He was promptly cussed out by a fellow in the troop, but that makes the scout confident they are actually from House Obelyn.”

Pondering his next move, Captain Maulkin signals into the smoke and a few flashes of light wink back at him. Turning to the rest of his aides as they gather around him, he takes a look at the map attached to the back of one of his men. “Okay, the Dalisons are pretty much broken. They still fight and think they hold this ground, but we have holes and entry points everywhere. We know this ground much better than they do, which makes me think they didn’t plan this massive fire which gave us such great opportunity.” A snort interrupts him briefly, causing a pursing of his lips to which his men suddenly straighten and become deadly serious and intent upon his words. “We don’t have much to fear from the Rodhale troops, while the House has a reputation for being all about combat they are really just glory hounds and better suited to the tournaments. In a real fight, they are clueless babes. Plus most of their best men are still in Corvale toadying up to the useless King.”

As various heads nod in agreement with this assessment, the Captain gives his orders “We must teach the Obelyn House that they are no longer the second most important House in the Kingdom. They already have plans upon the throne, and think they will take advantage of this chaos to position themselves and take what they already believe is theirs. I can see their thought, since they have so carefully positioned themselves over the past two decades. But our Lords have different plans, and this is our first time to show them a glimpse of the new order.” Looking around at his aides, the Captain waits until each of his dusty and tired men make eye contact. “We must do this subtly and completely. We are not yet ready to show our true plans or goals. Most of the Houses think we just want this country side, and do not realize the strength of our ambition. With our brethren in House Seymore, we will show them the errors of their ways but not just yet.” A pause here, for effect. “We will wipe this Obelyn company off our God’s earth, and then plant the bodies of the Dalisons at the scene so that when the Duchess finally does arrive to meet her troops she will have to take action against someone other than ourselves.”

As his men break apart to start giving orders and signals to the massed troops hiding in strategic places across the ruined battlefield, the Captain gives himself a small brief moment of emotion. A twisted smile pulls at his downturned lips for the briefest moments as he contemplates the future. “This is OUR Kingdom, they just don’t know it yet.”

A Fallen Knight...

Fog curls out from beneath the gnarled tree roots and gently caresses the ground as it spreads forward to embrace the earth. Broken rays of sunlight trickle down through the cluttered branches to sparkle delicately in the gray cloud covering the ground. For a brief moment it seems as if all of the world has fallen into an enchanted slumber.  Then hoarse shout rises distantly from within the thicket of trees and is soon joined by a great number of screams. Birds burst dramatically into the air to blend their shrieking calls with the deathly din they are eagerly escaping. Wearily, a battered face turns towards the outburst with calculating eyes; wiping glistening beads of sweat from his face, Sir Leon motions to a waiting squire who refills his water-skin as the Knight strains to make out the sounds of battle.

“It’s the Seymour’s yellow coated brigands again, I reckon” a nearby soldier helpfully interjects to break the quiet reflection. The Knight nods as he returns “But whose men are they butchering now?” which causes everyone to fall silent again. The sounds of battle drift from the distant conflict for a few more minutes before slowly fading away into an eerie calm. Tilting his head back, Sir Leon looks up at the makeshift watch tower his men had completed just the previous night. A slight movement on the wooden construction and then a head peers over and makes eye contact with the Knight. “Can’t see diddly, Sir. No idea where they are, or how many there are.”

A muffled groan might have been heard as the Knight looks around at his remaining men. Keeping an outward appearance of calm, he nods solidly to those who manage to meet his eyes though he is inwardly raging. Curse whatever bloody fools light the entire grasslands on fire, he mentally shouts to himself. A pox and a curse and all of the boils of Satan’s torment burn their souls for eternity! We might have stood a chance until a prairie fire sets a beacon out to the whole world and conveniently blocks any line of sight or ability to watch or scout for movement. 17 ambushes in just two weeks, who ever heard of a Knight being caught unaware that often? A few nervous glances from his squires makes Sir Leon realize that his face was betraying his inner turmoil again, which he resolves by stiffly turning and making another round of their precarious encampment. Occupying himself by taking a quick internal roll call, the Knight is almost crushed by the realization he has only twelve men left. Twelve men out of a fierce seventy man regiment so widely respected that many fights stopped simply because they arrived.

The moment the fire became apparent, every House around rushed to wipe the other off the planet under the cover of the ash darkened skies. Finding soldiers in yellow and green was not surprising, as the Seymour and Gainesford Houses had already been encroaching on Dalison land. But mixed in with those bodies, not only had he found the reddish brown of his own Dalison House but also the light cyan of the Rodhale, and also the deeper red of House Andrews. Probably all Houses have a quick tongued gent on hand with the King to explain the “mistaken identity” or “accidental death” for any conflict that could actually be witnessed and proven in the King’s court. And nobody had heard word of that minor House that was poking around before the fire started. So much for their vaunted help that they offered, he snorts to himself, some rumors even have them as the reason that the fire started. I wish I knew what they really wanted and why they decided to wipe the Dalison House off the world.

Sudden alarm breaks into his thought process and he stiffens in shock as his mind frantically does a double take. “Alarm!” he barely manages to get out before the trees around him erupt into a flurry of weapons swinging at his face. I walked right past that guy and never realized he was just standing there in the shadows. Time has frozen for the briefest of moments as he rebels against accepting the sight in front of him. Not the Black! They never surround or take prisoners, just kill us all with no warning or reasoning. They aren’t from here, some say they are from Hell. Why must it be them, why can’t it be a House?

All these thoughts flit through Leon’s brain in a lightning fast moment before combat shuts down any further extraneous thoughts. Quickly twisting with the grace of years of practice, Leon flips his shield sideways and manages a quick bump against an incoming sword. Rotating his head in an awkward angle, he is barely able to catch a second thrust against the strong crest of his helm. Using the momentum of his twist, his right arm strains muscles in a painful movement but succeeds in clearing his sword from his scabbard and sending a darting thrust towards the black armored opponent.  Screams and shouts fill the air but sound seems compressed to the Knight as he focuses on pure survival.

A single lasting second hangs in time before the two blackened blades flicker frighteningly quick towards Leon. An efficient sidestep puts his shield once more right in the perfect path to blunt a sword strike, but this time his attempt to dodge is not quick enough and the second sword catches on his shoulder plates. Metal shrieks as a few chains snap beneath the weight of the blow and blood vessels burst in protest, however his skin does not break and the fight must continue. Moving into his blow, the Knight flings a quick side-hand slash that is easily dodged by his nimble opponent. Hard earned experience has prepared Leon for his tactic however and he manages to shuffle forward just a bit during the exchange.

The roar of blood pounds a drastic beat in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his men behind him. Knowing that they fought the black devils, Leon lets slip a brief snarl of despair and grief for his loyal men dying at this moment. Even a brief slip is too much against such spirited foes and a dark blade connects solidly against the side of his helmet and forces his eyes shut against the ringing. Dalison Knights are respected throughout the entire Kingdom for their training and old legends, and this one refuses to go down so easily. Gritting against the pain, the blind man relies entirely on instinct born of training and experience. Unconventionally swinging his sword low towards the dirt, he waits a heady and full microsecond before flicking his wrist upward with all of the strength that he has left in his battered body.

Bitter raging lust courses through his veins as the impact of steel upon heavy flash ripples through his muscles. A killing blow, he knows even though his eyes refuse to open. Elation and horror melt together inside his emotions as sweet droplets of blood course down his face. In his enlightened sense, Leon feels the presence of several bodies closing on his position. A snarl of pure determination rips through clenched teeth as he whirls and spins into the mass of bodies approaching him. Laughing the last laugh of a doomed man, he revels in the screams and grunts as his shield and blade clash and smash into his enemies. Unfeeling, unaware, he ignores everything around him and surrounds to the rage and anger and bliss of knowing there are no more cares.

A bright light seems to dance in his mind, guiding him through each step of this delicate and maddening dance. Oh Lord of Creation, I entrust myself to You. Take my last confession, feel my sins and absolve me. Let me dance with You this night and sup from Your cup. I dedicate this glorious moment to You, let my name live on in glory forever. And as this last prayer bubbles out of lips brimming with blood, his body finally loses its battle. With a slow and sweeping spin, he slowly buckles to his knees and then begins a glacial fall to the ground. One last breath breaks free of collapsing lungs and his eyes finally work again, giving him one last glance of his final battlefield.

As the world spins in on itself, his mind is already fleeing but has time to mark the positions of two black suits of armor crumpled at one corner of the field and another one a few feet down. From those bodies lead a set of bloody footprints in an erratic pattern through a broken pile of brown armored bodies. The last sight seared into the Knight’s eyes are the footprints ending directly beneath him.

The Deadly Dance

A clang of steel, a guttural snarl, and the dance has begun yet again

Spurs spark against rock as nimble ankles twist and spin

Fangs flash through the air, two foes each preparing for battle akin

Sword and shield clash with tooth and claw, creating a furious din

One battles for honor and glory, to show his people his heart

The other is in this fight for survival, losing would mean death

A graceful twirl and elegant strike show a stunning art

While a desperate strike and slick retreat reveal a lost breath

A classic tale unfolds, armored Paladin against scaled Dragon

The question becomes then, who will write this story

History is written by the victors, often over a full flagon

The loser might protest, but his body looks a little hoary

With a majestic flap of wings, the dragon concedes this fight

While the Paladin slumps against the rock, relief upon his brow

A trumpeting note sounds forth, a farewell as the beast takes flight

Softly sighing, the Paladin stares into sky and whispers a gentle “Ciao”

A thrice bitten Kingdom

The Kingdom of Corvali is a Kingdom of Three.

By that, I mean that the number 3 appears so many times in Corvali society that it is almost seems like destiny. 

The Kingdom is one of three Kingdoms on the known continent. It has three separate major Factions, who vie for political power while headquartered in one of the 3 major Cities in the Kingdom. In fact, the synergy with the number three extends even to the Royal Family due to the King having 3 sons vying to be his Heir.

The Kingdom is like any other, with its own ups and downs, strategies, politics, struggles, desires and goals. Its people are a complete mix, with the landed Noble Houses lording over their serfs and passing their superior airs over the merchants and guildsmen. The peasants work and toil and grumble and occasionally better their lifestyle but generally live and die in obscurity. Peace has reigned in Corvali for nearly 50 years, and everyone has settled into the way that life is and forgotten some of the aspects of fear and lost the will to stay alert. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, the Church laments all things that lower profits and encourages piety by allowing coin to gain grace in Heaven.

It is into this docile yet frustrating world that our intrepid heroes are born. And it is this elaborate and scheming world which I open up to your perusal.

Consider this world in its medieval age, though there will be some differences from our own history and the way that things work. I will try to address the setup of the Kingdom and how society and the nobles work. As this story is still in the beginning stages, I am open to all suggestions on how things are progressing. 

The Story is only focusing on a single Kingdom at the moment - the other 2 are dark and mysterious and even those who inhabit our favored Kingdom do not know much about their neighbors.

Corvali is the small Kingdom on the bottom right, it is the one with the Dark pencil marks to show the King's Highway, the major road which connects the 3 major Cities.

The circle with the Star in it is the Capital City of Corvale, the S stands for Stoneden which is the major industrial and manufactoring hub and the one far down on the bottom along the coast is the port city of Hythe which rules the seas and is the home of the merchants.

A Setting Sun

As the sun slowly fades below the horizon, the air is filled with the terrible sounds of death. A black shroud slowly descends to cloak the blood soaked meadow where thousands of bodies lie in a chaotic tangle. Moans and groans are the only sounds audible from these bodies, though the myriad birds feasting upon still warm flesh assault the ears with a cacophony of raucous calls.

Staring blankly at the carnage from the edge of a once peaceful meadow, a haggard survivor struggles to keep his composure as his mind fails to process such horrible devastation. Slowly turning a slim profile to view the warriors resting behind him, he utters soft orders. “Teratha, let’s get the wounded moving and give Last Peace to those who can’t survive the trip.” Turning from the black haired priestess, he then addresses a wounded soldier resolutely standing at his side. “Lyet, we have to get back and tell the Emperor. He needs to know that all is lost and we must sound a retreat”. The soldier’s eyes widen at hearing that; he is not surprised by the fact as it a truth that they have all come to recognize, but he is more surprised at hearing his superior actually admit it out loud.

As the small band of wound soldiers slowly gathers themselves and prepares for an arduous trek, the leader turns one last look at the ghastly battlefield. “To think, the entire might of the Arkhold people will soon be spread amongst the carrion birds. May history never know the truth of this defeat.” With that he reaches down to pick up his equipment, a battered shield and a well-used battle-axe. A moment of reflection is spent gazing at these few pieces of metal that have so defined his entire adult life. No longer is his visage keenly reflected on the polished edges of the shield, nor does his axe bear the shimmering marks of the marvelous Adante metalworking. Instead they appear worn and torn, almost as if some ancient tribe had buried and lost these artifacts several centuries in the past. Realizing that his life now would be very different than it has been in the past, he actually drops the shield in the dirt and almost drops his axe before Lyet reaches over to stop him. “Hold, my lord Baratel,” mutters the young brunette, “We still have need of your strength in arms should we meet more barbarians on our trip to the Emperor.”

Baratel hearkens to the words of his junior officer, though he nearly demands to know what point there is in fighting the barbarians. Grudgingly, the small group forges onward through the branches of the forest and sets their sights to a distant point in the east. Hours blend into days and then weeks as they journey south, each day appearing to rise only to give them less reason to carry on. The air hangs heavy with smoke, laden with the horrifying stench of burnt flesh. Countless villages appear on the edge of the path they travel, but all are ransacked and destroyed; little remains of the vast Empire which once gracefully spread across the plains and mountains. Instead they face only reminders of their great failure, evidence that the time of the Arkhold Empire has come to a close. 

Gripping his battle-axe with bitter fierceness, Baratel mentally swears to protect the last remnant of his people until they can recover from this travesty and once again fill this world with true civilization. Gentle golden rays of sunlight caress his face for a last brief moment before the sun sets, almost as if abandoning the Arkholdian people entirely. As gloom settles, it matches the feeling in the heart of all civilization, and the question is left hanging against the flickering glower of the moon. “What will become of the Arkhold Empire and its people? Will history ever know that they existed?”

Restarting

Due to a recent conversation with a few friends and allies. I might be considering resuming posting my writing and ramblings here. I have so many stories and ideas in my head, perhaps it might be time to share a few with those who dare to read this blog.

I know that I should warn you now: I have a very self efacing humor. So please bear with me and understand that I am laughing at myself, that way you don't have to *Smile*

Before I get into sharing all of my deep dark secrets and the machinations and plots roaming through the grey matter in my head, let me share with you some cool things that I have found over the past few years. That way you can have some fun supporting awesome projects and add a little sunshine to your life as well.

First and foremost, I found Kickstarter. Its AWESOME. It allows those of us who lead ordinary lives to actually invest in nifty projects that are the heart and soul of others and be a part of the change that we want to make in the world. New businesses, games, tools, art, music, all of it!

Let me share a few that I personally liked: Artisan Dice

--
Some nifty customizable figurines for gaming

https://d2pq0u4uni88oo.cloudfront.net/projects/740871/video-332043-h264_high.mp4

(Maybe you figured out that I was not joking about being a gamer )

And my favorite! The world of Kingdom Come

https://d2pq0u4uni88oo.cloudfront.net/projects/829609/video-335155-h264_high.mp4


The Kingdom Come Kickstarter really resonates with me-- because I have been working on creating a world just like that! I have quite a few little stories of my medieval world in my head, but I am so jealous that the studio in that video and Kickstarter is able to live that dream. More power to them.

Should people actually start paying attention to my blog again, I might just be tempted to regale you with the exploits of the Paladin, the Trooper, the Sith, the Warlord, King Beardion the DragonLord, and The Kingdom of Cronali. (yes, all different stories in different venues)

The Paladin and the Troll

Sweat drips down the brow of a young Squire as he completes the final swing of his practice maneuvers and throws himself down upon a pile of hay. Lying back against the soft embrace of the haystack, the Squire begins methodically cleaning his weapon and ponders the mysteries of life. As the sun begins its decent towards the horizon, his mind turns towards his Master and the new light in that Knight’s eyes. Having recently learned of the heartbreak his mentor had faced in the past, the Squire could not help but long to know more of this tremendous story. Thus, he gathers up the supplies and equipment from his workout regiment, trudging down towards the village below him and seeking a companion he knew had traveled with his Master for several years.

Following the meandering path into the quaint village, the Squire soon approaches a house with a middle aged couple sitting on the porch and gently rocking on a large porch swing.  Recognizing them as companions of the Paladin, he steps lightly up to the railing surrounding the porch and asks them if they knew his Master all those years ago, or if they knew someone who did. After some thought, the man tells the Squire that the village does host someone who would know this story and points him towards the tavern in the city of the village. Confusion sweeps across the face of the young Squire as he considers the location, until the friendly man points out that the bartender used to a traveling Merchant.  “He was a giant of a man, bold and affable and willing to tell you any tale that would make you desire to pay more for his trinkets,” the man explains, “Always had a tale, story, or rumor to feed you. And then one day he went too far and made some tale that was a bit too close to comfort. It involved the Queen and a dalliance, and the rumor seemed so believable that nearly half the Kingdom was in an uproar. That is when the Royal Decree went out, and the Merchant became a lonely bartender.”

With this interesting bit of gossip in his mind, the Squire begins to walk again and this time set his path directly to the village Tavern. Raucous music assaults his ears to provide confirmation that he is getting close, and just in time as the clouds have begun to darken and the air stills in anticipation of an incoming storm. Walking down the worn mud steps into the tavern entrance, he glances over the abused building and notes that despite the exterior wear and tear, the Tavern is very solidly built and can withstand the antics of the patrons within. Shouldering through the heavy oak door, the Squire is greeted by impact of a meaty fist upon his cheekbone. The strike is awkward and off balance and thus barely grazes the young man though it does force his head back and up, causing a moment of extreme alarm and anger. Before the Squire can even decide how to react, either by wading in with his fists or pulling out one of his swords and fighting in earnest, a massive hand clamps on his shoulder and he is firmly pulled to the side. 

Twisting his head around in protest at this newest affront, the Squire suddenly grows quiet as a red headed mountain of a man moves in front of him.  With a quick flash of movement, a massive arm grasps the drunken lout who began the fighting and just as quickly the man is flung through the door with a mighty thud. Swearing heavily, the drunk picks himself up and shakes his head to the accompaniment of beads of sweat flying from his distressed hair. Just as the drunk opens his mouth to shout a challenge, the heavy bulk of the door swings back shut and slams into the back of the inebriated fool. Silence fills the tavern for a few moments as all occupants stare at the still form of the drunk sprawled upon the ground, and then the room fills with a hearty cheer when the drunk begins to snore.  Two patrons hurriedly step up and drag the man out of the tavern as everyone else lifts their mugs and business returns to normal.

Guided by the nudge of a large hand upon his back, the Squire travels forward to sit on a small bench set into an alcove near the main bar. Sipping gratefully at the full mug that is deposited in front of him, the Squire turns towards the one time Merchant and makes his quest for knowledge known. For a moment, the Merchant remains silent and contemplates the young man before him. Then he leans back against the bar and enters into the narrative of such a story that can hardly be believed.

The Merchant’s deep voice starts with rehashing what the Squire already knew; the brave Paladin, who mentored him now, was also a young man in this story and had fallen for an Angel who could not decide between two worlds, flitting back and forth between the Paladin and another man. But then that baritone voice changed the story in a way that the Squire did not expect. With a heavy sigh, the Merchant illuminated the slow setting poison that began to creep into the thoughts and feeling of the Paladin as he watched the night sky for his Angel. With trembling heart, he saw the paintings across the stars that were meant for another. With weary ears, he heard the sweet nothings carried from her lips across the wind but meant for someone else. And so the Paladin had resolved to move on, to explore the world abroad and to burn all of his feelings for the Angel who could not seem to settle down upon this mortal earth.

The Squire listens patiently, hoping to discover a happy ending in the midst of what seems to be a very dreadful tale. However the Merchant simply continues his story without changing his expression; hearkening back unto the days of yore and bringing to mind that young Paladin again. The Paladin began to travel the world, withdrawing his thoughts and feelings into himself while outwardly being social and friendly with those he met. During a period of this lonely journey, he encountered a fellow traveler that seemed to share the same desires of the heart. Reminiscing about different encounters they had experienced in their respective lives, they came to agreement on several different ideas and theories. Common complaints about the idiocy of the fellow travelers and the fact that romance seemed to be dead in this world tended to dominate the conversations that they had. Then one day, the Paladin dared to bare his soul and shared the story of his encounters with the Angel.

Pain enters into the Merchants voice as he narrates now how the friendship between the Paladin and the Troll began to take a very different tact. The Paladin watched bewildered as each day passed and the Troll became more and more aggressive, turning the Paladin’s words against him and twisting situations to become issues where there were originally no issues. The Merchant pauses here for a moment, wincing as he reflects upon his own role in this degrading friendship. With the wry tones of one who now recognizes past folly, the Merchant explains that he had enjoyed watching the friction build between two erstwhile friends and so had plied his gilded tongue towards twisting the mental state of the easily deluded Troll. While the Merchant spent his time spinning what he thought were harmless yarns, it turned out that the Troll had encountered the Angel for himself and decided that he could woo this beautiful creature far better than the Paladin could. Thus the Merchant unknowingly aided in fueling the competitive fire burning within the Troll which caused him to view the Paladin as competition though that was reality only in the mind of the Troll.

Things quickly come to a heated point in this tale, as the Merchant’s voice speeds up in anticipation. The Troll begins to strive against the Paladin. First quietly, then suddenly he openly challenges the Paladin. Surprise and disbelief pour through the young Knight at this escalation of what he had once considered a friendship and then he realizes that the lurking fear growing in his mind has become a truth. The one whom he had once called an Angel was instead simply a Witch hiding behind a veil of deception and secrecy, and her whispered words were repeated in any ear that would listen.  As the Troll continues his barrage and attempts to drag the Paladin down into a cesspit of fighting and backstabbing, the Knight has developed the wisdom to avoid the situation and focus upon his own battles. Safely removed and ignoring the posturing and threatening from the Troll, the Paladin watches from afar as the Witch attempts to pretend that nothing has changed. Secret words are still whispered in the dark of night, little signals are sent that seem to indicate an Angel waiting for the right moment to slip into the arms of the Paladin. But now the veil has been torn and the Paladin is wise to these ploys, so he continues his travels in earnest and leaves the tattered bridges of false promises behind.

Shock is mingled with relief on the face of the Squire as he takes in the unexpected twist in this fateful story. Learning forward to face the former Merchant, he asks if there was a conclusion to this story. The Merchant briefly chuckles before explaining that several friends had attempted to drag the Troll away from the siren call which drew to him. His voice seems to contain a trace of derision as he narrates the several times that the Troll appeared to come to his senses and apologize for the madness of previous moments; he includes the conversations where the Troll is explaining the lies that he was told and is countered by the Paladin repeating the exact same phrases from the Paladin’s own experience with the now renowned Witch. And yet, every time that the Troll seems to be recovering and regaining sanity it only takes one slight call and the right snap of the fingers and the Troll falls again under the spell.

As yet another scuffle breaks out in the Tavern, the jovial features of the Merchant fade into the resigned expression of the Bartender and he excuses himself to enforce peace upon his patrons. Settling back into the bench, the Squire contemplates the new information that he had learned. Some made sense, as it explained why his Master had traveled so much and even now continues to be social on the exterior but keeps things very private beneath the emotional surface. A sad shake of the head accompanies his thinking, as the Squire hopes to never personally repeat the experiences outlined in the story of the Paladin and the Troll.

1000 Views!

When I started this blog, I knew that everyone (and their mother and most likely their mother's dog) has their own blog and filled the internet space with thousands of posts and so much information that very few people's blogs get read.

I fully intended to only post here a few times a year, just whenever the urge struck me and I had a new story completed; most often for Achaea.com. Every so often, I would link the blog on my Facebook profile and tell people about it, for the few close friends who put up with the things that I write.

However, in what seems just a few short weeks, suddenly there have been over a thousand pageviews, and a multitude of comments. I have had people come up to me about some of the things written here, and I am blown away.

To all who read this blog, I thank you! And for every single comment that I receive, either here or else where, I resolve to work even harder and tap into the special emotional current that tells us that we are alive.

I recently went through some redesigns on the blog, hopefully it is easier to read and follow. I value your support, as I want to write even more now that I know people read it.

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As a reward for so quickly bringing the site to a thousand page views- here is a brief synopsis of what I have in mind so far for the Dragon story. Please keep in mind that I reserve the right to completely change any of this- however it is my intellectual property and I would appreciate that distinction being respected.

The story will begin with an introduction to Beardion, the Lord of the Dragons and the Monarch who rules over the realm. The Dragon Lord appears to be engrossed in a book that he has discovered, and soon begins to read that book and ignore everything around him. Since the Realm has been ruled well for a very long time, not much is said at first but then his subjects grow worried as more and more time passes.

They bring in wizards and sorcerers to try to get their king's attention or break a spell, the Elder Council of Dragons comes up with the idea that the king is lovesick and so attempt to hold a festival where the most lovely dragon princesses would attempt to gain the attention of the reading Dragon Lord. Several different tactics are tried, but Beardion simply will not be moved.

Things take a turn for the worse, as is the course of life as we know it. And the General of the kingdom's armies brings the tidings that the petty Humans are getting out of hand. Apparently they have developed a new weapon and are destroying Draconic holdings and lands with great success.

Here, I hope to have the story really turn upon the different perspectives that peaceful and civilized Dragons would have towards barbaric and nomadic tribes of Humans. Humanity can be vicious and vile, and when seen through the eyes of a race of non-Human beings, I am sure it looks even worse than we can imagine.

From here, the story still waits to write itself- I find that I do not often think TOO far ahead.. as my characters live and breath on their own and often times take paths or make choices that I did not plan for them.

Kinda like life, right?

Cheers!

A teaser!

Just posting some general updates, as work on the story about the Dragons continues.

My friend Joanna continues to read and give suggestions like an editor. I love it so, even though she tears my writing apart. Haha.

I have asked my friend Yoelin to help me draw some artwork for the story, if any other artists want in on the action, let me know. Full credit will be given where due!

Now, I normally like to keep everything EXTREMELY close to the vest, the better to surprise people. However, as I start such a very lengthy process, I have realized that there is so much to flesh out that perhaps sharing the world as I begin to imagine it will actually help- plus keep it interesting and not so silent and full of cobwebs on the blog while I work on the story itself.

Interested? Read on!

The story that I am going to write is intended to be the first of a two story collection. Involving a book. Yes, I said a book. Quite a novel task, I am well aware.

So the first story will be the perspective and thoughts from the Dragon world.

I know that there will be a number of characters, both major and minor, but only a few have implanted themselves in my mind.

First and foremost, is the Dragon Lord. King of the Realm. His name is Beardion the Majestic. He is a very large and regal dragon, his coloring a mottled mixture of green and slate grey. He has ruled the Kingdom for many many years, and everyone is comfortable with his rule. He will be the major part of the story- as he is the one who is reading the oh so mysterious book.

Stay tuned for more little reveals, and keep the comments flowing. Anyone who takes the time to read this blog will have the chance to have input in the shaping of this world and novel, my way of saying thank you for reading!

The Decision: To be a Squire or a Knight

This is for H.A.

He requested a story and some advice that deals with how to approach the realization that you made a mistake and turned away someone for whom you had real feelings. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment.

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The squire stares into space, eyes open but unseeing.

The gentle cry of a hawk sounds in the distance, but even that majestic sound fails to leave an impression. The world spins upon its axis, and yet still the squire stares. Searching forward in time, seeking answers to questions he is not even able to properly form. In all of his musing, no escape from the past presents itself and now the present demands attention. Closing his eyes tight, he remembers the infamous words that he can never seem to retract. He really did tell her that "I don't really love you like that".

A frustrated huff escapes the lips of the brooding squire, as he leans back against the tree he has taken refuge in. At one point, he was the epitome of confidence. Always knew what he wanted and where he was going, strode briskly forward and took life by the horns. Smooth and assured, it seems like nothing would ever go wrong. But now, now how can he go on? How can he face tomorrow when the memory of yesterday flashes before his eyes seemingly every second. He was sure he knew what he wanted, that he was never meant to settle down or tie himself to just one place. He was going to be a Knight! A champion whom all would admire, surely he would be sought after and never have to worry about companionship.

Dark furrows creased the brow of the squire, in complete contrast to the peaceful stillness of the meadow around him. Within his mind, a mental storm raged with utmost ferocity. Questions forming and dashed aside, emotions roiling but not addressed. How had things gotten this way, what had so complicated his life now? It was one simple sight, and yet he can never forget it or block it out. How dare he be so upset, so torn and lovesick, when he was the one who told her to move on. And yet nothing else matters but the repeating image of her full lips firmly locked upon those of another man.

One thought beats a tune in his mind until finally he can focus upon it. Does he really care that deeply for her, or is it just the fact that she has found comfort in the arms of another that has so upset him? A discomforting thought for sure, he slowly muses while clenching his armored fists against each other. His training has taught him to be calm and slow in his reactions, to judge the situation and determine outcomes before moving. And yet every time that he comes back to considering this problem before him, it is as if nothing else matters. The simple fact that he wants to see her, hold her, kiss her again has completely distracted him from all other worries. Even his weapons lie beside him in disarray, no longer able to keep his mind away from these pestering questions.

As a lonely cloud drifts across the pale blue sky, the squire feels a determination building up within him. These feelings can not be false, how deep they are and how much they have affected him. Something must surely be true here. Slowly his internal storm resides and he grows steadier, his eyes beginning to glow again as he realizes that he again has confidence. Now instead of regretting what is lost, he ponders how to address his errors and regain the rhythm to his heartbeat. How do you take back words that can never be retracted, how do you heal a pain that one should experience in the first place. No wizard stood before the squire with an easy answer or a magical wand to wave. His mentors and Knights taught him the art of battle and combat, not of navigating the powerful currents known as love.

Pulling himself onto one knee, the squire plants his sword into the dirt and leans upon the hilt. Surely there must be an answer, a recourse to address this terrible tragedy. Chivalry would not allow for the most direct means of simply marching into her presence, grabbing her close, and telling her that he was wrong. Besides, how could she possibly believe or listen to him if he did that? It would look like the arrogant action of one who is jealous and believes he has a claim. No, this path must be slowly trod and carefully measured. If the feelings beating within his chest were true and as deep as he considered them, then they would be his guidance. He must harken back to the times of yore, realized what she cared for and prove that he truly listened and cared about the things that she cares about. To prove that he truly cares about her.

Muscles rippling beneath him, the squire steadily rises and strides forward. No true answer has yet presented itself, but he is determined that he will not give up without a fight. A Knight shall not be known for moping around wondering what might have been, and so this squire has decided to act like a Knight even before receiving his spurs. He must tell her of his feelings, this is obvious. But only if he truly cares and has paid attention to the beat of her heart does he have a chance. If he cared only for her attention and not truly for her, then it would be best to turn away now and mold himself to be the Knight of the future. In his heart beats the truth, the truth of his decision.

As the squire disappears into the gathering dusk, a question lingers. How does someone prove that their love is true, that the words of the past where a mistake, that there is a future together? The soft twitter of birds as they come to rest in the tree branches illuminate an answer. Slow down and stick to the true beat of the heart, take the time to show a true interest, communicate, be open and honest. No excuses uttered to hide painful admissions, but only words of truth backed by honest actions of caring. And then the strength to accept the response and bear it like a true Knight.

Heelllpp! An opportunity!

Several of my friends and colleagues have been pressing me to get into actually writing on a more common and consistent basis. And with enough pressure, compliments and ego stroking, I might just be ready to do that.

The last few days have been eye opening, in terms of emotional expanses and also insight into the human mindset. Now I would like to turn to writing something a little less personal life orientated and use it as a way to clear my head and give my friends and fans something to read that does not come across as a love torn bard. Haha.

So now I will very subtly disguise a plea for assistance and make it look like an opportunity for personal glory!

Anyone who becomes (or remains) a follower of the blog may make a comment on this post with their suggestion/request for a certain storyline or idea and I will personally dedicate a short story to you with that particular topic. Intrigued?

Some rules first! You must be a follower and make a non-anonymous comment. That way I can identify with you, focus the story on your request, and brag about what a cool follower you are. Also, I will hold the right to creative liberty as the story develops. Say that you want a story of a little man over coming a bully- that's perfectly fine, but the story might not be about the traditional physical bully! The magic of the literary world is the endless possibilities, so be ready to be surprised.

I have very few subjects that I will not explore and write about, though I have mentioned in this blog before that I will not write from the perspective of one who has passed on from this life.

If you want the story to be about you, provide some details and make it a bit of an alternative life. Sometimes the way a character moves might not reflect your own thoughts, so allow fantasy instead of reality!

All in all, I am excited to be challenged. To actually have expectations and ideas to meet that are not generated within my own mere mortal brain.

Are you up for it? Who dares comment first?

The beginning, is it also the ending?

First and foremost, there is no ill will here. Not towards the Angel who has so captured me and carried away my imagination and desire. Nor towards the innocent other party on the other end of the spectrum. None of these feelings were planned, sometimes the world twists upon itself and throws our plans into disarray.

The story starts with a friendship, no ulterior motives or plans need apply. A quickly growing comradeship develops into an appreciation of like mind, quick wit and banter ease understanding and allow true laughter. Gentle chiding and teasing sarcasm lay a ground work for comfortable rapport.

Unwittingly, harmless flirting slowly blooms into serious compliments. Off handed gestures develop romantic flourishes. A simple glance lingers until it becomes a blazing recognition of desire. Struggling to clear the head and remember boundaries dissolves into a longing to feel the passion released.

And thus it grows, ignoring frantic attempts to hold back emotions and safeguard hearts. A wild storm front clears all obstacles and the world seems to fade away. Two souls, entwined, laying on a beach woven of fantasy. Every touch ignites, every caress melts the cares away. A single hesitant kiss tears passion from quivering lips and ends in a panting exclamation of awe.

Magic sweeps through the room, nothing else matters. Time passes, yet it stands still for these two as they gaze searchingly into the eyes of the other. Secrets tumble forth against better judgement,  dreams are shared and even expanded upon. Potential embarrassment and fright becomes a shared sense of understanding and acceptance. The world appears perfect.

But this is just one world, and this angel seems to reside in two worlds now. One she has known and feels the comforts of, and another that was just thrust upon her by fate or chance. These two worlds can not share the same space, they have the same demands and the same desires but two very different outcomes. She can not remain in both, though they tug at her and whisper glorious promises.

And now the angel wraps herself in her wings and flies into the heavens, troubled emotions raging in her breast as she ponders this new reality. How unfair things must seem, as she struggles to understand what happened and how she ended in this predicament. A decision must be made, lest two worlds collide and both die. Yet she is not ready, and so she flees. Dragging a wing in each world, she mourns on the inside and desperately tries to keep her face calm.

Below, the paladin gazes up where his angel disappeared. Both pain and understanding course over his features, as he comes to grip with the fact that his arms are empty of his beloved. Watching her vanish into the distance, he sees the shadow of her wing remaining to gently caress his face. He knows she must feel something for him, but he has no way to judge the heart of an angel. Laying back on the sand, the paladin feels the magic begin to fade but the soft murmur of his name drifts down from above and suddenly he is reminded of her face resting on his chest. Closing his eyes, he lays back and cherishes that memory. While the road ahead is murky and he knows not if he will ever see his angel again, he must continue on and be ready for the future.

One last impulse overtakes the paladin before he departs from the safety of the beach. Reaching down to pluck a few beautiful roses, he arranges them in a simple diagram. Should the angel find herself able to choose his world, he has given her directions to his heart.