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.

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.

Half Author/ Half DM - All Nerd

As an Author - you are in full command and control. You decide what each character is doing and what he or she think and feel. You dictate how they respond to situations and can use your amazing powers to make storylines meet and arcs come together. The characters can be clueless and miss things that your audience catches, or they can be intelligent and make the wise move in a sea of bad ones. 

As a Gamemaster (also known as Dungeon Master or DM) you are in ... some command and control. You are the storyteller, responsible for the plot and keeping things moving. Responsible for giving players a reason and incentive to keep playing and providing them with stories, characters, and antagonists to interact with and react to, so that they continue to develop and grow and play the game. You lose control of a set number of characters that are played by the others in the game, those feelings and emotions and actions are controlled by the players and you just have to go with it and have the world react and bend to them. Being a GM (gamemaster for those who got lost) that tries to make the players bend to the world generally just leads to frustration for both sides and a very short game. It is much tougher to be a DM, but in some ways it is easier because some of the content is generated by others and you don't have to decide every single decision and dictate every single action.

I am trying to do both, at the very same time -- in the very same world.

While I enjoy the aspect of creating a world for Novels at the same time as being the storyteller or gamemaster for a RPG in that game… it does lead to a lot of headache and effort that I just can’t seem to summon lately.

The weekly arguments with players who want to rule the world without effort and to endlessly defeat any bad guy they run across is a constant drain. It is absolutely insane how I can go from thinking that I am best gamemaster on the planet for my slick storytelling and way that I got the entire party involved to the next week wanting to be done with it all and never have to try to please these stinking selfish players every again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell a player that the world is harsh and mean that most people die at a young age and that they are already overpowered and have the best armor and weapons and skills and stats compared to anyone in the world --- they still want more! At heart, every gamer plays just to win. That is the driving force behind why we play in the first place, so we always try to find the cleverest best way to defeat a situation and we must always win and come out on top.

It is funny how playing a console game never brings the level of frustration that a tabletop RPG elicits, in the latter it always seems like it is our own ideas that are being shot down- not just a command we chose out of a generated list of possibilities.

To my current players - bear with me. I have to change the world often as you veer off in unknown directions and disrupt my carefully placed applecart. And please understand that the world sometimes won't just stop and let you have what you want when you want - I haven't experienced that in life and our current game is based on reality and not strictly fantasy (like Dungeons and Dragons or some other games that come to mind).

To my readers - join in and encourage me. It helps so much to hear ideas from my friends and those who read what I write. I may tease and joke when you do mention something, but inside it helps so much. 

To the future!

An Ominous Warning

Thunder rumbles from a distant point, but no rain clouds show in the sky. Blinking against the blinding glare of the sun, a young guard shakes his head ponderously in confusion before realizing that something else was making that noise. Turning to peer up the road, he takes a few moments to confirm that he is hearing hoof beats approaching at a very furious pace. Bewildered, he mutters to himself “The Squire and the Baronet’s people are all at the Baronet’s manor... Who else rides a horse around here?” and then decides it would behoove himself to actually do the duty that got him assigned to this gate.

Stepping out in front of the gate, he swings the heavy wooden planks closed and signals to his companion to actually climb up and man the watchtower in case it is an enemy making all of that racket. Shifting a bit to settle his clothes, the young man squares his shoulders and attempts to appear fierce as the first glimpse of the approaching animal and rider appears around the curving path. Dirt erupts in a rolling wake of splatters as the heavy horse careens dangerously along the narrow path and heads directly towards the nervous guard.

Summoning every last bit of courage he can find in his skinny frame, the young man licks his lips and calls out a challenge. Stammering, he attempts again while trying to figure out if he should draw his sword or just run. Luckily he is not alone and the guard now atop the watch tower fires a warning arrow into the dirt alongside the rider’s trajectory. Taking a timid step back, the gate guard feels a great sense of relief as the rider rears back on the reins and the horse begins to slow. In what seems like an eternity in the widened eyes of the guard, the horse slowly pulls up and slows the galloping approach to end with a snort close enough to lick the sweat off the man’s brow.

With a quick flourish, the rider drops from the horse and sneers at the presence of the guard. “Messenger Dispatch, you fool” he exclaims as he spits on the ground in disgust. “Have you lost your wits?” The guard stiffens at the insult and imperiously demands to know “Messenger from whom?” as sternly as he can manage. For all of his bravado, he receives a scornful look and a vicious retort “Are you daft? It doesn’t matter from whom, I come here just to warn this town of major events. And if you want to be the reason that your town is not ready for the King, then so be it.” And with that, the messenger turns and acts as if he is about to mount his horse and depart.

“Wait, wait, wait.” The guard hastily exclaims as he realizes just how important this visitor could be. “Uh, you have any papers to show who you are?” he asks and sheepishly explains “We have a lot of anxious people in the town since we keep being attacked, they want to make sure we aren’t be tricked”. A massive sigh erupts of the erstwhile messenger as he pulls back his cloak to reveal the markings of a Hythe City courier. “Listen,” he grumbles “I don’t have time for all of this nonsense. I don’t really care about your little Podunk town nor all of its nervous citizens and scared farmers. I am just coming to let everyone on the way to Stoneden know that the King is coming.”

Stopping to take a breath, he first demands some water for his horse and then continues as the guard scurries to obey. “Apparently the King is tired of this talk about bandits and about all of the different Houses fighting and bickering, so he is sending out a major complement of the King’s army to march through the land and put down any problems that arise.” Taking the proffered bucket, the weary man holds it in front of his horse and speaks loudly to be heard over the sound of the guzzling equine.  “Hythe was taken by surprise, and it’s not good because there was a lot of fighting going on. I was just sent to get here as quickly as possible and let everyone know so that they can get their affairs in order before someone questions things too closely and bad things happen. I have heard rumors that the Army is just putting on a show and laying down the law without really caring who is at fault or what the real story is.” 

Handing back the bucket, he grips the pommel of his saddle and swings effortlessly into place. “I must go, but warn your leaders to get ready. I feel some big changes are coming this way, at least for those involved in politics.” Turning his horse to head back down the path, the messenger offers a wry smile to the nonplussed guard “Though I fear not much will change for the common man, life just is not fair that way”.

Silence descends over the clearing where the path and gate intersect, both guards stand slack jawed and watch as the messenger rides off around the bend. A few moments pass without any movement before the gate guard suddenly gulps loudly and turns to stare at his fellow in the watchtower. Confused eyes meet and betray mutual worried expressions, then the gate guard suddenly yelps and races into the town looking for the nobles to pass along this most important message.

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?”

Diary of a Fallen Hero -Part I

Measured footsteps fall lightly upon the packed earth, highlighting the passage of an armored figure. Clad in gear traditional for the bounty hunters operating in the territory of the Hutts, this bounty hunter patrols the top of a high earthen berm.  His current patrol is one that combines instinct and boredom, as all indications suggest that the battle is over for the day. A quick glance backwards would show the shattered remains of nearly two dozen HK-7 battle droids buried beneath what appears to be the foundations of uprooted Anti-Aircraft gun batteries. Despite the apparent peacefulness of the moment, the bounty hunter continues his smooth and measured patrol.  Battle trained senses keep his movements quick and efficient as he pulls up his rifle to scan through the scope.

Looking down from the berm, he is able to see into a major processing plant. Most of the plant is obscured to his vision, only various catwalks and machinery is visible against the backdrop of the massive smoke funnels in the distance. No threats catch his attention as he constantly sweeps back and forth with his scope watching various maintenance droids busily working to keep dilapidated machinery in working condition. Continuing his alert scan, he notes the patrolling groups of HK-7 droids on the periphery of the processing plant, marking them once again in his memory. Even as he watches for any hostile movement, his scope keeps floating back to center on a particular section of the catwalk where he last saw the flowing black robes adorning a certain feminine figure.

With no threats appearing in his scope, and his companions behind him seeming content to trust that all is well, the bounty hunter allows a brief moment for a small part of his mind to flash back to the moment when he first met the young girl that would figure so prominently in his current situation. Only a year previously in the chronological sense of time, so much was different then and the universe seemed to be smiling upon him and all of his plans. He had woken that morning with the glowing confidence of a military man receiving every validation possible and knowing that everything was safe and secure.  Recently released from the hospital after a vicious pirate attack, his new Captain uniforms had already arrived. The memory of receiving the promotion and being told that the Alliance could never do without his bravery and courage still rings in the mind of the bounty hunter. He was wearing shiny Alliance uniforms back then, of course, and not the dirt smeared jetpack and generic armor that coated his body now. A slight moment of regret flickers through the bounty hunter’s mind before he returns to recalling the events of that fateful day.

In the back of his mind, the scene plays out with absolute clarity. He enjoyed a brief and intense moment of quiet celebration with his few friends in the barracks, then moving on to join to his prestigious new post as part of the Honor Guard at the Jedi Temple. He glowed inside at the honor and glory that was being heaped upon him, and felt that his days of combat were long over. Everyone knew that becoming part of the Jedi Honor Guard meant very little fighting or intense action, as very few people would wish to attack such a mighty bastion. And so his thoughts of the future at the moment were very shiny and filled with fantastical ideas of how to live out his days in glory. These thoughts continued for most of the day and even into the evening hours, as he learned his new duties and toured the grounds that he would be guarding. It was right as he was heading back to his bunk to lay down and get some rest that it happened, he saw her.

She was only a small wisp of a thing, appearing as if she could barely keep herself from floating away in the wind. Gracefully dancing through a training regimen, she nearly glistened due to a light sheen of sweat coating her delicate blue skin. While Twi’leks have always been recognized for their beauty, there was something in her eyes and the way that she moved which set her apart from even those that were prized for their beauty. Her familiarity with the Jedi training regimens and her interactions with the trainers made it apparent that she had been lucky enough to have been in the Temple since her earliest childhood memories. Unlike the majority of her race, she had never felt the lash of a slave master and most likely did not know that most would consider her only in terms of the value she would bring on the market for be slaves.

He had stopped then, the bounty hunter recalled, and simply stared as this young Twi’lek cavorted through complicated practices and seemed to draw pleasure from annoying her instructors as she pushed the boundaries. It was the life that positively glowed from her eyes, he decided during this reflection, that was what had so captivated him. He had met driven people before, people who had a purpose and goal and marched forward relentlessly to achieve it. However, never had he seen someone who seemed to demand and expect the very most out of every breath and who enjoyed bending it to her will. A sudden urge swept through him and he found himself pacing over towards the training grounds and pretending to inspect a security terminal nearby; his eyes soaking in every detail of this young female apprentice.

Even infatuated Alliance Troopers know their role and how to act, however, and so quite a few days passed as he went about his duties and tried not to think about the young Twi’lek. It happened that one of his patrols found him steadily marching down one of the silent corridors of the Temple when he overheard a stern reprimand being issued by a Jedi Master. “Beq,” growled the distinct voice of Master Dan-ki, “You must practice balance and equilibrium. You must control your desires and emotions. A Jedi has no place for emotion when dealing with others, you must cleanse your mind and your thoughts. Focus on the force and meditate, do not simply reach out and grab what you desire. Work for it, find a peaceful solution.” The girl’s response is lost to the trooper, as he mentally dances in joy. He finally knew her name, and that very knowledge brought with it a great longing to know more about this mysterious young girl.

Back in the present, the bounty hunter scans the catwalks and watches the perimeter once again as he silently resumes his self imposed duty. Traveling in the presence of very powerful Sith tends to make a bounty hunter and his guns feel feeble by comparison. Movement captures the bounty hunter’s attention and he zooms in to watch as one of the stealthy infiltration party suddenly floats up the air and crumples on top of the catwalk. Recognizing the Imperial uniform, the bounty hunter can only chuckle as he realizes that the poor man was helped by a rather inexperienced Force user. Lowering the angle of his scope, he attempts to spot the dark robes but the object of his desire is hidden by the corner of a building. His attention slides back up to the catwalk and he watches as another member of the party joins the Imperial. Sliding his sight across the catwalk, the bounty hunter suddenly catches a brief flash of movement heading towards his companions. Activating the zoom, he alertly attempts to find the source of the movement but it was simply a blur in his vision. After a moment of thought, he decides that he did not see enough to know if it was a threat. Focusing his attention back upon the visible party of the party, he stands at full alert and attempts to monitor the situation from afar.

The Birth of a Berserker. Part 1

This is the first portion of a story that I started to right for Achaea.com, before my world was upended and I began to swirl in circles. It tells the story of the beginning of a Clan of Dwarves that were created by the Achaean God, Phaestus.

Feel free to comment or share!

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The air whistles in protest as the large metal head of the axe parts it aside and continues forward until smashing into the tree trunk with a shower of splintered bark. A simple grunt and the blade is yanked back out of the tree and the process begins again. The tree puts up a valiant fight, striving to stay upright but ultimately falling to the blows of the axe and joining its brethren strewn upon the ground. A quick shuffle of feet, another grunt, and the downed tree is shoved into position and the axe begins to separate the tree into individual logs. The forest backdrop has faded into silence, no sounds exist except for intermittent grunts and some growled expletives when a blow does not fall precisely as intended.

So intently is the work proceeding, that the heavy footfalls of the dwarf foreman are completely unnoticed until his gruff voice breaks into my consciousness. "Ho, Gladur, we only need a certain number of logs this month." The foreman stops at the edge of the clearing that I have created and surveys the scene of destruction spreading out from my axe. "Why are you punishing the trees this time?" He asks while a look of puzzlement comes across his features. "You know that the SoulForger only condones using what is required, no need to kill trees if we will not use them before they spoil."

His comments only add to the exertion in my strikes, heavily muscled arms straining in an attempt to cut right through the tree in a single blow. "Grrghph" is my only response, straining its way through gritted teeth. Even though the foreman is two centuries older than me, he seems to be completely confused and at a loss of what to do. "Gladur, please stop" he mutters, "We don't need the wood, we have everything we need." A final growl escapes me as I smash through the tree trunk and reach the end of the logs. Turning quickly to face the foreman, I give him a look that can only be considered a glower. "What would ye have me do, Biven?" My question is sarcastic as I quickly give him possibilities. "Should I carve a statue? With these massive hands that can't fit around a chisel without breaking them? Perhaps I can paint, or carve gemstones?" The color fades from his face as he considers the results when I last attempted the delicate arts that the Clan enjoys. "How about I go mining again? I am sure Brumbletock would enjoy another cave-in". I did not mean to continue, but suddenly the words just keep coming and I can't stop "What if I tried my hand at pottery, or I could try to put together another mural. I am sure we can keep building walls for me to break apart. Want me to go back around the animals and try to milk a goat or cow? Last time I tried, they quit producing for over two cycles."

My words suddenly choke off and I just stand there, staring at Biven from across the clearing while my chest heaves and my eyes bore into him. Even though we are over a hundred paces away, I still look down at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to muster a response. Rage fills me at the delay and I snarl "What is my purpose, Biven. Why am I here?" He looks to the side, swallowing rapidly as I cross the clearing in just a few strides and stand glaring down at him and demanding answers "I am too tall to properly fit in the mines, and even when we widened out the tunnels every time I struck a blow, the mines nearly collapsed. My arms and legs are too big for me to do anything but the largest of tasks. My hands will crush every delicate thing that is ever placed in them." At this, my heart beats even harder as I remember something else. "And you know what else, Biven, I can't even have love!"

At this exclamation he quickly jerks his head up to glance at me, his expression once again marred with confusion. "What do you mean?" he stammers out. My anger slowly pours out of me as I turn away from him to stare out into the distance. “I can’t have love. Who would have someone as rough as I am, as large as I am? The Chieftain is the largest dwarf of the Clan, and he only makes it to my chest. How can I romance someone with these large arms and thick legs. I cannot swoon them with dance, nor with song. I cannot cup their cheek or give them a soft caress. These arms and hands are rough and powerful, knowing only destruction and not love.” My thoughts turn to Jemma and our last conversation. How she laughed and looked me in the eyes, but then I went to hug her and she winced and the fun faded.

Bitterness creeps into my voice as I turn back to face Biven. “The trees are the only task that I can handle without hurting others. You and I both know that this is the only thing that I can do for the Clan.” I can see the agreement in his eyes and the way that he avoids mentioning anything else that I might possibly do. This frustrates me, as Biven is considered one of the wisest of the Clans and yet he has no idea what to do with me. “Tell me, Biven, tell me why the God would do this. He claims to love all of us, to treasure us. He claims that we are His children and that He watches over us. Then tell me why He made me. Tell me why I am so different. Why can’t I be a normal dwarf and have a normal life? Tell me!” This last statement becomes a scream thrown towards the heavens, and then I am running. Running away from the village, from the pain, from my troubles. Running from my life.

My flight is both furious and frantic, tearing down the mountain and crashing through the trees and brush. My large shoulders smash into minor obstacles and send them flying, as my powerful feet grinds everything beneath my tread. Animals scatter before me in a cacophony of alarming cries, and yet I do not care. Emotions rage through me, and the very fact that I am feeling emotions upsets me even further. Growing up in the village, one of the constant ways that I was marked as different is the fact that I have such strong emotions. Most of the Clan are very mellow and unemotional. They feel joy and pride, they must if they are to be the master artisans that our clan produces. However, their emotions are rooted and calm which is completely unlike mine. The sight of the beauty of the smallest fluttering butterfly can make my heart melt, and the slightest insult will cause my muscles to bulge and prepare for a fight. I have tried so hard, but the emotions just flood over me despite all that I do. This pushes me further into my scrambled flight, but my legs suddenly begin to falter and I hit a tree root and flip completely end over end. Landing hard upon the ground, I twist to get my bearings but my large body becomes my enemy and suddenly I am rolling down the mountain in a series of bumps and jolts. Smashing into and through limbs and underbrush and tearing roots apart with my flailing arms, nothing halts my fall until I smash headlong into a large rock formation at the base of the mountain. I can barely summon a true dwarven grumble before the spinning stars clouding my vision mercifully fade into blackness.

Only after a very great amount of time has passed do I finally stir again, yet the throbbing in my head seems at an all time high. Moaning, I struggle to push myself to a sitting position and nearly pass out again as the world seems to spin around me. Muttering and complaining to myself, I slowly force myself upwards along the trunk of a nearby tree until I once again standing straight. Realizing that I have reached an unfamiliar part of the mountain, I slowly start to explore and search for familiar landmarks. My hands reach down to brush the sheath attached to my hip and relief floods me as I feel my axe still firmly attached.

The ground here is different, even my stinted dwarven senses can tell that much. Much harder and starched than what I am used to, and the vegetation is stripped to indicate a scarcity of food in this region. Wary now, I am moving slowly through the trees when I hear a faint sound upon the wind. As I am completely lost, I decide that finding any sign of life is better than mindlessly roaming around and so I turn and head that direction. My pace quickens as I hear the sound of screaming and then make out the clash of weapons. Breaking through the brush, I happen upon a family of dwarves under attack by creatures that I recognize as goblins. I have never seen one before, but old Grimlo tells stories around the campfire some nights and the gruesomely twisted bodies before can only match his description of goblins.

Stunned, I come to a halt and gape in horror at the violence spreading out before me. A cry for help comes from one of the dwarves, and I slowly piece together the scene to see that this must be a dwarven family of farmers. I can tell because of the ages of the dwarves, the familial resemblances and the fact that they are using farm tools to defend themselves against real weapons. Another cry for help grasps my attention and I stumble forward, trying to get my weapon from my sheath. A pair of goblins turns towards my entrance and instantly snap alert. "Issha byg un" snarls one of the goblins to the other and two more goblins turn to face me as well.

Having never been in a fight, I hesitate too long and they surround me while pointing weapons directly at my throat. Immobilized, I stand there in shock and one of the goblins quickly darts in and grabs my axe from my trembling hands. "Idiot!" screams one of the dwarves in a strained feminine voice that quickly twists into a pained scream. My eyes dart over to the dwarves and I realize that while I distracted the goblins, I had also distracted the dwarven man and he was now on the ground bleeding to death. A dwarven lass screams in fury and lashes out at the goblins but then is quickly swarmed as two of the goblins guarding me hurry to join the fight. I can only stare in horror as the dwarves are bound and drug over to the fire pit. While my mind is frozen in shock, the goblins have knocked me to my knees and tied my arms tight to the side of my body. Uncomprehendingly, I stutter something about being a peaceful explorer, but the goblins just laugh in mocking tones and one reaches out and slices some skin off my arm. As I recoil from the pain, he gleefully chews on my skin while prancing around my bleeding body. His gruesome face and bulging eyes are highlighted by the flickering flames, and he seems to have quickly recovered from his initial fear at seeing a dwarf as tall as himself. Before more of my flesh can become a snack, a sharp guttural order rings out from the goblin that I suspect is the leader and the goblins move in and drag one of the young dwarven lads over to the fire and then quickly slit his throat.

My world seems to explode in horror as the two dwarves left, both female, scream out in mixtures of sorrow and horror. The goblins move to the oldest female dwarf, but they seem intent on another form of brutality than slaughter. As the dwarf realizes this, she screams and wiggles free from the hands of the goblin pawing at her. Seeing that all escape is cut off, she flinches back from the slobbering jaws of the goblins around her and then throws herself unto the fire pit. Taken back, the goblins do not react in time and the screams of the last remaining dwarf are drowned out by the sizzling pop and acrid smell that floods the small meadow as the flames engulf the willing victim. A momentary pause enters the scene as all of us struggle to adjust to the rapidly changing situation. By now the goblins have deemed me to be a complete non threat and all of them are circling the last remaining dwarf and arguing over who gets first dibs. No longer screaming, the dwarven lass raises her head and pure grey eyes meet mine as a tear slow tracks down her soiled face. A slow whisper escapes her lips and time stands still as I strain to hear it. "Save me."

The Ending. Perhaps a beginning?

For all those who have asked, encouraged, prayed for, or otherwise supported my battle in the previous tale of the Paladin and Angel..(http://dwarventhoughts.blogspot.com/2012/05/beginning-is-it-also-ending.html)

Here is the next stage in the story, who can say if it is the last?

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The skies fade to black, night beckons into a sweet embrace. A single figure stands defiant against the cold wind sweeping down into the valley. Weariness causes strong shoulders to sag, and a ragged cough erupts from his throat. Huddling closer into his armor, the Paladin moves towards the warmth of the small campfire set before him.

His companion shuffles slightly in impatience, the tall and lanky youth has not yet learned the graceful and sure movement that his master desires to teach him. Time passes without communication as the wind howls in breathy rage and the cold seeps into the every bone. Hooded eyes peer out from under the cowl of the Paladin and search the darkness, but they appear dead to this world.

As the silence wears on, the impatience of youth defeats the fear of reprisals and soon the Squire clears his throat and breaks into the Paladins fierce contemplation. The same tired question floats in the night air, though this time the Paladin shivers against the chill of reality and decides to answer. Turning towards the Squire, the old Knight is illuminated by the flickering flames as he begins to recount an old tale of heartbreak and sorrow.

The gruff voice slowly and painstakingly describes the night that the Paladin met an Angel.  With stammering lips and forced explanations, he slowly describes the wild beating of his heart with her every kiss. Losing himself into memory, the Paladin recalls the brush of her fingers down his chest and how she gently kissed his ear to tease an excited groan from him. Remembering the rushed breathing as hands caressed, lips closed upon each other, as passion light the night sky with flames.

The crackle of the campfire lends a melody to the low tenor tones as the tale of the Angel continues on into the night. The Squire listens in rapt attention as a door opens in the heart of his master and new revelations pour forth.  Surprise shows on his face, as the story reveals emotions that the guarded knight has never before let be seen.  Yearning crosses the worn face of the Paladin as he tells his protégé about the laughter and joy he felt every single moment spent in the arms of the Angel; how resting with her cuddled tight in his arms made the world stand still and every worry vanish.

Such deep and powerful feelings stir within the breast of the youth that he nearly asks for the story to stop so that he can process what is happening. But he is entranced now and dare not break the spell that this recounting seems to have placed upon his master. Even as each description of the Angel and her beauty or love is graced upon the Squire, the Paladin seems to grow younger and the light in his eyes almost outshines the very stars themselves.

Then suddenly there is a hitch in the Paladin’s voice and it grows even gruffer. Now he tells the young companion that the Angel lived in two worlds. He tells of the nights laying on his back and watching the skies, forlornly hoping to see her grace his world and float down to join him. Softly now, the knight recounts searching for the Angel everywhere and finding a mystical portal that let him see into the other world. There he saw the Angel frolicking with another man who appeared only as a vague shape in the murky depths. He heard the twinkling of laughter in her voice and saw the radiance of her smile as she responded to a joke.

The wind no longer rages against the camp but instead slows to a quiet whisper, as if straining to hear the next words from the Paladin. Coarsely, he continues with the tale and explains how the Angel returned again in a few days and acted like nothing was different. Conversations from that fateful day seem to linger in the air; the melodic tones of the Angel as she admits to loving two worlds and not knowing what to do mingle with the broken queries of the armored knight trying to find his place in the universe. Confusion, anger, heartbreak, and sadness linger in the air as the two struggle to understand the twisting of Fate and decipher all possible futures.

A gentle whisper escapes the lips of the knight as he closes his eyes and empties out his heart in the telling of this story and recalls that fateful conversation. Passion still lights the very air between the Paladin and the Angel, as they mournfully gaze into each other’s eyes. Desire and longing make speaking difficult, and for a time they just meld together and try to forget what decisions must be faced in the morning.

A single tear tracks down the face of the Paladin as he reaches this part of his story; the Squire feels an answering tear begin to form in his own eye. Pushing himself forward, the Paladin stirs the campfire in silence for a while before again resuming his tale. Speaking of the last time that he saw the Angel, he calls to mind the memory of her radiant beauty. The luscious face now pale and hidden in shadow, streaked with the broken paths of tears that have cascaded down once rosy cheeks. The sparkle in her eyes has faded now, replaced only with a sad resolve. And thus the Paladin knows her decision before she even opens her mouth. Steeling his face to be as stiff and solid as he can be, the knight turns towards his forbidden Angel and gently traces a strong hand down her side while he looks straight into her shimmering eyes.  Only one question is asked, just to make sure that he was not misreading the situation. But she answers in the positive, giving a small nod of her head before turning away in tears once more. And then she was gone. 

Silence stretches out as time passes by with neither knight nor protégé noticing any change. Not even the impatience of youth can prompt the Squire to interrupt his master at this point, and so they both stare into the flickering light of the dying campfire. Shock still reverberates within the heart of the young man, as he could sense the depth of the love that the Paladin had felt and then lost. A low cough gets his attention and he turns back to his master and listens as the elderly knight tells him of the things that were attempted to capture the attention of the Angel again. The stories of the lonely nights staring into the sky and the words that alternated by softly whispered and fiercely screamed into the air. And while the Angel sometimes answered with words of sadness and understanding, they still echoed from another world and never from the world of the Paladin.

Dawn begins to break, as the sun slowly peeks over the horizon. Still the two companions sat besides the ashen remains of the campfire and stare into the distance, each one contemplating the matters of the heart. Slowly the Squire turns towards the older knight and forlornly asks just how the Paladin could handle such loss, and what he would do now. The Paladin lets loose a wry chuckle, tilting his head back to gaze up at the vanishing stars as he ponders how to respond. Then he lays a heavy hand upon the back of his young charge and gives him the lesson of life.

Cherish each moment, treasure every heartbeat. Bask in every bit of love you find, store it against the winter of desolation. Live life, enjoy life.  If the fear of pain stops you from looking, then you will never find peace or joy.

(Perhaps there is more than one Angel in this universe).

A Vanished Memory

An Achaean post. Most of the activities here are descriptions of actions and attacks that happen in the game of Achaea. 


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Gales of icy rain pelt the landscape with fury, while magic lightning arcs down to draw screams of pain. Flickering flames linger to trace the arc of fiery meteors, as terrible destruction falls upon the city like rain.

The steady thrum of arrow flights fill the background noise, as fear begins a radiance within the mind. Massive maws suddenly open to swallow men whole, as demons devour souls and leave the bodies behind.

Steely gray eyes sternly pierce the darkness like rapiers, as the captain of the guard steadfastly stands his ground. Strictly barking orders as he marshals fearful troops, the captain still prays for the solution not yet found.

Gathering his remaining courage and his men, the captain sets forth to join in the heightening fray. Rallying every soul that can hear his shouted call, the captain leads the last fateful charge to seize the day.

The clatter of moving armor mingles with coarse yells, as excited and anxious feet pound hard upon the road. Strangled men fall while others are ripped away with laughter, still the captain charges towards the path destiny showed.

A large stone wall suddenly rises up from the ground, breaking the charge as bodies collide in disgrace. Furiously the captain begins to scream new commands, which fade to silence as he succumbs to Death's embrace.

With a valiant shout, one knight continues ever onward, pushing his mount forward just enough to leap the wall. Blades scything downwards shredding enemies to either side , the knight struggles just to stay astride and to not fall.

Summoning all of his fury and silent prayers, desperate inspiration from on high fills this knight. Divine strength and stamina ripples through his muscles, as his God heeds his prayers and responds to his plight.

Gathering his weapons the knight gallops through the streets, hastily dodging traps and shrugging off many attacks. Clashing metal blades echo eerily in the night, as the enemy's once hardened resolve quietly cracks.

Bleeding profusely from every small cut and deep wound, the valiant knight staggers forward and refuses to fail. Exhaustion and utter pain seeping from his pores, he barely dodges the wildly slashing dragon tail.

Eyes locked together in the deadliest of struggles, single knight circles gleaming dragon with a weary pace. Frightening flames burst around his shield's hard edges, and a ferocious jaw closes just before his face.

The avatar of Death looms close with mocking laughter, as puny limbs shatter uselessly between gnawing teeth. A solitary prayer slips out in desperation, heeded with a startling reflection off the knight's sheath.

As scaled fury is briefly paused in blind confusion, a trumpet sounds in the distance to call a quick retreat. Hissing fills the air as the dragon lifts off in flight, responding to the pull of the commanding beat.

Tears of useless rage stream down the weathered face, as the knight surveys the heavily torn and damaged city. Wondering just what purpose could this destruction have, as whatever is left is now filled with only pity.

Grimly gathering his reigns gently with a now broken hand, the knight lingers one last time to gather goods and feed. Sorrow bends his back as he ventures into the mountains

That was the last that was seen of my hero and his steed.