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!

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).

More than a Storm.

Steely gray eyes stare relentlessly across the void. Dark and full eyebrows furrowed as the man contemplated the unknowable questions of life. A slight twitch sets firm jaw muscles quivering as he turns slightly and glares down at the packed grass beneath his feet. His visage remains a mask for a few moments more, as certain thoughts rumble inside his head. A speck of gold briefly swims in the depths of his brown eyes before he closes his eyelids and emits a painful groan.

Resolutely, the man places one foot in front of the other and forces himself to walk forward a few paces, leaving his residence behind and stumbling into the open space for a brief moment. Dropping down to land upon a single bent knee, the man grimaces as he struggles to hold back his fears and even his tears. Flinging his head back as if to let loose a fierce yell, he is suddenly enchanted by the vision of the few moon above him, only slightly hidden by the clouds. But that very beauty soon begins to eat at him and the conflicted emotions crossing his face tells a tale to which not even a bard could do full justice.

Thoughts churning in his head, the man cannot even decide which thought to entertain, nor which emotion is truly suited. His low voiced growl of frustration is answered with a responding rumble of thunder and he briefly glances around before deciding that his inner storm is more important than any outside force.

"Do I love her?" rings in his head, demanding an answer that he can not seem to provide. The romantic idea of love pulls at him, but how can he know what is true when his emotions change every second. A fond memory of a moment with her surfaces and a slow smile steals across cracked lips. But then comes a harsh reminder of the truth in her actions and he growls in pure frustration. Sweet words seem to linger in the air, as conversations replay in his mind. Forcibly he reminds himself of the value as words, remembering the last kiss she shared with her as she chose a different path.

Anger pours through him now, though at himself and with no other target. "I swore that I knew better. Swore I was not going to let myself get hurt. I Swore that I could be just friends and not ask for anything more." A knotted fist pounds the dirt beside him and feels moist dirt cover his flesh. Surprised, the man opens his eyes and notices that rain has begun falling in a steady cadence. A wry chuckle echos in the air around him, as the realization strikes home that the weather is most appropriate to his current situation.

With that realization, it is as if a dam bursts within him and suddenly he can not hold back. Fire burns through his blood as he feels the heat of passion again, feels the touch of her skin and hears the pearling tones of her laughter. Raindrops land upon his skin and hiss away in steam as his body reacts to the recollection of her caress. A bolt of lightning rips across the night sky, splitting the world asunder in exactly the same moment as pain and loss fills the heart of the man. Screaming out against the dark of night, he feels again the hurt burning inside when he saw her in the arms of another man. Rage pours forth from him now, though he held it in then. "Remember, you had no claim. She was his and not yours, what right do you have to be angry".

His own words seem to slap him across the face and he stumbles for a moment, recognizing the pang of jealousy in the last flickers of the lightning leaping between clouds. Truth settles in his soul as he remembers those last fateful moments. He told her to choose, told her that there can only be one world in her life. Told her that he would accept whatever she chose and walk that path happily. But his tears coursing down his face begin to mix with the heavy raindrops that are hurtling down around him. "It would never work, there is much wrong. She doesn't even know me" he tells himself in a mumbled exertion. And just as he begins to feel a moment of comfort in that, suddenly he recalls the sparkle in her eyes as they share a moment just gazing at each other. Nothing else exists when she looks at him like that, the entire world stands still.

Stumbling to his feet against the wind and rain, the man stares forlornly into a night which he can no longer see. Every second that he breaths comes another emotion. Deep down, he knows that the past is the past and what has ended will not begin again. Practical thoughts seem to have little hold at this moment though, as another lightning bolt crackles down to shatter the tree next to him. Bowing his head for a moment, he breathes deeply to calm his thoughts. When he raises his eyes again, the fire in his eyes is reflected by the burning branches twisting against the thunderstorm. At last his emotions begin to fade, replaced by the soft patter of a healing rain. Once again, he places one foot in front of the other and continues along his journey. A gentle breeze caresses his face and gently tugs at his lips until he graces the world with a brief smile. Perhaps there is hope for the future after all. As the storm inside ends, the world outside no longer looks so grim.

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?