Also posted on the Shroud of the Avatar forums.

Now available as spoken word (free!) at The Caverns.

The Lion and The Goose

A soft candescent light brushed against the lion’s cheek. Glimmering rays on paths unknown; down from the sun and through the hills and glens. Wandering, lost; the rays would roam and fill the world.

Night encroached as the sun descended to rest. The sky appeared as bloodied and torn; clear of cloud to reveal the sparkling diamonds upon the blackened velvet of the beyond. The palette of colours still held the ocean blue of daylight. A dash of white and grey appeared to have been dropped on the canvas without thought or reason. In the twillight the wind did not know if it should rest or blow.

In the lion’s mind it was still day; he danced under the sun upon the golden fields of the Vale.

Here. There. Everywhere. All would become night.

Quietness abounded. Silence spread as fire to leave the lion in solemnity.

The walls, charred. Windows, dusted and barred. Crops, ashen. All now cold. All was darkened afore the lion.

“Was I not magnificent?” boasted the lion. His barrel chest protruded towards the mirror.

“You were the most magnificent m’lord, yet no cheers,” chided the goose.

“Do you not see the makings of a king?”

“I see a goose,” said the goose.

“Yet it was I, the lion, who was victorious. It was I, the lion, who destroyed their homestead and tore their walls asunder,” the lion raised his voice, a sonorous rumble that nailed the goose where he stood, “it is I who shall rule Novia.”

“Yet here you are, a goose, pouting before a fallen mirror. A figure within a ruin, hidden away on the Vale.”

“I am a lion from a great house of lions. My crest, a lion; my family, all lions. I am courageous, as a lion.”

“My lord, you have forgotten yourself. You are a goose. I see it true for I am a goose too.”

The sun no more atop its perch. The room passed to unrelenting darkness, yet through the crack in the roof a wandering lunar light peaked through upon the lion and the goose.

Here. There. Everywhere. Fragments of light

Silence and solemnity. Once more.

The lion started back at the goose. No movement, naught a twitch; no sound at all. A lick of wind brushed through the door and whipped the dust along the floor like scurrying mice.

“Is this madness?” whispered the lion.

“This is madness,” whispered the goose.

The door creaked ajar. A soft patter of footsteps followed after the wind. Who was there? Another goose?

“My love what have you done to yourself?” that voice. It was familiar feminine voice. Sweetness; a dulcet and soft warmth of concubinal love.

“Nothing… I’m here. I became caught in a dream. Nothing more.”

“Why is there broken glass upon the floor?” the feminine voice became charged. She gasped. “The mirror! It’s broken. What have you done?”

“I did not choose it. I was told to do it.”

“Did you gaze once more upon the moon? You cannot, must not, let the shattered moonlight shine upon your soul for it will be reflected within you.”

“Do you see a lion?” asked the man.

“I see a man who should be my husband; a man, a lord and a leader of people… but who is troubled by the moon.”

(557 words – also, now available as spoken word (free!) at The Caverns)

Shroud of the Avatar

Journey to the world of Shroud of the Avatar: Forsaken Virtues, a computer role playing game created by the legendary Richard “Lord British” Garriott, creator of the genre defining Ultima series of computer role-playing games, Starr Long, director of Ultima Online, and Tracy Hickman, author of the Dragonlance series. It combines a rich story like those of the single player Ultimas with deep and varied multiplayer experiences like Ultima Online.

I cannot find a link to an article I read that stated (roughly) that Krugman (?) said that sci-fi was all about economics and was the reason he became interested in economics. Unfortunately, without a link to the source I can’t verify the exact wording. I’m not wishing to put words into his mouth as it would seem underhanded. I have to admit that I am not fond of Professor Krugman (not worth discussing here), but I will at least agree that many great works of sci-fi can be seen as economic parables. That said, I do not believe that any consideration of economics is the prime impetus for writing sci-fi. I believe that economics adds flavour to sci-fi, and in many cases it is a core theme, but that isn’t what makes it sci-fi.

Classic sci-fi is based upon what-if scenarios. Spaceships, laser guns and little green men were the props necessary to illustrate the author’s chosen scenario. Sci-fi grants a freedom to go beyond the confines of physics, and everyday life, but consequently the logic within a sci-fi story is contradictory. This is also true of fantasy. Sci-fi has evolved from simple what-if scenarios to become a large meta-genre that covers a multitude of (sins) plot styles.

An interesting question would be: do all sci-fi writers sit down with a what-if scenario and then try to construct a plot around? No, I don’t believe this is the case. I think many have an idea for a plot or a character than try to create a story from their seed idea. Whether it is by intended or unconsciously decided a what-if scenario is likely to emerge.

• What if Victorian Britain actually had powerful steam-powered devices?
• What if we could go back in time?
• What if we could journey to Mars or live in the stars? (unintentionally poetic )

First and foremost, any story should have interest characters. Readers can identify with characters they like and / or enjoy reading about. The fact that a love story is set on Mars as opposed to Earth is mostly irrelevant. Readers who appreciate a love story will enjoy that aspect; they want to read about interesting characters. That’s what keeps them reading, but it doesn’t make it sci-fi. Not even setting the love story on Mars would really do that (some debate there, sure). The defining aspect of a sci-fi love story would be: what if the love between two characters can’t work because of a technological or scientific difficulty?

The man is from Mars yet the woman is from Venus, and due to different physiologies they can’t reproduce. The what-if aspect here is how can these characters life together, and should they want to try living together if they can’t reproduce? The meta-scenario of difficult love isn’t new, nor restricted to sci-fi, but the use of different planets and species gives it that sci-fi flavour. The interplay between science, the characters, and the core scenario is what defines a story as sci-fi.

On top of this simple plot there could also be economic concerns. An extension could be that the couple in the story could eventually find out that there is a way to reproduce but in order to do it would cost vast quantities of money (or resources) which are beyond their means. To re-iterate a previous statement: sci-fi can grant the freedom to take this scenario to extremes without being contradictory.

A difficult love story is familiar to us Earthling writers and readers. We can understand and empathize with the characters. Using a sci-fi setting allows the writer to appeal to extremes in order to create a grand illustration of “how can this relationship work if there are extreme difficulties?”

The appeal to extremes is also in fantasy, so naturally, there is shared ground there. I find that fantasy is less interested in the what-if scenarios but more on the themes of what makes life worth living. Sci-fi questions wants us to question existence and “why should we bother? Why do we exist?”

While fantasy doesn’t necessarily ask us “why bother?”, I think that the genre accepts that we do exist and then ponders “how could we live better?”

Caveats:

Yes, I’m simplifying but the overall direction is something I believe to be correct. The criteria I suggested in this article are not the only considerations but I believe they are common across many work of science fiction, particularly the great ones.

(note: Long read. Actually ended up longer than intended.)

Technical – work

On the creative side of things I haven’t to write anything fresh since Nanowrimo (Nov 2013), although I managed to type up some short stories earlier this year that I’ve had on paper for the last year or two. Nanowrimo was unfortunate but life got in the way and I had to abandon much of my free time. It all worked out in the end so no complaints.

Since January I’ve been engaged in mostly technical writing for work, this is only part of my job but it is a necessary part of the role. The documents should be concise and easy to read, include pictures / tables / diagrams as necessary, such that someone can pick it up read it (mostly) independent of other documents. Obviously there is always some minimum level of required knowledge but I need to be clear where I’ve assumed something and be sure that I’ve defined everything.

I’m reluctant to share the details of those documents so the above is slightly contextless. However, one thing that I can do which I’m not sure that others in my workplace can is to compare the technical writing process with that of the creative writing process.

I’m not saying that technical writing is completely devoid of creativity but rather it is much more constrained and often well defined that the outcome (the final document) in advance of starting the document. In some ways this makes writing such a document easier, and can be a case of just sitting down and writing it.

The process benefits from the fact that I’m writing about something I know a lot about, and in all cases this year the details have not been complicated. Naturally, I didn’t write any document without flaw in the first attempt but rather each document underwent numerous revisions. Feedback (from coworkers) is a necessary part of the process and part of the “formal” procedure which makes it easier to revise something when it has been agreed what needs to change: no need to second guess your own decisions.

All of the above points are why I find technical writing easier, admittedly it hasn’t been the hardest technical writing, but it also helps to get paid. The document gets finished because it’s part of my job hence I’m paid to do it.

Technical – PhD

An example of hard(er) technical writing was my PhD. While I was an (or became) expert in the area of research my thesis didn’t have a known structure before I started it. Nor was the outcome of my research known at the point I started.

As such a document takes a long time to write I figured it was best to start it well in advance. I actually started my thesis before some older people (who were due to graduate a couple of years before me) actually started theirs. What can I say? I was keen to get writing it and put my ideas on to paper.

While the research was tricky and vacillated between fun / interesting and “damn it this doesn’t work”, writing the thesis was mostly fun. Removed from the research I actually enjoyed talking and writing about my subject. The main motivation was graduating with an advanced degree as well as getting it done so I could move on with life.

Discursive – blogging

Despite creating my website back in 2009 and that most of the content is “blogging”, I still loathe the word. For me, the word has connotations of (melo)drama: people open up on their blog and provide a stream of consciousness about their daily routines. My desire to text-dump my daily routine isn’t anywhere on my priority list. Sure I’ve made the odd rant status on Facebook but I’ve mostly weaned myself off of that. My modestly contrarian views on life and the universe are often met with hostility. ^_^

While I try to avoid outright contention I can’t help but write with an overly cynical or critical tone when it comes to discursive writing. That is my perspective of my own writing, I’m not sure how it sounds to readers. That said, I’ve tried to be less contentious or confrontational. I’ve found that avoiding forums and not participating in the comments section of newspapers (etc) helps to stay calm (and sleep well at night ).

On discursive writing itself, as a process, I do find it easier. The reasons for this are corroborative with my comments above on technical writing. I’m not paid but generally the outcome is well known before I start; I already have an idea of what I want to say and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel before I start. All of my discursive writing pieces are sub-5000 words (iirc) which also helps for staying focused.

Creative

… and finally on to creative writing, and for clarity: writing fiction. Of all the types of writing mentioned here this is the most fun but also the hardest. Creating a universe isn’t the hard part, but writing believable characters that exist in that universe is. Keeping the momentum going to write a full length story in a universe that you create with little or no structure has been tough.

The motivation for creative writing isn’t there in the same way either: if I complete my work and get it published then I might make make some money. A huge if with much uncertainty. Unlike writing technical documents at work where the writing is a part of my job, the structure is clear and I’m paid to do it.

Creative writing was something I did at school in English classes, I always avoided discursive but I didn’t know how to tackle that. Most (all?) of what I wrote at school was either sci-fi or fantasy (no surprise!) but all of the pieces were short (a couple of pages of A4 at most).

Outside of school I eventually started to create various SF&F universes as games. In some cases I created games around well-known universes such as StarTrek and StarWars. I created ships, planets and species and wrote a brief backstory of how they would fit together and also consistently with a universe that already existed. This part of writing is always the most fun but in many ways also the most distracting. As I’ve got older I always promised myself that I would eventually get something published. In order to focus on writing I had to work with a universe that I had already created and try to cut down the distractions.

As I probably discussed in a previous blogpost it wasn’t until I left high school that I actually tried to write a full length SF&F novel. In those days I disdained short stories as an “improper” use of time; how could something be exciting and also grand in scale if it was sub-10,000 words? That was roughly my line of thinking but the counter-side to that is that writing a full length novel is a lot of work.

The fantasy novel that I started circa 2002 (can’t quite recall) was first written and basically complete (structurally) and circa 50k words. Quite far short of what I thought a real novel should have. Not long after I started to write my sci-fi novel which eventually stalled at 30-40k words with about half of the plot written. That sci-fi novel is based upon notes that I created at high school and is the same universe in my newly completed collection of short stories.

The fantasy book was eventually re-written in 2009 / 2010 and is now at 100k words with approximately 95% of the structure complete. It has dangled there at the end point since. I’ve lack the motivation to finish it. Partly because I couldn’t figure out how to make it end and partly because I couldn’t figure out what I’d do with it was it was finished. My initial goal was to write and then publish it to lulu (I’ve also considered going the traditional route, that can be another post). I didn’t quite get there.

Motivation is tough, pay is currently non-existent, the structure is chaotic and inevitably the writing stalled. However, I did eventually get something published. Next post coming up!

On morality in fantasy and science fiction

This a repost of an article I did that evaluates morality /ethics in science fiction and fantasy. The same lines of argument can be applied to any genre but my knowledge is in SFF.  This is the moderately less contentious and shorter version.

Ultimately, you want readers to buy your book (really just a consumer product although I secretly pretend it is a work of art) and it doesn’t matter what their views are as long as they buy your book. Not everyone like it, but hopefully some will love it. Under no circumstances would I ever recommend talking down to the reader, any reader. Soap boxing your political (e.g. moral) beliefs is really a no-no. Make the readers emote but do not irritate them.

In this essay I review the judgement of morality as given by the author from the evidence of their texts. I will state my own preferences and understanding of the texts used, and come to a conclusion that is consistent with my appreciation of said texts.

The opening scene of A Game of Thrones

The opening scene of the game of thrones series tells of humans who venture into an unforgiving winter landscape, if nature killed them we would reconcile that as “expected” and even “normal”.

Man fought against nature and lost: this does not require a moral judgement from the reader. As a brief aside, I will acknowledge that some people may assign value judgements of good or evil to nature that requires nature to have a thinking will (more on that later). In this scene one of the characters witnesses the bloody remains of a massacre, of which children and adults have been gore-rotted  and given that it is the opening scene there cannot be a complete understanding of what happened and so we cannot assign blame or make a moral judgement.

Shortly after, we read that some of the characters are killed by an unknown terror that could be an animal, a person or something else unworldly. We don’t learn enough about it from the opening scene to a judgement. When people cannot assign blame to any particular thing then is no judgement of anything to be wrong. There was no wilful killing. This is akin to the statements that psychologist Sam Harris makes with regards to morality;  confer: would we judge a bear to be morally wrong if it mauls a child? I think very few people would assign blame to the animal as it did what we expected and that it did not make a rational decision in the same way that a human does. Similarly, dying of hypothermia does require us to place a value judgement upon nature and to call it evil or wrong.

In the next scene we learn that one of the people who escaped from the opening scene is to be executed as a traitor. I did not fully understand the reason why or how this person escaped, it seemed like a bit of a plot device at the request of a publisher to have action in the opening scenes (IMHO ); however, not to digress we learn that one of the main characters, a protagonist, has to execute this supposed traitor. It is an act which I also couldn’t quite fathom as to why it was necessary so was reluctant to accept why this should happen. It seemed like a plot device rather than an actual virtue / principle of character.

For now, let’s accept that it was a principle of this society: a human must kill another human as it is required by law. Depending on your ideology, this will either be seen as morally right or morally wrong. We can draw obvious parallels to modern capital punishment but in this essay I wish to state no preference to either, and I wish to state that I have no desire to tell you what to think. The beauty of GRRM is that neither did he; GRRM’s view of morality isn’t necessary, he is writing a story not a diatribe. Not once does GRRM pull you aside and say “Hey reader, Ned Stark had to kill this guy because that’s just how the story works but I really don’t support this viewpoint, just so y’all know: killing is bad m’kay.”

It would be totally redundant.

Evangelism

I abhor idealistic evangelism in story telling. It makes for poor story telling and is thoroughly inane, it is also frowned upon as a valid form of fiction writing yet many authors and story tellers continue to do it. Gods, why? Please stop doing this if you write fiction or ever plan to. Just like the GRRM mock quotation above, it really isn’t a good idea to have anything that reads like the following: “Dear reader, you are too stupid/ unwise to make up your own mind so I will feed you with my ideology and tell you what to think”.

(I realise the irony of that last paragraph… but forgive me please. )

This is one of the things I appreciate about GRRM’s work, that and I think he has great skill as a wordsmith. In his books people meet unjust ends yet at no point does the author tell you who to side with, nor who you should judge, he leaves that to you as the reader. I’ve had many conversations about the characters in his works and had a lot of fun disagreeing with friends about who is a fun character to follow or who is better than another.

The folly of dualism

You may then wonder where I stand with Tolkien whom is one of the greatest writers yet a central construction is the dualistic,  i.e. binary, nature of good and evil in his works. I cut Tolkien much slack because a simple casting of (say) LOTR’s morality as binary would be a  naive interpretation. Tolkien does use words like “good“and “evil” but rarely does he assign the value of absolute good or absolute evil to any of his characters. Sauron is perhaps the closest when he refers in an absolute way to either value judgement, yet he does not do this with Melkor  (Sauron’s former boss) in the Children of Hurin (or the Silmarilion). Neither is Ungoliant (who appears in the Silmarillion) denigrated in a cheap way as just being a character who is simply evil. All three are described as treacherous or dark but neither appear to be handled in a childlike manner where the author commands you to dislike either character. Admittedly Tolkien treads close to the edge with the dark characters but on the flip side to that argument is that I feel his good characters are shades of grey.

Who is the most good in the lord of the rings? The elves? Perhaps, yet they are reluctant to help the humans, yet they might be ‘more good’ than the humans but given that they have participated in war then are they are pure as the Hobbits?

The Hobbit have no taste for war or conflict yet Bilbo considers killing Gollum (heeds Gandalf’s words and for goes it), Frodo had wished that Bilbo had killed Gollum yet Gandalf points out that not even the wisest can see all ends. Is the explanation there that those particular Hobbits were under the influence of the ring? Perhaps, however, the ring is a plot device in this case, and the underlying fact is that a moral choice is presented as a shade of grey. The good guys are willing to consider killing as a solution but are persuaded otherwise by Gandalf. I will therefore admit that Gandalf is a likely voice of the author and (ergo) his opinion on morality and the inevitability of war (and the deaths that come with it). Recall: Gandalf, Pippin and Merry are present in the battle at Minas Tirith.

What or Science Fiction?

Some of the classics are written in such a way that challenges our knowledge of what is and isn’t acceptable. StarWars rehashes the classic good versus evil style plot, although you aren’t forced to side with the good guys the story portrays them in a much better light. This is where the originals shine and the newer ones are dulled down; older is more varied, while the newer are too simple.

The original SW films at least provided some shades of grey: the rogue is a rogue. Han Solo shot first. We may never behave like Han Solo but that doesn’t mean his charm doesn’t appeal to us.

Contrast to the unforgivable error in episode 3 where Obiwan Kenobi decries that the Sith are evil because they are absolutists. Yet this is at odds with how the Jedi and Sith are depicted, both are depicted in a fairly absolutist light yet it seems that the Sith are more likely to be pragmatic to get the job done rather than depend upon the rigours of scripture as the Jedi would.

Dune is one of my favourite novels. Herbert writes a lot about tyranny and the folly of following powerful and charismatic leaders. That isn’t to say that all leaders are bad, or that all charismatic leaders are bad, but rather we don’t always tend to see the flaws of the president we love the most ( ). I don’t think Herbert has succumb to dualism either, despite the myriad references to the Abrahamic religions, the author has the foresight to write the book in a fairly neutral light. He does not say which religion is better, or whether religion is good or bad. He points out the problems of blind faith and the power struggles that have surrounded religion: in many cases I do not detect an overly critical personal tone. It is my opinion that he lets you make your own decisions and that he merely presents an interesting set of stories.

… and that is how I think it should be handled by all authors of fictional works.

I wrote this story on paper about a year ago but never typed it up. As part of a drive to get my work published / read I’ve decided to share my work with more people. It is pointless to write stories that are never read. I do try to edit as a type but I’m sure there are a few rough edges to clean up but certainly not the worst thing you’ll read this year.

Enjoy and comment below.

Fallen Gods of Cheam

Ice, it’s everywhere. Ice, it’s even in the places you can’t see. Snow covers the ice and makes up almost everything that isn’t ice. Vistas of ice, rocks and mountains, between plateaus of snow. Cheamian landscapes never differ. The further south you go the more it snows. Cool winds whip across the lands, through the valleys of white, up and over the rocks of grey. Darkened greens huddle together where the ice stops and before the rocky peaks begin; the wooded areas are few yet evergreen – brown legs coated in white powder.

 The village of Fjatlos sat high on the sheltered face of a rocky mountain overlooking Five Glacier Valley. A string of mountains met around a valley of glaciers, the sea of ice-packed structures flowed down the from the rocky saddles and gathered in the basin as a culmination known as the Fjatlos Basin. The village dwellings were high above the basin carved into the peaty hillside, the wooden frames buried deep into the ground. Steep walls stood taller than man, from which snow wound slide and fall without hindrance. Each building stood apart to let the snows flow freely by, the snow could be the downfall of any dweller yet snow provided the necessary insulation for life.

 Tallest of all buildings was the temple, rising up taller than the village hall, yet not as tall as the melt-water collector. The collectors were life-giving tall wooden structures that channelled fresh snow from the ridge that collected the water in metal buckets. Even in conditions as rough as Cheam it was easy for people to forget what kept them alive. Danger focussed the mind but everyone needs rest, everyone forgets about the natural mechanisms of life.

 Life was only possible in Fjatlos due to the natural heat from the mountain fissures that provided the warmth needed to change the ice into water. The Fire Caves hide a source of pure hot water that drips and collects in the depths of the caverns. A labyrinth of tunnels hides the pools of water beneath the hills.

 “Istelle, Istelle! Get back in here. You’ll freeze to death,” the voice of Sedron’s wife carried in the wind. Sedron turned his head to watch his wife and ran after their daughter Istelle.

 “I’m fine mother, look I can run,” Istelle called back. Sedron was glad to see his daughter was up and running around again. Fever had wracked her body and took her to the edge of death. ‘Please not again’, they pleaded with death not to take another child, they had lost enough offspring. It didn’t feel like such a long time since they lost an older daughter to fever.

 “Istelle!” her mother called.

 “Mama, there’s no wind, mama. I can run and run.”

 “Get your furs on, now. Don’t let your father see you like this.”

 A hand grabbed Istelle from behind and dropped a thick fur garb over her head. “Careful young wolf, even the bravest hunter wear their furs,” Sedron spoke clearly to his daughter.

 “Ugh! Dad,” Istelle resisted, “it isn’t even cold.” She tried to slip away from his hug.

 “It is cold, young woman, and you will wear your furs.” Istelle freed herself and ran away along the frozen muddy pathways of the village. The white-grey wolf cloak trailed behind her. It hung half over one shoulder but didn’t quite fit. This cloak belonged to her brother who was lost on a village hunt.

 “Get away from the edge,” Istelle’s mother called, “tell her Sedron!”

 “She sees it, she won’t run over the edge.” he shouted back.

 “Sedron! I’m not losing another child this year.”

 Sedron grumbled, he wouldn’t let the past haunt the future. If he always dwelt on the kids already lost then he could not celebrate the three kids that remained. Four gone, but three still survive. The world was harsh and unforgiving, he was reminded of this every morning. Why did life exist on such a frigid world? Sedron tried not to ask himself, the thoughts of his own mortality and limited existence drove him to dark places. The mind was sharp when cold, but clarity was lost when the mind was left to dwell.

 Istelle ran to the edge of Skull Cliff, her mother shouted again, but Sedron hadn’t moved. ‘Why is called Skull Cliff?’ Istelle had asked her father when she was younger. So young, so naive. How to explain the bones in the valley? Not to a child, you can’t explain the bones to a child. The bones are from unwanted children, bastards, and cripples. When the babies’ cries stop, the parents start. Villages elders are at least given a choice: the dignity of a swift execution or the option of leaving to wilderness with a sharp blade. Life is tough and food is scarce. The gods have forsaken this world. Ice. Snow. Ice. Snow. Ice and then more damned snow. Oh, why can’t it be warm?

 Istelle’s laughter and screams of joy filled the air as she ran with friends around the village. The other parents watched with just as much concern. Life was dangerous and everyone has lost a sibling, parent, or child in recent memory.

 “See, she’s fine,” Sedron said as he sat down to sharpen his iron spear. He shrugged his large round shoulders and took a piece of flint from his pocket. Everything was fine, he told himself.

 “Troubles at home?” A voice called from behind. Sedron didn’t rise to the bait. His brother laughed then came to sit beside him. Alfron was taller and more muscular, yet had a poorer aim and wasn’t as nimble on his feet. Just behind Alfron were two more men, each followed by a leashed wolf, and behind them were Alfron’s two teenage sons Fomel and Kebber. “Almost time for hunting, are you ready?” Sedron heard the footsteps of the other men but hadn’t bother to turn and greet them. One of the wolves had come to Sedron’s familiar smell, it licked his face then sat by his feet. “Deaf or just ignorant, Sedron?”

 Sedron smirked. “The spear won’t sharpen itself.”

The seven hunters dressed alike in white-grey skins that matched the wolves they walked with. Collective barks came from the wolves who had turned their attention to a snowfox running by, they yanked themselves against their leashes in a vain attempt to pursue. The hunters pulled the leashes tight leading to a collective yelp from the wolves.

 “Easy now,” Alfron clapped his pet.

 The tip of the spear was sharp enough to cut with the slightest touch. Sedron rose and eyeballed his fellow huntsmen. He said nothing. Everyone knew each other, this hunt would be routine. No mistakes. No unnecessary deaths. No children to bury, not  this time. “Pray for my return, we shall feast when I return. The lands shall be rife with meat now that the winds have gone.” Sedron addressed his wife.

 “Sedron,” Welyn called out to him but suddenly couldn’t find the tell him how much he meant to her. He had to survive, she didn’t know how she could last if there was another death in the family. Worst of all if Sedron died her pillar in life was gone. She tried to smile but her eyes fell to the ground, her mind wandered into a dream of days long gone. “Sedron, I shall pray for your return. Please be careful. No heroics…” she looked to the rest of the huntsmen, “from any of you.”

 “Sedron!” Elsar shouted. “No time for kissing, let’s get hunting.”

 Snow crunched under the feet of the hunting party as they started their marched away from Sedron’s house. The wolves rushed along side; darting out and back with eagerness.

 Cotyr looked back to see if Sedron had moved, “By gods man… you are in no hurry.” The wind howled yet the sun still shone. Sedron kissed his wife goodbye, he uttered something to her that no one else could hear.

 “We shall return with a feast for the whole village,” Sedron announced to all. By now, the rest of the village had come out to wave farewell to their hopeful hunters. May the hunt be prosperous they shouted after the men.

 “Or to an irate wife if you fail,” Alfron laughed.

 “Careful brother or she will have your wolf for our next stew.” Sedron finally left by kissing Istelle goodbye. His other children remained inside. He mumbled a prayer to the gods that should this party fail then they must look after his wife and children, even his eldest and moodiest child. Cerrun wouldn’t listen to his father, he had no drive to do anything with life. How does a parent encourage a child to live when the child will not listen to reason? Every suggestion is wrong, every bit of help ignored. ‘Be safe’ Sedron whispered to the wind.

 “Gods of wind, of fire, of land and water, of trees and of men, hear my prayer. Give me strength to hunt and see that my spear will  fly straight and true, give me courage in the face of fear and deliver me from danger. I ask this prayer to be heard O’ Gods above, watch over us this day.” Alfron said aloud.

 Ilkand, their father, never left the village without prayer and he had raised his own sons to be both respectful to the gods and dutiful to the village. No chief was fairer or greater in skill. Sedron long wished to emerge from his father’s shadow, but even in the old man’s death, few can see the potential that shines from Sedron. ‘Ilkand the great, Ilkand the wise, the generous, the fair, the master.’ Sedron had grown tired of his father’s legacy such that he had come to revel in the folklore of Magnar, a man that some say was even greater than Ilkand. It was he that wrestled wolves and brought home the first tamed wolf to the village. Magnar lost an eye but continued to hunt. Magnar lost a hand but continued to rule. Many say that Sedron, and Ilkand, were descended from Magnar he legendary chief of Fjatlos.

 What made Ilkand so loved was not just his successful hunting strategies but his patience and fair handedness in resolving disputes. It was not uncommon for rival villages to come to him and ask for adjudication of their disputes. A man who loved to walk and climb alone, as much as he loved to hunt with the other men from the village. A quiet man who was fierce in battle yet bore no grudges and was slow to temper. He was Ilkand the loved.

 Sedron had planned out the route the party would take, as master of the hunt he set the pace and chose to lead them north across the ridge and away from Five Glacier Valley. Over to the backside of the mountain and then northwards past the evergreen forests. The hilly region beyond the flatlands to the north should prove fertile this time of year, away from all the villages of man.

The untouched setting, beyond the flatlands, allowed animals to roam wild and free. Kills should be plentiful, but it was not without danger. His father always instructed his parties to cross the snowy expanse as fast as possible, only the biggest and toughest creatures would roam there but their maw could cut a man in two with ease. Sharp claws that could penetrate the skull, front to back, in a single swipe. Such creatures that stood tall as a temple and could run as fast as any wolf, but their meat was poisonous and foul his father had warned. Sedron never figured out how his father could know that.

 As child Sedron heard stories from his grandfather of the equatorial flats far in the south. Vast icy deserts with untouched snow that was so soft and thick that no one dared cross them. No shelter or food, so it would be impossible to cross even if anyone dared. ‘Was there no rocks there grandfather?’ Sedron had asked. He never did get an answer to that. ‘Couldn’t it be crossed in a sledge?’ Sedron had asked another time, ‘no, too far.’

Before the hunters would cross the flats Sedron checked that all members still followed. Elsar, Cotyr, Alfron and his sons Fomel and Kebber. Sedron counted seven; two more than he would have liked. The boys would be more of hindrance than a help. ‘It’s not an easy hunt, boys, perhaps it would be best to go back.’ Sedron had warned them but Alfron pleaded to let them come. They had to learn how to hunt one day.

 Fomel wheezed with each gust of wind which further entrenched Sedron’s resentment as he heard his nephew struggle to match his pace. “Slow down Sedron,” Alfron had barked, at least twice now, but Sedron would not listen. Alfron had also complained of aching feet and muscle cramps, but Sedron ignored it. He was determined to hunt, and bringing home any sack of meat smaller than he was would be a failure. ‘The sleds must be piled high,’ he warned. No turning back until we have filled our sacks.

 “My feet are aching. I must rest, Sedron,” Alfron shouted above the howls of the wind. One of his skis had become lodged into a mound of snow and threw his body to the floor. Even the wolves were tiring and the sky was now darkening. It was time to rest. Sedron accepted and came to sit besides Alfron.

 “Are you injured?” he asked Alfron.

 “I’m fine, just a little bruised but it’s nothing,” Alfron said.

 “We should try making the crossing before nightfall.”

 “We won’t make it. It’s too far.”

 “I’’m hungry,” Cotyr interrupted.

 “It isn’t too far,” Sedron replied to Alfron, “we’ll make it. I’ve done this before.”

 “I’ve done it before too and you know it’s too far. C’mon, we did this three ago too,” Alfron said.

 “Can we eat already?” Cotyr shouted. He stood above the two brothers still waiting for resolution.

 “Hey! Did you just see that?” Elsar shouted. He was the last to join the commotion. Alfron’s sons had joined him on the snow but kept quiet while the adults bickered.

 “Let’s make camp here,  it would be better just to rest.” Alfron said.

 “Here? You moron, we can’t just stop here. Where is here? Here is nowhere. There’s no shelter, no wood, no anything,” Sedron rebutted.

 “We should move on then,” Cotyr agreed and pointed towards the far end of the flatlands.

 “There!” Elsar shouted, “there it was again. Did you see that?”

 “What are you talking about?” Sedron turned to see what Elsar was looking at. “I don’t see anything. Now let’s just get our stuff and get to the other side.”

 “I saw it… it was like a star falling from the sky,” said Cotyr.

 “Cotyr, you’re hungry. You don’t know what which way is up when you’re hungry,” Sedron shouted back.

 “No, look, there. It happened again. Whatever it was, it fell again.” Elsar said.

 “It was a falling star. I’ve seen it twice now.” Cotyr added.

 “Gods have mercy,” Alfron said.

 “I can assure you that the sky is not falling down.” Sedron said, he looked around for the mysterious falling stars. “It was a meteor. Nothing more. Now let’s get going before night falls.”

 “We should see where they land. Maybe they bring gold?” Elsar asked.

 Cotyr laughed. “Gods don’t have a use for gold.”

 “There!” Elsar shouted. He pointed at the series of falling red stars falling. Everyone was watching Sedron who now stood at the edge of disbelief; his mouth agape. They had all seen the falling stars now.

 “This is a bad omen, brother,” Alfron said.

The wolves seemed the most apprehensive, they whined and wagged their tails profusely. Another three stars fell, red pinpoints of light, bursting into life in an instant then disappearing just as quickly. All occurrences happened in the same region of sky. It had to be a meteor shower, Sedron told himself.

 The stars no longer fell but the sky had darkened, the clouds were thicker, miasmic and grey. Sedron lead the team forward. ‘I must not show fear, they will not follow if I cannot lead. There is no need to fear, for death is not the end.’ He uttered breathlessly to himself. Keep marching and we shall make it by nightfall.

  “Look! More lights,” Cotyr shouted.

  “They’re blue,” Elsar added, “and green.”

 “They…” Alfron spoke up, “they’re just hanging.”

 And then nothing.

 The lights disappeared. Sedron and the hunting group were soon reminded how dark Cheam became in the middle of the flatlands. No campfires, no sun, no falling stars, almost no light at all.

 Suddenly, a cloud of ice and snow exploded in the distance. A mist rose from the land and dominated their view of the hills. The situation had new meaning. Something, whatever it was, had hit the flatlands.

 The cloud continued to puff outwards and finally washed over the weary travellers. Sedron pulled his cloak in tighter when the wind blew. His wolf barked in the air. Something was threatening it. What did it sense?

 A further row of stars descended. As it did a further cloud of snow blew across the land. These gods fell and then stopped. Their lights had not extinguished, yet they no longer fell. A gust of wind brushed along the flatlands, the miasma of ice and snow cleared if only for a moment. Clarity was offered for a moment. All the lights had come to a rest.

 The new constellations slept with cosy silence upon the powdered snow. Red, blue, and green; the fallen stars did not twinkle. What were they? Sedron asked himself. No tale or legend spoke of sleeping gods who came to lie in silence.

 “The fury of Karthuz rages before us, he protects his kin who wish to sleep,” Alfron shouted to be hard upon the wind. Respite from the weather of Cheam had been only fleeting. “Behold Kathuz and his offspring.”

 “Aye, behold Karthuz,” Cotyr added.

 Sedron kept quiet. He offered no conclusion for he could not understand how the others knew this was Karthuz. They had to be gods, but why not Armenuz or Galon? Why Karthuz? It did not matter for now the men were at ease. Bad weather was forgotten, the gods have arrived. Will they listen to our prayers, provide us with food, and reveal their godly serenity to us? What fortune it would be for Sedon, son of Ilkand, the village chief, to bring gods back to the village. With such power would come great wealth. Our rivals will despair.

 Sedron lead them forward, they would venture forth and meet their makers.

 “What sort of creatures are they? Sedron asked. He lead the team ever closer. The silence was long broken. The gods did not sleep silently but emitted a deeply resonant hum. The creatures, gods if they were, looked strange. What should a supreme being look like? Not like this. These were not gods. Surely not.

 Confidence dwindled, even in Alfron who was the first to declare that these lights were the gods. It was Karthuz he said, he insisted. No fewer than ten creatures now stood as straight-legged silhouettes against the mountains. The jaws of the unexpected beasts fell upon the snow to reveal an eery glow from inside their throats. As the team closed in Sedron could see that the creatures had large box-like bodies that were stuck atop four stiff legs. Were these the horses of the gods? Fashioned with lanterns that burn so bright that all can see them from far across the heavens.

 Strange animals they must be if their natural resting position is to stand up straight with mouth ajar. Sedron soon noticed differences among them, some were slightly taller and longer, while others were fatter with shorter legs. Each of them were easily as tall as the village temple, if not taller.

 “Karthuz!” Alfron shouted.

 “Quiet, you idiot,” Sedron yanked on his brother’s cloak. How did these foul beasts fall like stars? As the group drew nearer Sedron stepped more quietly. The creatures’ skin shimmered like polished metal: clean, smooth and unyielding. The wind did not ruffle any hair or feathers.

 “Look at their eyes,” Cotyr said. He stood just behind Sedron and pointed to the nearest of the fallen stars. “Why do they only have one eye? It shines so brightly… like a star, yet it is long and thin.”

 They edged closer still. The resonant hum of the beasts had quietened. The coloured lanterns on the legs of the beasts dimmed while the lights from the jaws grew brighter. A gasp of air escaped and perspective changed forever. Familiar shapes emerged from the mouths of the animals thought to be gods.

 Bipeds.

NB:

The ending isn’t quite finished, I’d like to add a little bit more without destroying the impact.

Please, no, don’t do it.

I was aiming for something dark but not horror or gore. Enjoy!

Forsaken Daughter

Cool air tickled her throat, the salty breeze licked through the shutters and penetrated the damp bedding. She coughed with each gust; a chesty roar followed by a spittle blood when her mouth was full. The sun blazed into her dank room every time the wind pushed its way in, her head thumped and throbbed. Her face was burning yet her legs shivered. A chesty cough forced its way out.

The shutters clanged and clashed against the wooden wall, each time they opened the heat of day burst in and cleansed the putrid air. Each time the shutters closed a shadow drew across the room; the dirt and dust danced their turbulent waltz across the floor and up the bed.

It had been… a day… or was it days since someone last visited? It must have been the smell, she thought. They won’t be able to stand the smell of blood and puss, the smell was even displeasing to her. The smell wasn’t the worst, they were nothing compared to the aches. Why did she have to suffer?

Her stomach growled and she coughed again. ‘I must not cough,’ she told herself, ‘blood coughs only come to bad girls, and I mustn’t cough bad unless I want to be known as a bad girl. I’m a good girl, so why must I suffer?’

Footsteps crept along the hallway. The floors creaked as the person came closer. Was it the doctor? His tonics also tasted so foul but anything was better than lying in bed. The door rattled and opened. Her father entered the room alone, he held his kerchief across his mouth and clutched a vial of brown liquid in his other hand.

He dropped his kerchief and reached down to grab her chin, he forced the vial to her mouth and splashed the liquid out. It raced down her throat and spluttered over her chin. “Good girls don’t cough blood,” he told her, “we’ll fix you up or you’ll be taken to the underland. You don’t want that do you?”

She shook her head as best she could. Her muscles ached so much that she wasn’t sure if she actually moved her head or just thought about it. The liquid made her choke, she coughed and coughed until her throat was clear. When she stopped she saw that her father had left. Her eyes closed as the footsteps faded into the distance. “You’ll be taken to the underland,” she heard his voice in her head.

The floor felt like a shifting deck in a storm; up then down, around and up, down, up, up, down. One hand pushed against the wall while the other lunged for the side of the bed. The hessian drapes battered against the wall like torn sails whipping against their mast. The room darkened, her vision blurred, her heart raced, she tensed her muscles trying to resist the nauseous sensation that grew inside her.

The coughs begat the wind in the sails; the sneezes gave life to the hail; her perspiration became the rain. The room flew high, her stomach lurched with the airless feeling one gets when they jump from a perch. As quick as the flight began the bed came crashing down: a rock against hard stone floor. No give, just hard impact. A loud sonorous roar preceded the cracking of the wooden bed posts.

Her eyes opened to total darkness. The sensation of spinning hadn’t left her. She tried to figure out where the bed had landed. A cleaner taste of air surrounded her, an unfamiliar crisp and saltless flavour that suggested she was no longer by the sea. The stone floor underneath was cold to step on but slowly she pulled herself up. Her legs were giddy and barely held her but the desire to cough was gone.

Coal could not be as dark as this place. No, coal had a glimmer to it. Sometimes you could see it shine when the light hit it just right, but that wasn’t true here. There was no light or sound. The wind had gone and with it the smells and tastes of life. Wherever this was, it was a new sense of nothingness.

A creaking sound ignited in the distance but it echoed several times. This had to be a room of some kind, or perhaps a cave. First a sliver then a large crack revealed a gush of light from above. It was a familiar brightness, it had the same white hue as moonlight. After a brief moment of blindness her eyes settled upon a stone orb no more than ten paces away. Upon the rough granite-looking surface she saw the outline of blue letters appearing, and she knew it once they were the runic symbols of the ancients.

“Sarla,” a male voice boomed from the stone, “forsaken daughter, why have you come here?” The runes shone brighter everytime the voice spoke.

Sarla couldn’t find her voice. At first she wondered how he, or it, knew her name. Did all such beings know her name? Did they know everyone’s name? “I..” she stammered at first then found her courage, “I don’t know.”

“You journey into my lair yet you do not know why? Did you not chose to come here, oh coughing daughter of Maxwell?”

“I… well, I was… in bed, and I was coughing and father shouted at me to stop coughing but I couldn’t,” Sarla sniffed and restrained her tears.

“You coughed up your blood when you were told not to, and now you find yourself here, am I to believe it was an accident?” the voice shouted, “you waste my time with your petty snivels.”

“But… but.. I did not chose-”

“Silence!” the cave shook so hard that it threw Sarla to the floor. The spherical stone dimmed and turned quietly on its axis. “You may leave now.”

“Leave? But how do I leave? Am I not dead? Father said that when I die I will be taken to the underworld to meet the ancients. He said that if I did not stop coughing then I was sure to die. I tried, you must believe, but I just couldn’t stop. He left me there on the bed. How can I go back?” Sarla could not hide her confusion, she had only just got here. It was here that she was supposed to accept her fate. That is what father had told her must happen.

“By accepting a forfeit in your place. To live you must sacrifice another and when you wake up it will be so,” the voice was calm and the glow of the stone dimmed to total darkness. Sarla was once again standing in the dark.

“Who will be sacrificed? And how can I just wake up if I am dead?” Sarla’s voice echoed in the cave, “Answer me! You must answer me. Who shall take me place? Who?”

The crunching sound of a collapsing mast behind Sarla made her jump. A blast of warm air rushed against her face, it had picked up a wash of dirt from the floor and forced her to close her eyes. When she opened them again she was back in her room. The shutters were open. Sarla looked out onto the blue-green ocean in front or her house. The coughing was gone. The pains were no more and she was standing straight back in her own room. She felt cured. It was a miracle. She was cured.

“Father, I’m cured, I’m cured. the coughing has gone. I’m cured!” She yelled with glee, “Father?”

The team ran a successful kickstarter campaign and continue to allow new subscribers to join on their website.

“Journey to the world of Shroud of the Avatar: Forsaken Virtues, a computer role playing game created by Lord British (aka Richard Garriott), creator of the genre defining Ultima series of computer games, Starr Long, director of Ultima Online, and Tracy Hickman, author of the Dragonlance series. It combines rich story, like those of the single player Ultimas, with deep and varied multiplayer experiences, like Ultima Online.”

Creating a new language, even a simplified one, is much tougher than I first thought. I experimented with creating one for my first novel but it felt too clumsy and amateurish. At some point I will try again but I think I’ll start from scratch and try to make it more logical!

See this TED talk where John McWhorter discusses Conlangs!

Are Elvish, Klingon, Dothraki and Na’vi real languages?

First post on this new part of my website, think I’ll just keep this first post but edit it… and yes that’s Hex for Hello World. This part of my website will be a simple blog for tracking my progess / updates for my creative writing efforts. While my first pieces were written at school (which included some fairly sizeable make-believe universes) I would say that my first proper attempt to write prose was about 10 years ago. At school I had to write short creative stories for exam work or under exam conditions, none of those were serious efforts. What I consider to be my first attempt is the novel I started to write 10 years ago, but like many aspiring authors it was never finished.

A novel is only worth writing if it is shared with others. Most of my work never gets further than a couple of friends or family members. I think it would be a regret to go another 10 years and never share my work with a wider group of people. If my work is never professionally published then that’s fine; while it would be nice to be published by one of the big companies, I would be content to self-publish and just have my stories on Smashwords or Amazon. Going to avoid  using hashtag yolo… uh… oh wait… s#@t!..

The first novel was a fantasy novel that covers a boy’s coming of age. Not unique by any means but it was fitting to my place in life at the time. It is perhaps little more than cliched fantasy but I enjoyed writing it and I think the story would appeal to all fantasy readers. That novel is almost complete and one day it will be. That would be my famous last words. This novel will be explored in a later post.

Before that work is published, or even finished, I intend to complete a newer work. The second novel I worked on is sci-fi and in some ways it is older. The original idea for my sci-fi novel came from an RP game that I created with friends back in high school (around 13 years ago now). I created most of the background setting and was the guardian of all the notes. Eventually I started to turn it into a novel about 8 years ago (roughly). As with my first novel it was never completed, at the moment it is somewhere near the half-way point. However, since then I started to work on a set of prequel stories which I plan to make my first publication. This will be a compendium of roughly 5 short stories set in this sci-fi universe. More to follow!