First of all, let me say this about the piece I posted yesterday;
damn, that's bad.
Looks like again I will not get any significant writing done today.
I'm running out of time at work.
I suppose I should learn how to do it at home....heh...
This Saturday is my 20th high school reunion. Oddly, I am excited about going. I was shy (you'd never guess....) in high school, and had few friends. Those that I made I still talk to, at least periodically. I will be seeing people I have not seen in 20 years! TWENTY YEARS!! That's, like, before personal computes! I did my first college papers on a commodore 64 !
It is also the anniversary of the opening of The Palace of Auburn Hills, home of the Pistons and site of 3 memorable concerts for myself (Rush twice and Metallica, early in the Black Album tour (thanks for the tix, Brent!))
Let's see what else I can dig up from 20 years ago....(I'm a wiki-wizard!)
Perestroika. In a long ago D&D campaign, I once noted a peaceful orc as being Gorbachev-like.
The ELCA was formed in 1988. Interesting...(my wife and I left a church governed by them)
The Iran-Contra affair. Olie-Olie-Oxen-Free!
These two straight from wiki:
The USS Samuel B. Roberts (FFG-58) strikes a naval mine in the Persian Gulf, while deployed on Operation Earnest Will during the Tanker War phase of the Iran-Iraq War.
April 18 - United States Navy retaliates for the Roberts mining with Operation Praying Mantis, in a day of strikes against Iranian oil platforms and naval vessels.
Germaine!
Lloyd Bentson excoriates Dan Quayle; "Senator, I knew Jack Kennedy. I served with Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy."
Kirk Gibson's dramatic World Series homer for the Dodgers. Most forget that it was only game 1 of the series, and Gibson's only at bat of the series!
George Bush defeats Michael Dukakis.
An independent State of Palestine is proclaimed at the Palestinian National Council meeting in Algiers, by a vote of 253 to 46.
clear as mud....
The B-2 bomber prototype is first revealed.
Earthquake in Armenia kills 25,000. Yes, 25 THOUSAND.
December 21 - Pan Am Flight 103 is blown up by Libyan terrorists over Lockerbie, Scotland, killing a total of 270 people.
This is perhaps the first significant act of terrorism that had a world-wide significance.
Maybe I'll post some pics at the reunion. I'll see at least 3 of my loyal readers there, I hope!
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Chapter 1: Cards and Sharks
Executing his uniquely peculiar double-take, head bobbing diagonally, Sirakln the Beyonder unnoticably winced at the all-too-familiar alienation that the scar-chested man immediately projected as he strode, calm and proud, through the foremost portal into the Pegasus Hoof. From his vantage point in the farthest, darkest corner of the tavern, Sirakln watched the tall man from beneath a large hood. In the short time it took the individual to traverse the hard dirt floor of the bar to a table adjacent to his own, the ranger of Krell had determined a number of things about him. First of all, he was definitely no human, possibly elvish or most likely half-elvish; the ears gave him away, although the slightness of limb helped Sirakln's assessment of this, despite the profuseness of muscle. From his garb and style in which he wore it, the Beyonder knew this man-elf was a woodsman; like himself, a ranger. He was from the elvenwoods of tomorrow, for certain. Why he wore his tunic open, revealing the oddly shaped rune-scar in the center of his chest, was a complete and inconceivable mystery to Sirakln. At this thought, his hand went unconsciously to the left side of his face, the location of his own scar. At the touch of it, however, he again felt the horrible recollection, like déjà-vu, of the battle in which he received the accursed thin. Again unknowingly self-conscious, he pulled the oversized hood down further, covering his distorted facial features.
He sat there for a hundred or so beats of his own heart, contemplating again the reason for his visit to the capital city of Martish and his stay at the Pegasus Hoof. His search to acknowledge the rumors of troll sightings near Akixok and Shadowkeep had led him south of his native Krell's Keep, first to Gotlive. Finding no truth to the rumors there, he set course for Martish, the capital of Keanin. After studying the city for a month, he decided to base his operation at the Pegasus hoof, an inn amidst the slums, in the southeast of the city. Since then, he had been waiting patiently for some word of the trolls-any word. As they did now, his thoughts often meandered to the memory of the first time he encountered trolls; though not directly, he quickly learned a passionate hatred for the beasts. Before the Defender banished the trolls, as well as goblins and ogres, from Keanin and long before Sirakln's own birth, his home forest, Krell's Keep, was regularly lambasted by attacking trolls. Following a particularly fierce onslaught, his grandfather Krell, a ranger lord after whom the forest, fortress, and clan were named, declared the trolls the ultimate bane of good and of the Krell clan, forever after to be hunted, killed, and utterly destroyed. Under his hooded cloak, Sirakln again swore, under his breath, to uphold this addict. This oath brought the river of his mental ramblings to another shore; his promise to avenge the recent murder of his grandfather at the hands of trolls. The very same trolls that were said to have been banished. Although he had not been witness to the death, he carried the pain with him in the form of the Bringer and Ebb, the Holy Sword and Bow of the Krell clan, which he had been bequeathed. Again he swore under his breath, unconsciously voicing the words. They brought an unexpected response.
"Wudja say?"
The river of Sirakln's thoughts finally met a dam along its course, spewing back into reality. He gathered himself and answered the scar-chested man seated at the adjacent table. "My apologies, stranger. I was merely mumbling to myself."
Obviously ignoring the misgivings exuded in Sirakln's body language, the stranger stood and strolled the brief distance to the Beyonder's table, seating himself opposite him, facing the wall.
"It seems we are both in the same lonely predicament, though whether it be by choice or by fate is certainly a mystery," the stranger stated with an air of intelligence.
"Spoken with truth," responded Sirakln, keeping only the line of sight open beneath his hood.
After a few moments of uncertain silence, the man with the chest scar extended his hand and forearm across the table, speaking concurrently. "I am called Leviathan."
Sirakln brought his arm slowly from beneath his robe, not wishing to show the man disrespect but not wanting to reveal any of the suppressed glee he felt at the thought of a new companion. He went to grasp Leviathan's forearm just above the wrist. "I am Sirakln, the Beyonder."
After eyeing one another for a dozen heartbeats, neither willing to break his gaze, they both dropped their heads and the same time, realizing that the man they sat across from was worth forging a friendship with. Finally Leviathan spoke, "What are you drinking, Sirakln?"
The Beyonder responded, "Only Rapack's Water." He tipped his mug in an inspectional gesture of its contents.
"Let me get you another," Leviathan said. Getting to his feet, he made his way to the bar. Due to the acoustic properties of his hood, Sirakln was able to make out Leviathan's order. It surprised him that such an agreeable fellow could drink such a spirit as a Stylis Stinker, a drought not too many barbarians could stomach. As Leviathan turned back towards the table with two full mugs, Sirakln brought his hands slowly to his cowl. Lowering the hood to his shoulders, he revealed his facial features, which were dominated by the scar that ran from beneath the left side of his chin up to his forehead just above his left eyebrow. He of course stayed his gaze on Leviathan, attempting to measure his reliability in the extent of his flinch at the first full look at Sirakln's face. As the Beyonder half expected though, Leviathan's only noticeable irk was a slight and brief quiver in his right hand, the holder of Sirakln's mug that extended toward him. Sirakln accepted it, a small smile growing on his countenance.
After Leviathan had taken his seat again, the new friends exchanged stories, each relating his background and purpose for being in Martish. Sirakln spoke first, exerting the same stream of thoughts that he had recently traveled in silent solitude. Then Leviathan spoke. "An interesting tale, Beyonder, one to rival my own... I was born an only child to a southern elf, in elvenmire. My father was a human ranger from Doblin who was welcomed in the elvenwoods of tomorrow.
**I knew he was half-elf, Sirakln thought to himself**
They were quite close, and even though she lived in elvenmire and he in the forest, he visited quite often and we were a tight-knit family. When I was 12 seasons old, father mysteriously disappeared. Some say he was abducted by goblins, but the Defender banished them years ago.
**Along with ogres and trolls, or so we were told, Sirakln thought**
After that I moved to the forest with my mother, who mourned gravely the loss of my father. In the elvenwoods, I learned to love the ways and creatures of the land, and under the eyes of my mother's family, I myself learned the ways of a ranger.
**Fascinating**
At the age of 16, we heard that my father had been sighted just north of the woods. In a rush, my mother and I went after him, running up the Hoping River in desperation. We came upon a camp occupied by strange little beasts that were similar to the goblins I had heard about in long-ago bedtime stories. There we saw father tied to stakes in the middle of the camp. In a frenzy, mom charged into the clearing. There was no way I could stop her. I yelled out, "No!"
**Wow**
That day, I saw my mother and father cut down by the long swords of filthy goblins.
**Poor fellow**
In fear, I ran down the river, held up only by anger and frustration, and finally made it to Doblin. To support myself there, I lived a life of crime. After my nineteenth season, I began hearing rumors of goblin sightings near Martish, so of course I came here to investigate. I settled here at the Hoof for two reasons; easy pickings, and if they ever came to the city, it would be the slums."
Without indicating it verbally, Leviathan let Sirakln know that his story had come to an end. Throughout its telling, Sirakln noticed, the elf was a vision of calm, a doldrum on the Sea of Madness, though he did blink an awful lot near the end. The Beyonder spoke aloud now.
"Rival my own indeed! It seems you've had a difficult life, my friend."
"I live, which is the most important thing," Leviathan responded.
Sirakln was still for a second; then, "What of the goblin sightings? I have seen neither foot nor fur of the trolls, my query. Is it all simply dust-mustered rumor?"
Leviathan answered, "I doubt it. For all the legend of the Defender, the three races were merely banished to the south of Keanin, not destroyed in a blatant act of genocide. I believe it is quite possible that some goblins and trolls, and perhaps some ogres, have returned to their homelands. Knowing their benevolent nature, I doubt not their immediate intent; to cause as much pain as possible to the more civilized races. Personally, I have heard little more of the sightings than what I learned when I first arrived hear in Martish, last Rain-Time. And I'm getting itchy to continue the search elsewhere," he paused, not quite long enough for Sirakln to gather his thoughts again and pose another question. "And what of your prey, Sirakln? Do you think, hope, or disbelieve the rumors you've heard are true?"
Not immediately answering, Sirakln stared off into the distance, or so it seemed to Leviathan. In reality, the Beyonder was observing, in the mirror behind the bar, the short young man who had just entered the Hoof. He was wily, Sirakln noted from the way his eyes scanned the inn, and he was looking for trouble. As he approached, Sirakln pulled his cloak's hood up to its usual position.
Leviathan noted him also, but was not aware of what the Beyonder was doing. Leviathan, however, had not yet ascertained the newcomer's intent. He now turned himself, along with his chair, to face the door, knowing all along that this motion would attract the stranger's attention, exactly Leviathan's intention. After the motion was completed, Leviathan, though still seated, stared hard and level directly into the stranger's sly, dark eyes.
"Sevens?" the stranger inquired. His head tilted over the second syllable, indicating the deck of cards in his left palm.
Worn for years of shuffling and flipping, the stack of thick-paper rectangles was visibly jagged-edged and soft-centered. Most easily marked, assessed Leviathan in the moments before he responded.
"Certainly, my friend," he mocked, unintentionally ignoring the slight expression of perplexion that occupied Sirakln's mien.
Behind the baffled gaze, the Beyonder was frantically rummaging through his library of memories (though he didn't actually perceive such a quest), desperately trying to summon even the vaguest recollection of a card game called Sevens. The hunt, however, was as doomed as that of the fabled sun-seeking tigerrose. Instead, Sirakln reasserted himself, straightening his facial features to stoically confront the unknown.
Still nose to nose, Leviathan and the stranger briefly discussed the stakes. It was decided the wager would be one eagle, a Martishian gold coin, against the newcomer's five condors, the platinum coin of the nation; an enticing proposition to both rangers.
As the Dealer took a seat at their table, Sirakln and Leviathan independantly noted the perplexing absence of the man's left ear. With no outward motion, both men winced at the obvious discomfort. They also noted the suspicious cross-shaped mound under the shirt at his waist; most likely a hidden dagger. Seated, he laid the deck in the center of the table, slightly toward himself, and took out the five coins of the agreed wager. He slapped each one onto the old hardwood, unknowingly imitating the mating call of a red-tailed swallow, a bird well known to Sirakln. This struck him as ironic; in Krell's Keep, the sound represented the start of a new life, while in seedy Martish, it signaled the downfall of many men.
After the fifth resounding clack, Leviathan fastly pulled out his dagger and stabbed it deep into the table. He imbedded the blade four inches, half the length of the polished steel, with a simple sweep of his forearm. Leviathan hoped this would make a statement of his physical prowess, but the Dealer continued with his routine, taking the cards in hand again. He had obviously seen such displays before. Leviathan almost embarrassingly brought forth the gold eagle and silently placed it next to one of the condors, touching it in mocking symbolism of the bond they would soon have as possessions of the same man. He finally wriggled the dagger free of its wooden prison. In the meantime, Sirakln had slipped his gold onto the table in his typical, beat-you-to-it mode.
The cards were dealt, seven to each man. Before he even looked at his own cards, Sirakln leeringly observed Leviathan and the Dealer situate theirs. He could make absolutely nothing of the shifting and sifting going on in their hands. What am I doing in a card game that I don't even know how to play? It's like walking onto a battlefield wielding a flail or a mace; something I just don't know how to do! In Cassock's Name! It will-suddenly, Sirakln realized he had been staring blankly at his table mates' cards, and he in turn was being glared at by both men. He quickly snatched up the cards that had been gently tossed on the table in front of him, straightening them in the process. He then looked at the Deck of Sevens and its cards for the first time.
He saw a jumbled set of seven numbered cards, each with a small emblem in the center of the player's side. Written in the common tongue beneath its emblem was a single word, like COINS, FLOWERS, or SWORDS; probably indicating suits, Sirakln thought curtly. In diagonally opposite corners there were numbers on each card. He currently held two Coins, two Swords, and three Flowers. The number 7 was on one card of each of the suits he held. The other Coin had a 2, the other Sword a 5, and the remaining two Flowers had a 3 and a 4. He watched ignorantly as Leviathan slipped a Coin with 4 onto the table, adjacent to the slice his dagger had so recently brought into existence. Sirakln guessed it to be his turn next. He contemplated the card that Leviathan had set down and brashly decided to also lay down a Coin, with a 2. It brought an unexpected riposte.
"Cheats! Ranger-Cheats!" The Dealer screamed, following his words with the speediest sequence of actions Sirakln had ever seen. Within a triad of blinks, the Dealer threw his handful of cards in Leviathan's face, jumped up from his seat, drew his dagger, scrambled behind Leviathan, and had the blade at his neck. He squawked again, "You won't cheat me!"
Without even realizing he had dropped his cards, Sirakln shoved his chair back, stood, and drew his own blade, the Bringer. True to its name, it brought fear to the face of the Dealer, as well as envious awe to that of Leviathan. But to Sirakln, it only brought a silent cry. Gods! Have I wrought the death of this friend so soon?
Leviathan couldn't so much as move a muscle, and he knew better. Many a midnight alley had put him into such predicaments, and yet he had never been killed or injured. Will this little animal be the end of me? he asked himself. He straightened his resolve and stilled himself again.
Stifled by the table and the wall that cut off his chair's retreat, the Beyonder's footing was uncertain at best. Taking a stance commonly reserved for a warrior making his final stand, he grasped the handle of the Bringer despairingly. The glowing crimson gem set in the crosspiece faced forward. With no threat in it, his free hand extended slowly towards the duo, pleading. He spoke softly.
"I did not know the game, and yet did not wish to offend you. Please, take the gold eagles, release my friend."
The Dealer screamed back, surprisingly loud even to Sirakln, "Liar!" His arms jerked around, causing Leviathan no small amount of distress. The Dealer crooned, only slightly quieter, "I well take the coins, and you will pay in your friend's blood!" He yanked Leviathan's head backward by the hair in the back. As if it was foreordained though, Leviathan shot his left hand up, clutching the rising weapon hand of the Dealer, his left also. With fierceness akin to an angry dog, Leviathan simultaneously grasped with his other hand and exploded to his feet, flinging the shortish Dealer off the floor some three feet. The momentum created helped Leviathan hurl him over his left shoulder, slamming him into the table top. The cards scattered like a mob gone awry. With a familiar motion, Leviathan jammed his dagger into the table. This time only the tip penetrated the wood, for there was now seven bloody inches between it and the hilt.
Squirming briefly, then jolting, jumping, and jiggling, the man known only as the Dealer took in his last breath, rasped something unintelligible, then expired.
As if it had never quieted, as if it had never stopped to peer, as if it had never stared in apprehensive curiosity, the bandying crowd in the Pegasus Hoof went on its way, about its business, and back to its rowdy self, feigned apathy abounding. Above the death-still body Leviathan stood, both arrogance and regret exuding. He felt for the poor man; no muscles to protect himself and not a friend in the land. Still, he pondered, he had threatened my life. The regret in Leviathan's face was shoved aside by an overriding, arrogant pride. Then he heard Sirakln's penetrating voice.
"Gods, elf! The man never had a chance!" It had taken Sirakln a number of moments to collect himself enough to comment on Leviathan's atrocity. "He never had a fair fight."
Accosted by the Beyonder's indignation, Leviathan responded curtly, "He had a blade at my neck! He had many a chance!" With difficulty, he ignored the false moniker 'elf'. Standing defiantly with his hands extended, palms facing the ceiling, only Leviathan's eyes pleaded for Sirakln's understanding.
Instead of understanding, Sirakln displayed nothing but contempt for his new acquaintance. Standing there for a moment, staring Leviathan down, the Beyonder exuded such spite as to create a physical barrier between them. His tightening grip on the Bringer made his knuckles white. Diverting his eyes, he leered down at the body of the Dealer, whose eyes were still open. Sheathing his huge blade, Sirakln reached down and closed them with his own fingers, sending an all-too-familiar shiver along his arms and shoulders. Still, Leviathan stood with entreating palms skyward.
With an unintentional lunge, Sirakln bent down the retrieve the deadly dagger. Yanking it from its temporary sheath, he displayed the bloody thing to his fellow ranger. He found words unnecessary. Laying it on the table, the Beyonder stalked away from the scene, towards the spiral stairs that lead upstairs. He mounted the stairs, then retroactively turned back to face the entire room. He was not aware of it, but during the fracas, his hood had fallen from its perch, revealing his entire face and head. Eyes brooding and lips tightened, he almost spoke, but didn't. Knowing that he was beyond compassion, he again spun on his heels, climbing the steps purposefully.
Regret and stupefaction dominating his mien, Leviathan retrieved his blade, wiping it on the pant leg of the Dealer. He sheathed it solemnly, and sought the coins that were spilled. With them in his possession, he picked up the body and flung it onto his shoulder, eerily mocking the maneuver with which he had so recently incapacitated the man. He stoically marched out the very same door he had strode in through.
He sat there for a hundred or so beats of his own heart, contemplating again the reason for his visit to the capital city of Martish and his stay at the Pegasus Hoof. His search to acknowledge the rumors of troll sightings near Akixok and Shadowkeep had led him south of his native Krell's Keep, first to Gotlive. Finding no truth to the rumors there, he set course for Martish, the capital of Keanin. After studying the city for a month, he decided to base his operation at the Pegasus hoof, an inn amidst the slums, in the southeast of the city. Since then, he had been waiting patiently for some word of the trolls-any word. As they did now, his thoughts often meandered to the memory of the first time he encountered trolls; though not directly, he quickly learned a passionate hatred for the beasts. Before the Defender banished the trolls, as well as goblins and ogres, from Keanin and long before Sirakln's own birth, his home forest, Krell's Keep, was regularly lambasted by attacking trolls. Following a particularly fierce onslaught, his grandfather Krell, a ranger lord after whom the forest, fortress, and clan were named, declared the trolls the ultimate bane of good and of the Krell clan, forever after to be hunted, killed, and utterly destroyed. Under his hooded cloak, Sirakln again swore, under his breath, to uphold this addict. This oath brought the river of his mental ramblings to another shore; his promise to avenge the recent murder of his grandfather at the hands of trolls. The very same trolls that were said to have been banished. Although he had not been witness to the death, he carried the pain with him in the form of the Bringer and Ebb, the Holy Sword and Bow of the Krell clan, which he had been bequeathed. Again he swore under his breath, unconsciously voicing the words. They brought an unexpected response.
"Wudja say?"
The river of Sirakln's thoughts finally met a dam along its course, spewing back into reality. He gathered himself and answered the scar-chested man seated at the adjacent table. "My apologies, stranger. I was merely mumbling to myself."
Obviously ignoring the misgivings exuded in Sirakln's body language, the stranger stood and strolled the brief distance to the Beyonder's table, seating himself opposite him, facing the wall.
"It seems we are both in the same lonely predicament, though whether it be by choice or by fate is certainly a mystery," the stranger stated with an air of intelligence.
"Spoken with truth," responded Sirakln, keeping only the line of sight open beneath his hood.
After a few moments of uncertain silence, the man with the chest scar extended his hand and forearm across the table, speaking concurrently. "I am called Leviathan."
Sirakln brought his arm slowly from beneath his robe, not wishing to show the man disrespect but not wanting to reveal any of the suppressed glee he felt at the thought of a new companion. He went to grasp Leviathan's forearm just above the wrist. "I am Sirakln, the Beyonder."
After eyeing one another for a dozen heartbeats, neither willing to break his gaze, they both dropped their heads and the same time, realizing that the man they sat across from was worth forging a friendship with. Finally Leviathan spoke, "What are you drinking, Sirakln?"
The Beyonder responded, "Only Rapack's Water." He tipped his mug in an inspectional gesture of its contents.
"Let me get you another," Leviathan said. Getting to his feet, he made his way to the bar. Due to the acoustic properties of his hood, Sirakln was able to make out Leviathan's order. It surprised him that such an agreeable fellow could drink such a spirit as a Stylis Stinker, a drought not too many barbarians could stomach. As Leviathan turned back towards the table with two full mugs, Sirakln brought his hands slowly to his cowl. Lowering the hood to his shoulders, he revealed his facial features, which were dominated by the scar that ran from beneath the left side of his chin up to his forehead just above his left eyebrow. He of course stayed his gaze on Leviathan, attempting to measure his reliability in the extent of his flinch at the first full look at Sirakln's face. As the Beyonder half expected though, Leviathan's only noticeable irk was a slight and brief quiver in his right hand, the holder of Sirakln's mug that extended toward him. Sirakln accepted it, a small smile growing on his countenance.
After Leviathan had taken his seat again, the new friends exchanged stories, each relating his background and purpose for being in Martish. Sirakln spoke first, exerting the same stream of thoughts that he had recently traveled in silent solitude. Then Leviathan spoke. "An interesting tale, Beyonder, one to rival my own... I was born an only child to a southern elf, in elvenmire. My father was a human ranger from Doblin who was welcomed in the elvenwoods of tomorrow.
**I knew he was half-elf, Sirakln thought to himself**
They were quite close, and even though she lived in elvenmire and he in the forest, he visited quite often and we were a tight-knit family. When I was 12 seasons old, father mysteriously disappeared. Some say he was abducted by goblins, but the Defender banished them years ago.
**Along with ogres and trolls, or so we were told, Sirakln thought**
After that I moved to the forest with my mother, who mourned gravely the loss of my father. In the elvenwoods, I learned to love the ways and creatures of the land, and under the eyes of my mother's family, I myself learned the ways of a ranger.
**Fascinating**
At the age of 16, we heard that my father had been sighted just north of the woods. In a rush, my mother and I went after him, running up the Hoping River in desperation. We came upon a camp occupied by strange little beasts that were similar to the goblins I had heard about in long-ago bedtime stories. There we saw father tied to stakes in the middle of the camp. In a frenzy, mom charged into the clearing. There was no way I could stop her. I yelled out, "No!"
**Wow**
That day, I saw my mother and father cut down by the long swords of filthy goblins.
**Poor fellow**
In fear, I ran down the river, held up only by anger and frustration, and finally made it to Doblin. To support myself there, I lived a life of crime. After my nineteenth season, I began hearing rumors of goblin sightings near Martish, so of course I came here to investigate. I settled here at the Hoof for two reasons; easy pickings, and if they ever came to the city, it would be the slums."
Without indicating it verbally, Leviathan let Sirakln know that his story had come to an end. Throughout its telling, Sirakln noticed, the elf was a vision of calm, a doldrum on the Sea of Madness, though he did blink an awful lot near the end. The Beyonder spoke aloud now.
"Rival my own indeed! It seems you've had a difficult life, my friend."
"I live, which is the most important thing," Leviathan responded.
Sirakln was still for a second; then, "What of the goblin sightings? I have seen neither foot nor fur of the trolls, my query. Is it all simply dust-mustered rumor?"
Leviathan answered, "I doubt it. For all the legend of the Defender, the three races were merely banished to the south of Keanin, not destroyed in a blatant act of genocide. I believe it is quite possible that some goblins and trolls, and perhaps some ogres, have returned to their homelands. Knowing their benevolent nature, I doubt not their immediate intent; to cause as much pain as possible to the more civilized races. Personally, I have heard little more of the sightings than what I learned when I first arrived hear in Martish, last Rain-Time. And I'm getting itchy to continue the search elsewhere," he paused, not quite long enough for Sirakln to gather his thoughts again and pose another question. "And what of your prey, Sirakln? Do you think, hope, or disbelieve the rumors you've heard are true?"
Not immediately answering, Sirakln stared off into the distance, or so it seemed to Leviathan. In reality, the Beyonder was observing, in the mirror behind the bar, the short young man who had just entered the Hoof. He was wily, Sirakln noted from the way his eyes scanned the inn, and he was looking for trouble. As he approached, Sirakln pulled his cloak's hood up to its usual position.
Leviathan noted him also, but was not aware of what the Beyonder was doing. Leviathan, however, had not yet ascertained the newcomer's intent. He now turned himself, along with his chair, to face the door, knowing all along that this motion would attract the stranger's attention, exactly Leviathan's intention. After the motion was completed, Leviathan, though still seated, stared hard and level directly into the stranger's sly, dark eyes.
"Sevens?" the stranger inquired. His head tilted over the second syllable, indicating the deck of cards in his left palm.
Worn for years of shuffling and flipping, the stack of thick-paper rectangles was visibly jagged-edged and soft-centered. Most easily marked, assessed Leviathan in the moments before he responded.
"Certainly, my friend," he mocked, unintentionally ignoring the slight expression of perplexion that occupied Sirakln's mien.
Behind the baffled gaze, the Beyonder was frantically rummaging through his library of memories (though he didn't actually perceive such a quest), desperately trying to summon even the vaguest recollection of a card game called Sevens. The hunt, however, was as doomed as that of the fabled sun-seeking tigerrose. Instead, Sirakln reasserted himself, straightening his facial features to stoically confront the unknown.
Still nose to nose, Leviathan and the stranger briefly discussed the stakes. It was decided the wager would be one eagle, a Martishian gold coin, against the newcomer's five condors, the platinum coin of the nation; an enticing proposition to both rangers.
As the Dealer took a seat at their table, Sirakln and Leviathan independantly noted the perplexing absence of the man's left ear. With no outward motion, both men winced at the obvious discomfort. They also noted the suspicious cross-shaped mound under the shirt at his waist; most likely a hidden dagger. Seated, he laid the deck in the center of the table, slightly toward himself, and took out the five coins of the agreed wager. He slapped each one onto the old hardwood, unknowingly imitating the mating call of a red-tailed swallow, a bird well known to Sirakln. This struck him as ironic; in Krell's Keep, the sound represented the start of a new life, while in seedy Martish, it signaled the downfall of many men.
After the fifth resounding clack, Leviathan fastly pulled out his dagger and stabbed it deep into the table. He imbedded the blade four inches, half the length of the polished steel, with a simple sweep of his forearm. Leviathan hoped this would make a statement of his physical prowess, but the Dealer continued with his routine, taking the cards in hand again. He had obviously seen such displays before. Leviathan almost embarrassingly brought forth the gold eagle and silently placed it next to one of the condors, touching it in mocking symbolism of the bond they would soon have as possessions of the same man. He finally wriggled the dagger free of its wooden prison. In the meantime, Sirakln had slipped his gold onto the table in his typical, beat-you-to-it mode.
The cards were dealt, seven to each man. Before he even looked at his own cards, Sirakln leeringly observed Leviathan and the Dealer situate theirs. He could make absolutely nothing of the shifting and sifting going on in their hands. What am I doing in a card game that I don't even know how to play? It's like walking onto a battlefield wielding a flail or a mace; something I just don't know how to do! In Cassock's Name! It will-suddenly, Sirakln realized he had been staring blankly at his table mates' cards, and he in turn was being glared at by both men. He quickly snatched up the cards that had been gently tossed on the table in front of him, straightening them in the process. He then looked at the Deck of Sevens and its cards for the first time.
He saw a jumbled set of seven numbered cards, each with a small emblem in the center of the player's side. Written in the common tongue beneath its emblem was a single word, like COINS, FLOWERS, or SWORDS; probably indicating suits, Sirakln thought curtly. In diagonally opposite corners there were numbers on each card. He currently held two Coins, two Swords, and three Flowers. The number 7 was on one card of each of the suits he held. The other Coin had a 2, the other Sword a 5, and the remaining two Flowers had a 3 and a 4. He watched ignorantly as Leviathan slipped a Coin with 4 onto the table, adjacent to the slice his dagger had so recently brought into existence. Sirakln guessed it to be his turn next. He contemplated the card that Leviathan had set down and brashly decided to also lay down a Coin, with a 2. It brought an unexpected riposte.
"Cheats! Ranger-Cheats!" The Dealer screamed, following his words with the speediest sequence of actions Sirakln had ever seen. Within a triad of blinks, the Dealer threw his handful of cards in Leviathan's face, jumped up from his seat, drew his dagger, scrambled behind Leviathan, and had the blade at his neck. He squawked again, "You won't cheat me!"
Without even realizing he had dropped his cards, Sirakln shoved his chair back, stood, and drew his own blade, the Bringer. True to its name, it brought fear to the face of the Dealer, as well as envious awe to that of Leviathan. But to Sirakln, it only brought a silent cry. Gods! Have I wrought the death of this friend so soon?
Leviathan couldn't so much as move a muscle, and he knew better. Many a midnight alley had put him into such predicaments, and yet he had never been killed or injured. Will this little animal be the end of me? he asked himself. He straightened his resolve and stilled himself again.
Stifled by the table and the wall that cut off his chair's retreat, the Beyonder's footing was uncertain at best. Taking a stance commonly reserved for a warrior making his final stand, he grasped the handle of the Bringer despairingly. The glowing crimson gem set in the crosspiece faced forward. With no threat in it, his free hand extended slowly towards the duo, pleading. He spoke softly.
"I did not know the game, and yet did not wish to offend you. Please, take the gold eagles, release my friend."
The Dealer screamed back, surprisingly loud even to Sirakln, "Liar!" His arms jerked around, causing Leviathan no small amount of distress. The Dealer crooned, only slightly quieter, "I well take the coins, and you will pay in your friend's blood!" He yanked Leviathan's head backward by the hair in the back. As if it was foreordained though, Leviathan shot his left hand up, clutching the rising weapon hand of the Dealer, his left also. With fierceness akin to an angry dog, Leviathan simultaneously grasped with his other hand and exploded to his feet, flinging the shortish Dealer off the floor some three feet. The momentum created helped Leviathan hurl him over his left shoulder, slamming him into the table top. The cards scattered like a mob gone awry. With a familiar motion, Leviathan jammed his dagger into the table. This time only the tip penetrated the wood, for there was now seven bloody inches between it and the hilt.
Squirming briefly, then jolting, jumping, and jiggling, the man known only as the Dealer took in his last breath, rasped something unintelligible, then expired.
As if it had never quieted, as if it had never stopped to peer, as if it had never stared in apprehensive curiosity, the bandying crowd in the Pegasus Hoof went on its way, about its business, and back to its rowdy self, feigned apathy abounding. Above the death-still body Leviathan stood, both arrogance and regret exuding. He felt for the poor man; no muscles to protect himself and not a friend in the land. Still, he pondered, he had threatened my life. The regret in Leviathan's face was shoved aside by an overriding, arrogant pride. Then he heard Sirakln's penetrating voice.
"Gods, elf! The man never had a chance!" It had taken Sirakln a number of moments to collect himself enough to comment on Leviathan's atrocity. "He never had a fair fight."
Accosted by the Beyonder's indignation, Leviathan responded curtly, "He had a blade at my neck! He had many a chance!" With difficulty, he ignored the false moniker 'elf'. Standing defiantly with his hands extended, palms facing the ceiling, only Leviathan's eyes pleaded for Sirakln's understanding.
Instead of understanding, Sirakln displayed nothing but contempt for his new acquaintance. Standing there for a moment, staring Leviathan down, the Beyonder exuded such spite as to create a physical barrier between them. His tightening grip on the Bringer made his knuckles white. Diverting his eyes, he leered down at the body of the Dealer, whose eyes were still open. Sheathing his huge blade, Sirakln reached down and closed them with his own fingers, sending an all-too-familiar shiver along his arms and shoulders. Still, Leviathan stood with entreating palms skyward.
With an unintentional lunge, Sirakln bent down the retrieve the deadly dagger. Yanking it from its temporary sheath, he displayed the bloody thing to his fellow ranger. He found words unnecessary. Laying it on the table, the Beyonder stalked away from the scene, towards the spiral stairs that lead upstairs. He mounted the stairs, then retroactively turned back to face the entire room. He was not aware of it, but during the fracas, his hood had fallen from its perch, revealing his entire face and head. Eyes brooding and lips tightened, he almost spoke, but didn't. Knowing that he was beyond compassion, he again spun on his heels, climbing the steps purposefully.
Regret and stupefaction dominating his mien, Leviathan retrieved his blade, wiping it on the pant leg of the Dealer. He sheathed it solemnly, and sought the coins that were spilled. With them in his possession, he picked up the body and flung it onto his shoulder, eerily mocking the maneuver with which he had so recently incapacitated the man. He stoically marched out the very same door he had strode in through.
Today's work
I was surprised to see that the last post here (before the New Dawn) was way back in 2006.
I am equally surprised to see that 2006 is “way back”.
I am equally surprised to see that 2006 is “way back”.
It’s been real tough to actually achieve anything in my allotted hour, with all the other things that need done lately. So, to fend off my starving readers, I will post here the opening chapter of my first untitled D&D tale. For my new, loyal readers, consider it a premature treat, a lost gem from the future’s past. A time-shifted rarity from tomorrow’s cedar chest.
Did anyone see the VH1 Rock Honors program about The Who? The Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam were pretty damn good, but they were waylaid by Daltry and Townsend, who put on a dynamic, active show at their advanced ages. Daltry still sounds great! I have not gotten into the Who beyond radio and a greatest hits CD, but they are, I think, my next great musical endeavor.
Damn, I want to make music! I think it’s been lurking in me since I first saw Stewart Copeland holding the drumstick sideways to whack at the snare. The Drums have always drawn me viscerally - I can imagine the release, the discharge it would be to bang out a song or two, to have a good sweat while MAKING MUSIC. From Iron Maiden to Fates Warning to Coheed & Cambria – the creativity, energy and outlet of MAKING MUSIC has ….this is so tough to put into words! (ironic, eh?!) Watching Dream Theater, especially Mike Portnoy (a big fan of the Who), enjoy their craft so immensely; so raw, so powerful. Scott Ian of Anthrax – rhythm guitar and backing vocals – 45 years old and so full of LIFE. Earlier this summer, I sang “sunglasses at night” on a cheap karaoke machine at a friend’s house. About 4 people heard me ( including 2 kids and my wife!) and it was fucking AWESOME! Like the appeal of skydiving, the desire to MAKE MUSIC in front of people is anathema to the logic and safety circuits of my positronic brain.
Anyway…I guess I need to find a way to write about the things I enjoy, which, like this post, is a long and rambling list…
{insert clever title}
So it looks like this blog will be a record of my writing progress, a motivating tool to report on what I have done with the day's allotted writing time.
Today, I have written this {insert clever title}.
thankyouverymuchgoodNIGHT!
Today, I have written this {insert clever title}.
thankyouverymuchgoodNIGHT!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Day 2 of the New Dawn, delayed again till the afternoon…
My wife has been SO busy this summer – getting everything ready for those trips, getting the house ready to sell. She’s done twice as much as me, at home especially, because she’s there all day. The stress is getting to both of us…
So… this busy time will be a test of my resolve and of my free time. Reduced surfing will allow me to get on with the business. I need to write. I am rusty with it. Rusty Klesla. Rusty the stuffed robot dog.
Dave told me about this place down the street that had a hand-written sign, “$65,000 or best offer” I drove by on the way back and saw it. A small place, in need of work, but available on the cheap! I then looked it up on AREIS; valued at $101,000, 1037 TLA, 3 BR, 1 BTH, detached garage. Not exactly what we seek, but what a great price! Taxes are high, of course, being in
Every time I see a Chrysler car, like 300M, I think of Todd’s story, the Wrecks of Time. I had the design idea of using a similar front grill. But, why would a space ship need such a grill? Is it merely aesthetic? Does the ship collect space particles to ‘burn’? I wonder if it could ever be successful, the story.
Music: Dream Theater – Train of Though. (bombastic)
This doesn’t fulfill my hour, so I’m going to get to work on some D&D stuff.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The start of something new…I hope.
So, I will outline my goals here, and disperse their ‘publication’ among different sites and outlets.
First, it is my stated ambition to write for at least 1 hour every day. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
This will be the most challenging part of the endeavor. Already today, I have put this intro off to the end of the day, after intentioning to pump it out in the early morning.
One of the things I’d like to do is wrap up some of my D&D writing. The 50 Years Later campaign was quite a mix of successes and failures. Still, there were some cool ideas that I’d like to get on paper for later usage. I would also like to provide the players with some kind of summary of what was going on there. I still find it unfortunate that I could not pull that one together. After that I’d like to complete the Keanin Reminders from the first two campaigns. That will wrap the story itself for those campaigns, which I may be able to user later as bases for stories. Actual stories. Thirdly, I’d like to find some wrap up for the Mr. Tenbrook sessions. Of all the lingering story lines I have out there, I’d still like to play some more with that one, if we could ever coordinate schedules. Finally, I’d like to write the story that I started some time ago, focusing on Sirakln the Beyonder (MY character, not Jim’s – thus the spelling change), which I think has the most potential as a character-driven fantasy yarn. Perhaps I'll even post the first stuttering chapters I completed some time ago.
I also want to finish my Star wars blog. I started that with great intentions, when Jason and I went to Indy in 2005. The old pda I had, on which I spent many minutes learning to write and actually writing about our trip, lost all the data I had so carefully kept when the single AAA battery died. (reminiscent of the handful of times when the C-64 got accidentally unplugged in the middle of my greatest work ever, lost for all eternity) Losing those notes was harsh, and it kept me away from that piece for quite some time. It will be difficult to recreate, and now it will be from a far different perspective, but I hate leaving it incomplete.
Another possibility is freelance work. I find it intriguing that I could get paid by magazines to write about things that I have experienced or have experience in. I’m not sure WHAT I would write about, but it’s an avenue to investigate and on which to earn my chops, to use a mixed metaphor.
Poetry is out there, too. I recently subscribed to a magazine for poets and writers – something cheap to help focus my attention and keep me constant. Though I haven’t written a poem in 10 years, it could be a valuable outlet for me. I look forward to sharing that with a particular pagan in my pool of pals.
Lastly…Jennifer and I want to buy a house. I think it would be a fascinating exercise to log the adventure, so I will be periodically posting here our attempts to sell our current house and acquire something new, with a yard, a basement, 3 bedrooms and 2 baths, and a garage, in a nice neighborhood, with a pool, an acre, a fence, a 3 car garage…..
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