L.D. Whitney's Blog, page 2

To Hero or Anti-Hero, That is the Question

I readily admit to struggling with writing and maintaining a blog. It takes time to think about topics and then write the post and then edit the post. That is all time that could be used for actual writing. I don't even have that many readers, so who even looks at this? My analytics say at least thirty people read my five part short story all the way through, so that's cool. But still, not a lot of people.

And admittedly, I have struggled a lot with my writing of late. While I have a good job with benefits that is seemingly Covid-proof, my fiance has lost her job due to the pandemic and it has been stressful. Like by our thirties we should at least have things relatively figured out, right? I know that's wrong, no one ever figures out life. We just have to roll with the punches. But that doesn't make these kinds of roadblocks any easier.

"How does this all relate to headline?" you are probably asking.

I'm getting to it.

In times like these, ones that test your mettle and patience, I often find myself looking for a

hero. Like a real one. Not an anti-hero. Not a criminal forced into a situation where he has to do good. A real, honest to Crom hero. Inevitably and unsurprisingly, I come up empty

handed a lot of the time. I feel like entertainment has fallen deeper and deeper down a rabbit hole of darkness under the guise of the much repeated term "grit". What the hell does that even mean, "grit"? Where I come from, true grit comes in the form of a one-eyed fat man with a rough exterior and a heart of gold.

Kudos to those of you who got that reference. I imagine few people my age did.

To me, grit is not just what a Pathfinder Gunslinger uses as a point resource. It's that quality that makes someone hold on just a little while longer, fight that much harder for something, stand up straighter when the world wants to push you down. It sure as shit isn't a Superman that is borderline evil, and you won't catch me advocating for a Batman that brands dude's faces. When did "grit" become synonymous with excessive violence? I just don't get it.

Sticking to the Western theme for a moment, probably the "grittiest" character that I adore is Clint Eastwood's iconic Man With No Name. He's a cigar smoking, poncho wearing, fast-draw of a an 1860's samurai packing heat. He's a bounty hunter, at least ostensibly. He does the job for money. Little more than a sometimes thieving mercenary. That's pretty anti-hero, right? Chock-full-o-Grit?

I don't think so.

I know a lot of people are probably rolling their eyes and are about to click to Facebook or PornHub right now, but stick around and hear me out.

The Man With No Name is a hero. Capital H in my book. He is a good man. A GOOD man. Sure, he has a sometimes unsavory job, but a practical one in a lawless West that never was. Who are the bounties on? Bad dudes. In most cases, really bad dudes. In Fistful of Dollars, he has evidently been tasked with bringing down a pair of rival gangs that make this small town a living hell. We see a woman brutalized, and her child taken from her. Clint doesn't like that. No, sir, not one bit. Yeah, he takes payment. Yeah, it becomes personal. But do you honestly believe that he wouldn't have stepped in at some point? Money or no? I sure don't. In A Few Dollars More he tackles a mission to hunt down a literal psychopath, a man who rapes and murders and then laughs about it. Was money involved? Yup. But did Clint right some wrongs? Did he do it JUST for the money? Or did he do it, at least in part, because he is a good man? A hero? I think the most telling event is actually at the end of the prequel, he didn't have to save Tuco from the noose, but he did. Tuco had back stabbed him and tried to kill him, but Blondie let him go in the end because he isn't a cold blooded killer. He's the Good, not the Bad. Even the spiritual successor, Charles Bronson's Harmonica, in Once Upon a Time in the West is a good guy. Is he weird? Sure. Is he probably Death incarnate? Maybe. But he still helps the girl and even goes so far as to turn a bandit leader to the light side.

Another character that I think get's thrown in with the anti-hero bunch more than he deserves is Robert E. Howard's own Conan the Cimmerian. Some of you reading this are probably familiar with the podcast Rogues in the House, where myself and two of my bestest mates yammer on about nerdy stuff for an hour and half. Our major focus is on the genre of Sword and Sorcery in popular culture. If you were to Google up the term "Sword and Sorcery" surely you would also find the the term "Heroic Fantasy". Maybe sometimes its used as a synonym or maybe its not, differentiating itself ever so slightly. Regardless, my argument here is that Conan is a hero, not an anti-hero.

Again I hear the moans and the eye rolls.

"But Logan," you say. "Conan murders people for money! He's a pirate and an outlaw! He can't be just a hero!"

He can. Here's why. (At least what I think.)

First, I want to tackle Conan the murderer. The only story I can think of off the top of my head where Conan actually takes money to kill someone is in "Rogues in the House" where he is offered coin to kill the Red Priest. But is the Red Priest a good person? Nope. So we have a Blondie situation here. Do you think he would have played assassin had the Red Priest been an innocent man? Sounds to me like the guy has whatever nameless city they're in choking with fear of blackmail. And he also enslaves a sub-human animal. Conan even goes on to say "I slew a man this night" after killing Thak. Slavery is pretty low in my book, even if the dude looks like a gorilla.

We see far more of Conan as a pirate/outlaw and time and time again he rises to the occasion, doing good in a clearly harsh version of prehistoric Earth. While a little brusque with Devi Yasmina, he treats her well and keeps his word when he definitely didn't have to. He tries his best, in his own brutal way, to save Natala from a death in the desert, even giving her the last of the water. While it is heavily implied that his time with Belit in "Queen of the Black Coast" was blood-soaked we don't get a whole lot of details so it's hard to speak on that. In "Tower of the Elephant", Conan is the instrument of vengeance for an alien being that has been tortured and enslaved by an evil sorcerer. Lastly, in "A Witch Shall be Born", he joins a bandit tribe only to seize control and retake a city from a madman and a demon humping witch. Sure, he is driven by a desire for revenge, but it is also clear that he did it to save the people of a city he had vowed to help protect. That's something a good guy would do.

Finally, we see Conan become King and what does he do? Abolish slavery, puts an end to a corrupt dynasty, and even lowers taxes on the poor. Seems like some good guy shit to me.

I readily admit that "Frost Giant's Daughter" is #2 on my least favorite list, mostly because rapey Conan (He WaS uNdEr A sPeLl is a shallow brush aside) and also because I give zero shits about Viking stuff. It is also the story that actually points most to Conan not being a hero. Sure, he beats up some Frost Giants, but were they really in the wrong? Conan was trying to forcibly jump their sister's bones. I mean, it was also supposed to be a trick and ambush for some reason that is not clearly defined to me. I don't know. I hate that story. There's a reason it wasn't initially published. That being said, "Vale of Lost Women" is the worst. I'm not sure there is much to be said in favor of the story. No matter how you look at it, its just not very good. However, it does have a something worth pointing out as far as Conan being a good guy. Despite the thinly veiled rape-vibe in "Frost Giant", Conan gives a monologue on how consent is important when sex is involved in "Vale". If rape is objectively wrong, and it is, then making sure you have a consenting partner is objectively right. It has to be.

The way I see it is that Conan is a good guy that works with the tools he's given. Those tools happen to spring forth from a brutal world filled with ancient monsters, evil magicians, petty gods, slavers, pirates, outlaws, and corrupt kings. I can't think of a story, other than "Frost Giant" (and yes, I understand it's arguable) where Conan out right does some bad stuff.

Compare that to a couple other pieces of the Sword and Sorcery foundation and Conan practically looks like a knight in well-worn armor. For example, Karl Edward Wagner's Kane is a villain. Wagner says as much. Kane is on an endless quest for world domination (and to also kill the God/Alien who made him into a unstoppable cyborg or some shit) and will ruin whoever and whatever to achieve that. And it's friggin' awesome. But I do not look up to the things Kane does like I do Conan. We know that Kane is a murderer, he says so, readily admitting it and baring the blue eyes and hands of a man-slayer. He is also a rapist. We know this from the story "Raven's Eyrie" where he finds himself back at the inn of one of his victims and meets the daughter he conceived through violence. Kane is a bad dude.

Next, we have Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser. I am definitely less well read on these two, but I have read a handful of stories and done a lot of research for the podcast. In the beginning, the duo are a pair of lovable rogues that find companionship over the loss of their loved ones. Later in the series, Leiber gave them a "soft reboot" and all of a sudden we have Mouser "ravishing" (read raping) a girl. Yuck. I don't think there is a coincidence that the quality of stories declined after this foray into "grit" (gasp!).

I wish I had some commentary on Elric here, as he is probably the most complex character of the foundation, but a las I have only ever managed to read books one and two so I don't feel 100% researched enough to talk on him.

And I'm sure I'm growing long winded.

The other day, the podcast guys and I were chatting on the Facebooks. Like a broken record, I was stating how I don't like anti-heros all that much, and find myself turning away from that aspect of the fantasy I enjoy. Another of the trio said something to the effect "you like Heroic Fantasy then." I mean, he isn't wrong, but I don't believe one needs a "morally gray" or "gritty anti-hero" to be Sword and Sorcery. You can. And most often they are. But it's not required. In the end of the conversation, two of us decided that Conan is Chaotic Good in D&D terms. And that's good enough for me to call him a hero.

Ultimately, as a purveyor of entertainment, I have had it up to my eyeballs with "grit". Yes, I understand that it is supposed to be some kind of buzz word form of the dingy, morally ambiguous characters/world we often find in Noir. I don't care. I am tired of seeing Walter White as some cultural icon. He's a drug dealer and killer, you aren't supposed to root for him. And the people gallivanting around Social Media with photos of the Joker as their profile pics, missed the point. Joker is a BAD GUY. Hell, the Punisher is a BAD GUY. That's what makes them interesting, that they are bad, but they aren't supposed to be propped up as heroes. They aren't. They never were. The Punisher is at his best when juxtaposed with other characters like Captain America. One of the most telling scenes in Marvel comics for me is during the Civil War arc where Punisher joins Cap's team and proceeds to kill two villains who joined the cause. Cap explodes and beats Castle to a pulp, all the while screaming for Punisher to fight back. But he won't. Not against Cap, the one hero that he looks up to above all others.

Listen, I'm not advocating for white knights to travel around and spout Shakespeare while obeying the Scout's Law. Paladins are my least favorite class (other than Monks, of course). A hero doesn't have to be a Boy Scout. Heroes have baggage and burdens and make poor decisions from time to time, but they always do the right thing. In a world where so many things are wrong, wouldn't it be nice if there was something right? Something good? I sure think so.

#heroes #fiction #grit #comics #film

Hunter of the Masks: Part 3

“You. Hunter, wake up.” The words were distant, whispered as though brought to Chatan on ancient winds. “Wake up or we will both die here.” No longer a whisper, but the hiss of a snake. Something struck Chatan; at first a soft nudge, but then a sharp kick. Slowly, consciousness began to trickle back into his addled brain. His mouth was dry as the desert wastes, and he could feel dried blood caked to the side of his skull where he had been struck. It was a pain to open his eyes, and when he finally forced them open, he saw nothing but darkness both natural and human. While he did not recognize the face that stared back at him, he instantly knew he had finally found the man he had been hunting all this time. Chatan rattled his limbs, but they had been tied fast behind him, binding him to the trunk of a dead tree. The other beside him was bound just the same. “How long have I been out?” “I am not sure, it was night when I awoke and you were still limp.” Chatan shook his head, pain throbbing as he did so, but the fog inside his skull began to clear. “My name is Ashkii” said the killer. “I do not care to know your name,” answered Chatan bluntly. “We will both die to these things if we do not find a way out of this.” The more Chatan studied the features of Ashkii, the more he felt that the man did not look like a killer. He was rail thin, lithe muscle rippling beneath taught, copper hued skin. His hair was black, and his eyes glowed a deep, natural brown in the flicker of a nearby campfire. That he had belonged to one of the nomad tribes of the desert plateau was apparent in his garb, particularly the red cotton band about his forehead. He was younger than Chatan had expected him to be, barely more than a child. “Where was it that someone so young learned of killing men?” asked Chatan. “I am no killer.” “You are a slayer. A taker of innocent lives. I have seen your handy work. I am of half a mind to let these beast-men do what they will with you. There was hunger in their eyes, and I suspect they have a fitting fate in mind.” “They will kill you as well, Chatan of Red-Deer”. Chatan glowered at Ashkii, angered at the thought a murderer should know his name. “How did you know it was I who followed you?” “I didn’t at first. But I heard from an old woman in Kuras village that you were hunting a man who took the lives of others.” “I thought you have killed no one, Ashkii.” “I have not,” the man grew to anger. “The evidence tells a different tale.” Ashkii sighed, a deep sorrow reflecting in his eyes. “They tell stories of you, you know. The hunters and warriors about their fires. A trader from Aztlan spoke of you, how you defy gods. Even the Aesir who travel the mountains and barter in furs sing songs of you. They claim you are a hero.” Chatan had heard many stories in his travels, but he had never heard one about himself. “All greatly exaggerated, I am sure.” “I thought…” “Thought what, boy?” “I thought you might help me.” “Why would I help a killer? Besides, what of that friend of yours? The one in the corn. Where is he hiding and why has he not helped?” Ashkii hung his head solemnly, seemingly ashamed. For a moment, Chatan thought perhaps his assumptions had be wrong. Perhaps Ashkii was not the man-eater, but someone else. “There is no help there,” said Ashkii, clearly resigned to his fate. From just outside of view, Chatan heard the soft hooting speech of the strange men who had taken them captive. Their manner of speaking was indecipherable to him, mere animal calls uttered by inhuman lips. “They are coming.” “Yes. And there are many.” “What are they, Chatan?” “I do not know,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “I have seen many strange things, but nothing like these.” “Perhaps they are men only half-made? Like a potter’s imperfect creation? Or maybe they have escaped from the world beneath?” Chatan knew all things to be possible, the dark corners of the Earth held many secrets. While his own tribe revered the natural world, the cults of Aztlan venerated gods given human shape, and the Desert Tribes often spoke of ancestor spirits. Even then, nature itself had its own ways, often creating inexplicable things. “What they are matters little. I am not going to die at their hand,” growled Chatan. “What is your plan?” “Silence. Just wait.” From out of the gloom waddled three squat men, their footsteps barely audible. Their haggard shapes were stunted, twisted and deformed. Their hair was unwashed and matted, and grime covered their skin in scaly patches. There was no mistaking the humanity in them, but as Ashkii had said, they looked incomplete, discarded experiments meant to mimic humanity. Drawing near they grew silent, standing at the edge of firelight to study their captives. One of the men reached out the shaft of a crudely carved spear and poked at Ashkii while the other two glared silently at Chatan. Then, one of them stepped forward, club in hand. He took hold of Chatan’s bindings and with a wrenching pull, he tore the lashings free. Chatan slumped forward suddenly, unaccustomed to his own weight after being unconscious for so long. Ashkii fought against the cords, but the effort was futile. The boy began to curse in his native tongue, drawing the attention of the three creatures. They hooted angrily. The man with the club waved the weapon threateningly toward Ashkii, but the boy was alight with rage. The spear-man jabbed at him threateningly. The club swung, smacking Ashkii across the skull, blunting the boy’s resolve. Chatan saw his opportunity and pounced. Reaching out for the closest man, he wrapped a muscular arm about a thickly corded throat and squeezed like a vice. The creature hooted in frantic gasps as it struggled beneath Chatan’s grasp. As the others turned to see the commotion, Chatan’s free hand wrapped about a dagger of bleached bone at the monster’s hip. Yanking it free, he drove the blade deep into the beast’s throat. Blood gurgled as the beast-thing gulped desperately for air before falling to the dirt. The other two creatures howled in frightened rage. Their call was echoed by others far off. The spear lurched forward, but Chatan moved cat-like to the side. Still, in such close quarters, the tip scraped along his bare midsection, drawing blood. Chatan gripped the spear shaft with both hands and yanked it free from the creature’s hands. He drove the wooden point deep into the man's gut and tore it free. The last of the beastmen turned to flee Chatan’s wrath, their strange gait no match for the speed of the plainsman. Chatan leveled the spear, heaving it outward. The spear point slammed into the fleeing beast, cutting off a barking howl. Chatan strode swiftly to the fallen creature, hefting the war club from the blood wet ground. Raising it above his head, Chatan forced it downward, driving it into the back of the beast’s skull. “Chatan!” called Ashkii, still tied to the trunk of the tree. “There is no time, let me free!” The boy was right. The sounds of the other half-men were growing closer. By the sound of it, there were more than just those who had taken Chatan captive earlier that day. Yet, Chatan stood still, contemplating the weight of his options. If he were to run, the creatures would surely kill Ashkii, completing Chatan’s mission for him. If Chatan were to let Ashkii go, there was a possibility that the boy would elude him and continue his killing spree. But there was something in Ashkii’s pleading eyes that gave Chatan pause. They boy had claimed that he was not the killer. And there was still the question of the other figure that had hidden within the corn stalks. Chatan moved to the tree, hands deftly untying the crude knots that still bound the boy. “We have to hurry. They will be on our trail any moment,” said Chatan, hoping that his choices would not come back to haunt him. Thanks for reading part 3 of "Hunter of the Masks", this time I'd like to give a quick shout out to Niko over at High Tea Comics. Niko approached me at the end of last year asking if I would be interested in writing a script for a couple of comics. Of course I said yes! While the comics themselves are yet to be released, I am excited to to be a part of the headline Sword and Sorcery project. While I can't show anything, I have seen the artwork and it is bomb as hell. It's a trip to see images put next you words. Anyway, if you haven't done so yet, follow them on Twitter @highteacomics. Once they hit 3,000 followers they are going to do some artwork reveals! Trust me, you want to see this stuff. #swordandsorcery #serial #fantasy #darkfantasy #newpulp

Hunter of the Masks: Part 5

Chatan scrambled backward on all fours, doing everything he could to put as much distance between the aberration and himself as he could manage. His back hit the rough bark of a tree trunk, stopping his retreat. All the while, the nightmare thing simply stared, empty eyed, in his direction, blood still dripping from a horrifically long tongue. “Ashkii,” called out Chatan. “What is that thing?” “Quiet! Do not attract it’s attention.” With terrifying fluidity, the beast stood upright on frail legs, its face never turning away from Chatan. As it did, Chatan recognized the shape as the one that had hidden in the corn at Rain-Cloud’s farm. The planted crops had obscured much of the detail, although it was obscenely lacking in physical description other than its face. It moved gracefully, walking upright like a person should, shaggy hair and tongue swaying with each step. Using the tree to brace himself, Chatan pushed himself upward to greet the creature face to face. As it drew near, Chatan felt a wave of nausea roll over him like an incoming tide, accompanied by the overwhelming stench of death. It leaned in close to him, like a dog studying the scent of something unknown. With a savage grunt, Ashkii pulled himself from the crevice, shredding his shirt in the process. “No. Leave him be. He is a friend.” The creature shuddered and turned to face the boy. Ashkii was clearly terrified of the bizarre figure in front of him but remained tall and strong. “Name of the Wind, what is that thing?” bellowed Chatan. “In my tribe the elders speak of spirits who live around us, around all things. We give them form in dolls, idols, or maybe masks.” Chatan nodded in recognition, having seen and even participated in such ritual before. Having wandered so far and so wide across the Unbroken Lands, he had come to experience the ways of many tribes. The idea that ghosts and spirits could walk among men was not unknown, even in the ways of his fathers and grandfathers, but he had never seen a spirit quite like this. “I found it,” Ashkii continued. “The mask, that is. I found it in a sacred place that I never should have entered.” “And then?” “And then it followed me.” Tears began to well up in Ashkii’s face, but he never tore his eyes from the haunter of the masks. “I did not know what it was at first. I thought it was a friend. Then one day, I awoke to find it beside me where my brother slept. Except…except my brother was…it had…” Chatan understood immediately. Whatever spirit had dwelt within the mask, it had been something evil, likely sealed away by elders of another time for reasons lost or purposefully forgotten. Ashkii, barely having come of age, had not asked for any of this. “I did not think the elders would understand, so I ran. I ran and hid away from the world for a time. But the spirit grew angry. It was hungry, Chatan. It was so hungry.” “All those people. It killed them for food…” “Yes. Yes, I think so.” “How do we kill it?" pleaded Ashkii. "You have slain monsters before; the stories tell it! Please Chatan. Help me.” Chatan reflected upon a life of aimless wandering, of bloody work, and horrors most dared not imagine. Across his body he bore the scars of knife, arrow, and sword. It was true that he had slain creatures beyond the reckoning of man, but rarely something such as the vile presence Ashkii had released into the world. If the thing did not bleed when cut, there was no way Chatan of Red-Deer knew to help. From the world of shadows that surrounded them, thrummed the twang of a bowstring. The missile struck Ashkii hard in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. It had taken a moment before recognition caught up, then suddenly he screamed, clutching at the projectile – little more than a sharpened stick – that jutted from his body. As Ashkii cried out, so did the Mask Dweller. Now familiar hooting cries announced the coming of the half-men as they emerged from the night. Surely, they had seen the spirit-beast, but perhaps their minds were too simple to comprehend the danger which they now faced. More arrows, and a thrown spear clattered upon rock and wood. Chatan ducked behind the tree that supported him, unable to reach a suitable weapon in time. There were only three of the beast-men, but that was more than a match for him in his current state. The half-men raced inward, met at once by the Spirit of the Mask. The first beast-man fell beneath the swipe of an inhuman hand, his body snapping against the piled rock like so many twigs. The next lashed out with stone ax in hand. The weapon struck against the evil spirit, but passed through without harm, just as Chatan’s arrow had done at Rain-Cloud’s farm. He was thrown off balance and tumbled to the ground. The last attacker shot forward, spear in hand, but the evil spirit chuckled grimly to itself at the attempt. Wrapping two sickeningly large hands about the half-man, it wrenched him from the earth and squeezed. Chatan felt the snap and break of each bone reverberate through his own body as the thing choked out the beast-man’s life. The last of the attackers tried to scramble up and away, but in an instant the Mask-man was upon him, biting and tearing at the bare flesh upon its back. Then it danced. The destruction wrought upon the mountainside was indescribable. The Thing from Beyond ripped and tore at the half-men, drenching the ground in gore and entrails, all the while it laughed gleefully as it had in the corn. For the unholy thing, this would be a feast. Chatan watched in horror at the grotesque display, as the thing gorged itself on the remains of those it had slain. Ashkii, clutched at the arrow in silence. As quietly as he could, Chatan rushed over to the wounded boy, kneeling beside him. “Stay still, Ashkii. I can help.” Chatan wrapped two firm hands about the crude arrow shaft and nodded down at Ashkii assuredly. Without warning, the warrior pulled the arrow from the boy's shoulder. Ashkii let slip a cry of painful release. The spirit beast halted its sickening revelry, turning a gore-soaked visage toward Chatan. “I am sorry,” he whispered. There was no time for the boy to react. Chatan drove the arrow back into Ashkii’s, puncturing his heaving chest near his heart. The beast beside him screamed in unearthly agony, flopping upon the ground like a fish yanked from fresh water. It fell, writhing upon the ground, convulsing as the un-life that it had lived dissipated before Chatan’s eyes. Tearing his face from the dying thing, he looked Ashkii squarely in the eye. That the boy was dying was evident. The blood had rushed from his face, turning his copper skin pale as moonlight. “It was the only way I knew how,” said Chatan, clearly not proud of his actions. “It followed you. Protected you like a kept wolf. Whether you wanted to be or not, you were its master. It was bound to you.” Ashkii coughed, drinking deep of the last breaths he would take upon the Earth. “Th-thank you, Chatan. The others…they are free?” Chatan shed a tear as Ashkii’s life faded, his body going limp. Gently, Chatan lay the boy to the ground, and turned to where the demon had been. The creature’s body had gone, disappeared from this plane of existence, leaving behind a display of carnage not meant for this world. As Chatan drew nearer the tableau, he spotted something out of place, an item that hadn’t been there before. Taking a closer look, he recognized a simply made mask lying in a pool of half-man blood. Chatan lifted a foot, and brought it down hard against the mask, sending splinters scattering across the ground. “You are free now, Ashkii. You are all free.” Well, that's it. That's the end of the story. I have to admit, this didn't end up where I thought it would and is probably one of the darker stories I have written. If you hadn't quite noticed, my characters are something of mythic Native Americans living in a prehistoric version of North America inspired by Robert E. Howard's Hyborian Age. As an anthropologist and archaeologist, I was always drawn to North American prehistory and am constantly dismayed at the lack of fantasy that takes place with these kinds of characters and themes. So I wrote my own. If you have seen my picture, I am sure you know that I am a white dude. I am. I know not everyone cares about this kind of stuff, but I do. In my writings of Chatan of Red-Deer Clan, I do my best to show these characters as people, not as stereotypes. I know many Native people from various tribes and I do my best to think of how they would like to see heroes of their background represented. That being said, I totally understand that I am not perfect. I have done a crazy amount of research about cultures, languages, mythologies, and lifestyle, but I understand that it will never truly make up for my lack of experience so to speak. Cultural appropriation does hurt people. I have seen it in my classroom and in my professional life. I don't want to do that, despite clearly walking the line here. All I can do is try my best. I read an article once talking about the amazing Imaro tales, and the author Charles Saunders, the author of the article also being African American (and a woman, I believe). The author made a distinction of what is acceptable use of another culture, and what is not. They made the claim that someone who has not experienced the oppression of a minority, shouldn't write books about those topics. They also said that Sci Fi and Fantasy are sorely lacking in the representation department, and genre fiction with minority characters should be encouraged no matter the background of the author. I think it is safe to say that Chatan is firmly in that "genre fiction" category. I am sure that opinions differ on this topic, as opinions tend to. But that made sense to me, and makes sense to a lot of people I've talked to. I made sure to ask around before I first put Chatan on paper. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed "Hunter of the Masks" as much as I enjoyed writing it. Stay tuned for next week's two-fisted WWII Pulp Adventure "Cult of the Beast King" starring Captain Mack Taggert! #swordandsorcery #fantasy #darkfantasy #serial #writingprocess

Hunter of the Masks: Part 4

Chatan and Ashkii raced through the darkened forest, weaving through columns of giant pine and broken boulders. Soft, silver moonlight filtered down through the multitude of needle covered branches that acted as a canopy for the undergrowth below. Not knowing where their desperate race had begun, there was no real way to tell which way they should go. All Chatan knew was they needed to find some place to hide. With each frantic footfall, the whooping cries of the enraged half-men grew closer, the ease at which they navigated atop the rocks was seemingly supernatural and no doubt one of the reasons their existence in these mountains had gone unnoticed for so long. Even then, the slow but steady encroachment of the civilized world would have rooted them out sooner or later. “How much farther, Chatan?” gasped Ashkii. “Farther to where?” Chatan managed to wheeze. Ashkii now realized for the first time that there was no plan, only to run. Out of the dim world rose suddenly a massive misshapen pile of rock, no doubt deposited by some ancient landslide or tumultuous winter avalanche. “There,” said Ashkii, nearing the end of his rope. The boy’s stride had started strong, but the wound from Chatan’s arrow had once again reopened. Pain lanced through his leg with each desperate footfall and thick red blood flowed freely down his calf. Chatan faired little better, the blow to his skull a throbbing reminder that he had not yet recovered from the violence of his capture. “We cannot climb it,” said Chatan, slowing to a stop before the natural monument. “We are outmatched in that regard. Besides, you are in no shape to climb.” “No. Look there.” Following Ashkii’s pointed finger, Chatan’s eyes were drawn to a slight crevice within the boulders and he understood the boy’s suggestion. “It might just be large enough. Go!” Ashkii scrambled inward, pulling himself tightly into the crevice and disappearing into the shadows. Chatan looked over his shoulder, now able to see the ghostly illumination of the beast-men’s torches. “In, Chatan!” Following suit, the plainsman slid roughly into the small space, scraping his arms and back against the rough stone as he did. He was larger than Askii, both in height and berth, making the crack all the more suffocating. “If they spot us, we are dead men,” whispered Chatan. “There is no escape from this place.” “Then let us hope they do not.” “Quiet. They are nearly upon us.” A rush of muffled footfalls flooded over the stone and scattered detritus about the forest floor. There was no way for Chatan to see from where they hid, but from the sound of it, there were easily a dozen of the strange creatures, maybe more. They stopped briefly, sniffing the air with their broad noses and mumbling incoherently to each other. Chatan’s heart beat in his throat like a drum; so loud was the thrumming that he thought the beasts might hear. Something bellowed out a guttural command, and suddenly there was movement again. Chatan moved ever so slightly to peek around the lip of their refuge, holding his breath. There, not a stone’s throw away from where they hid, was one of the strange men of the mountains, evidently refusing to follow the rest of the band. The creature held high a crude torch in one hand as he knelt, inspecting the earth. Instantly, Chatan recognized what had given the creature pause. Ashkii’s blood. “What? What is it?” “Quiet,” whispered Chatan, harshly. The half-man stood, again sniffing the air about him. It turned toward the crevice but did not appear to see the pair in hiding. It was not much different than the others in shape or size, although it appeared broader across the shoulder. Whether it was an illusion created by the ragged black bear skin draped like a cowl over the thing or a reflection of the man’s strength, Chatan could not say for sure. In the hand opposite the torch, was a bone club fashioned from the jawbone of some animal, not unlike the one Chatan held in his. Across the malformed face of the creature was a splash of chalk colored mud, a war paint of sorts, causing Chatan to wonder what the beast had done to deserve a marking like that. The beast laid its black eyes upon the crevice. Chatan held his breath, fingers wrapping tighter about the haft of his scavenged club. It took a wavering step towards them, then another. Bracing himself for the inevitable attack, Chatan swore under his breath. Suddenly, a loud, barking call echoed from somewhere in the distance, catching the creature’s attention. It snorted in something akin to annoyance, and leapt on spring muscles into the rocks, disappearing into the night. “Are we in the clear?” asked Ashkii, hesitantly. “I believe so but wait just a moment.” Chatan pulled himself out of the crevice ever so slightly, watching the darkness intently for the sign of any more of their pursuers. Taking a deep breath, he slowed his heart and listened. No longer did he hear the hoops and hollers of the beast-men, leaving only the night sounds of the mountainside to fill the void. Satisfied that that were alone, he pulled himself out of the crack ever so slowly, doing his best to remain as silent as possible. Freeing himself from the grip of stone, he winced, feeling fresh blood trickle warm down the muscles on his back. He turned to Ashkii, now peeking out from within the hiding spot and gestured him onward. “It is safe. Come out, but slowly. Quietly.” Askii nodded, beginning to inch forward. From out of the darkness came a vicious growl. Chatan’s eyes darted about the scene, his wild senses ablaze, but there was nothing. Then suddenly, it dawned on him. Turning around ever so slowly, he looked upward to the pinnacle of the boulders in which they had hidden. He had been tricked. With the force of a falling tree, the beast-man fell upon Chatan, knocking him to the ground. Ashkii yelled out, forcing himself from the rock, but the stone would not let him go. The more he tugged, the faster he was stuck, his cotton tunic snagged on some rocky protrusion within the crack. Chatan planted a foot firmly into the creature’s chest, kicking him backward just far enough to be able to find his footing, but the beast would not relent. It lunged at Chatan, swinging its club wildly. The warrior swerved, the club glancing from his shoulder, sending a resounding pang through his bones. Bringing his own weapon around, Chatan lashed out but the creature had been prepared for the retaliation. Both weapons cracked together, sending splinters of bone raking across bare skin. The force of the impact sent vibrations rippling through Chatan’s arm, chasing away whatever feeling remained. A surge of desperate rage welled up within him, driving him forward like a wild thing. A clubbed fist smashed the beast-man across the jaw. While the creature staggered from the blow, Chatan drove the jagged stump of the sundered weapon deep into the wild man’s shoulder. Hot crimson gushed from the grievous wound, but still the creature came. It fell again upon Chatan, beating him downward and back onto the ground. Thick hands wrapped about Chatan’s neck as the two tumbled in the dirt. Driving a knee upward, Chatan attempted to beat back the creature, but it only grimaced and snarled, tightening his grip about the warrior’s throat. Shooting forward like a dart, Chatan smashed his forehead into the beast-man’s nose. Brilliant stars bloomed in his head and Chatan’s vision swam. The creature’s nose had broken, sending a torrent of blood running down the brutish visage, but the beast appeared to hardly notice. With monstrous force, Chatan was slammed backward, his head pounding against the dirt. He struggled to find something to grab ahold of, anything that he could use as a weapon, but suddenly his limbs refused to listen. The half-man slammed Chatan down again. Then again. Ashkii, screamed in fury, but was still stuck fast. Chatan felt the creature let go of him, but the world had gone black. He hadn’t even been able to feel the hard thud of his head coming to rest on the earth. “Chatan!” screamed Ashkii. “Chatan, get up!” Giving it as much effort as he could muster, Chatan attempted to appease the boy’s request, but to no avail. The creature turned toward the trapped boy, snarling with bloodlust. Wavering slightly from the struggle, it glowered cruelly at Ashkii, made all the more grotesque from the sheets of red that drenched its bestial form. There was another scream, but not that of the boy. It was a horrifying cry of animal fear, cut off sharply by a thick, wet burble. Chatan struggled against gravity to push himself upright. His head was a thunderous riot of pain, but he knew the night was not done. Willing his eyes to open again, adrenaline flooded into his veins as he struggled to understand the scene set out before him. Ashkii was frozen in fear, still wedged within the crevice. The beast-man lay flat upon his back, a pool of spreading blood beneath him, eyes open in unblinking horror. Atop the man’s chest was something else, something that Chatan had few words to describe. It was man-like, but the resemblance ended there. Its limbs were long and slender, stretched to hideous proportions. It was perched upon the half-man’s chest like a carrion bird upon a carcass, and hunched unnaturally low, lapping freed blood from a torn gash in the throat of its prey. Ashkii’s eyes met Chatan’s and he recognized a look of apology in the boy’s eyes. The creature ceased its wet feeding and looked up at Ashkii, cocking its shaggy head like a dog. Its neck stretched and turned backward with horrifying abnormality, looking Chatan directly in the eyes. Hollow, unblinking orbits sat deep within the sunken sockets of a featureless face, a long tongue slipping from a mouth lined with ragged teeth. Thick, matted hair hung sickly from atop a curiously domed skull. Chatan was sure he had seen that face before. It was a face that had haunted his dreams. A face that would haunt the dreams of too many others, following them even into the great beyond. The face both distant and all too familiar, was the face Chatan had found in Ashkii’s masks. Phew. This one was a doozy. If you hadn't noticed, I have been posting each part immediately after I finish writing them. I give them a quick edit, but I don't focus on it too much (although I probably should). I am what the writing community calls a "Pantster", meaning I write from the seat of pants. I'll admit that it does come back to bite when I aim for longer works where outlining is required, but I often look at the writing process as an adventure in and of itself. I am along for the ride just as much as you are. I typically start out with a little seed of inspiration and then let it flow. Anyways, I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am. And prepare for tomorrow for what is setting up to be a blood drenched climax! #swordandsorcery #serial #fantasy #darkfantasy #pulpfiction

Hunter of the Masks: Part 2

Chatan knelt at the bloodstained Earth and spat. The ground was dusty and soft, littered with dried pine needles which made the tracking of his quarry all the more difficult. Despite the murder’s efforts to disguise his trail, there was no mistaking the spatter of crimson upon the ground before him. Whoever the man was, he was certainly illusive, having out maneuvered Chatan at nearly every step. At some point, he had undoubtably found the time and refuge to bandage his wound, making the trail all the more difficult. Fortunately, he was desperate and knew Chatan was biting at his heels. However, there was still something amiss. Instead of taking to the rocks – leaving no track in the process – he had stuck to the low areas. What little was left of his footprints showed a man weakened and verging on exhaustion. Then, inexplicably, the man quickened his pace. He was limping, that was for sure, and then at some point his wound had reopened, spilling the blood that now coated Chatan’s fingertips. It was no longer warm, but thick and sticky, having already started to coagulate in the fresh mountain air. Why though, had the man started to run? Had he seen Chatan not far behind? Given the craggy terrain, littered with ancient boulders and dense tree cover, there was little chance of either hunter or hunted spotting each other. Chatan was simply following suit till the other could go no further. Just up ahead, the trail grew more erratic. The man had fallen, struggled to right himself, but had fallen again. Chatan scanned the area about him, looking for any sign or signal that he had the man-killer trapped, knowing full well a trapped beast was still deadly. Upon the wild plains of his youth, his tribe had hunted vast bison herds, separating them, driving them to stampede and then off the edge of a high cliff. When all was said and done, the rest of the tribe would go about skinning and butchering the massive beasts where they fell. The annual hunt brought enough food to feed every family for a season, and then some. He recalled a time in his youth when a great bull had turned at the last instant, just before the fatal dive from the cliff’s edge, and turned to face his attackers. The buffalo hunt was a sacred act, a gift to all the Plains tribes from the Four Winds high above, but that did not mean the creatures would go willingly. Enraged, the behemoth bellowed and charged, goring brave warriors upon hooked horn or trampling them beneath its bulk. Blood ran in red rivers from nose and mouth, and a score of lance wounds in its hide. It fought to the last breath. Chatan expected the same from this killer. Then, his eyes grew wide as new evidence was brought to light. Still incredulous at what he was seeing, he knelt down to get a closer look. Faint in the dust and debris was the outline of another track. At first glance, Chatan mistook the print for that of a cougar or mountain cat, perhaps stalking wounded prey. It would not be the first time a bleeding man became a meal for such a predator. But the shape, it wasn’t quite right. Moving closer, Chatan studied the outline in sand, tracing it with a quivering finger. He cursed to himself. There was no mistaking anymore – this was a human’s print. Standing again, he looked about and suddenly he could do nothing but see them. They were everywhere, the faint, barely noticeable imprints of bare human feet. They did not wear moccasins as he and many hunters did, nor were they the fiber sandals of the Desert Farmers. Whoever they were, they walked as animals, with gaping bestial strides. By the look of it, there were at least four of them, but probably more. In that moment, Chatan understood the desperate killer’s actions to this point. There was no doubt that he had seen someone, some thing, up in the rocks. He kept to the lowlands, likely followed from above, the pursuers keeping high upon the granite outcrops and ledges of basalt. The more he struggled to get away, the worse his wound grew, eventually splitting the bandage and spilling his blood upon the ground. Shortly after that moment, he had been set upon. There was a struggle, albeit brief. The killer was in no shape to fight back a small band of attackers. There were no drag marks, or signs of the man being carried away, leading Chatan to believe he had been taken up into the rocks. The mountains here were a lonesome place, haunted only by wild cats, bears, and the occasional bandit. There had been no such talk of raids or killings, other than the grisly scenes left from the man with the masks. Chatan had not anticipated that anyone else might cross his path. Suddenly, the warrior felt a growing paranoia tugging at him from the depths of his mind. The world around him cared little for what took place here, or Chatan’s part in it. Birds still sang their love song upon the high branches, and rodents danced through the undergrowth, somewhere far and away a hawk cried. Chatan had spent most of his life a wandering man, rarely did he have company for any longer than was necessary, but in that moment, he had never felt so alone. From the time he left his home, he had followed a path of people who he thought had needed him, whether that be on the dark trail, the high seas, or the blood-soaked battlefield. If his trail were to end here, would anyone know? Would there be someone to grieve for him as Rain-Cloud grieved for White-Sand? What would people say of him when he was gone, or would he even be remembered at all? High in the rocks, something moved. It was subtle, but Chatan’s wild bred instinct alerted him to it. Slowly, Chatan turned toward the movement, reaching for is bow. Something else moved. Then another. In no time at all, Chatan found himself surrounded by six shadow-veiled figures high up in the rocks. Each one was stocky and short, not rising any higher than his chest. Their faces were hidden beneath cowls of ragged pelt, but Chatan could just make out black, beady orbits watching from beneath the cloaks. Whoever they were, they moved like ghosts, more silent than any man Chantan had hunted before. Realizing the precarious situation, he lowered his weapon to the dirt and raised a single hand in greeting. “My name is Chatan. Of Red-Deer,” he said, speaking Puebloan with a thick Plains accent. There was no reply, only curious glances and a low hooting from a pair of the men. “There was a man. A killer of men.” Chatan gestured to the area around him, pointing to the blood upon the ground. “I am hunting him.” More of the strange men hooted to each other. “I believe you have him. I can offer you trade.” Chatan reached toward a small pouch at his side, nestled near a long flint knife tucked neatly into a buckskin sheath. The men in the rocks began to holler, clearly recognizing the weapon, but Chatan raised a hand to help calm them. Plucking the bag from his belt, he emptied the contents into his palm. A small collection of turquoise, amethyst, and beads of Aztlan jade tumbled into his cupped hand. “Will you trade with me? The man for these riches?” The creatures howled, some of them hopping up and down on muscular legs, brandishing bone clubs in clenched fists. “Do we have a deal?” Suddenly, a heavy weight fell upon Chatan from behind. He hit the dirt face down, scattering the modest riches over the ground. He struggled to right himself as the strangers bellowed wildly from the rocks above. Thick fingered hands groped at his neck and hair, thumbs gouging at his eyes. Violently, Chatan twisted himself out of the man’s grip, kicking hard toward his face. His foot struck the man hard in the mouth, cracking teeth. The man’s head snapped back, flinging off the filthy hood in the process. Chatan scrambled back at the site, skittering backwards on all fours. The face that snarled back at him was not that of a man, nor was it a beast’s, locked horrifically between the two. A heavy brow furrowed over dark eyes and broad nose. Slavering lips hid teeth more human than they should have been. Just as Chatan drew his knife, the creature was upon him again, clawing and scratching at his face with pointed nails. Chatan slashed at the creature’s eyes, and then its throat. Red life blood flowed free down a barrel chest. The others screamed and roared from the rocks. He tried to stand but was instantly set upon from every side. The beast-men fell from above like boulders, the weight too much for him to hold back. Chatan screamed; not in pain or fear, but in anger. A club shot high in the air, and then fell. That concludes the second chapter of "Hunter of the Masks". I hope you are enjoying the read, and I encourage you to leave a comment whether you like it or not. I am always open to constructive criticism! That being said, I wanted to take this opportunity to announce that my Sci-Fi Thriller novel "Existence" has been picked up by fledgling indie publisher Primal Publishing. It is currently undergoing another review process, a cover redesign, and a title change to better reflect its nature as a "creature feature". Primal Publishing will specialize in publishing works that focus on Prehistoric monsters like dinosaurs, saber tooth cats, etc. They publish the quarterly "Prehistoric Magazine" and have already released three books in a series by author Mike Esola. I look forward to being the next writer on their roster. That being said, "Existence" as it is remains up for grabs on Amazon until the new version is done. I also want to give out a shout out to Rogue Blades Entertainment, who just released "Death's Sting", a Sword and Sorcery anthology that features a story of mine! They will also release "Reach for the Sky", and anthology of western/alien tales that also features a story be me, as well as a cover designed by me. Lastly, Rogues in the House podcast has had a rough go of it as of late. Life has taken a lot of our free time away, but we are hoping to record an episode tomorrow, so finger's crossed that happens. Our little sampler of Sword and Sorcery poetry is still on sale as well. Those proceeds go straight into the podcast! It's also the only place right now that you can read more about Chatan of Red-Deer Clan, although he is featured in a story to be published later this year in Weirdbook Magazine! Thanks for reading! Existence: https://www.amazon.com/Existence-L-D-... Death's Sting: https://www.amazon.com/Deaths-Sting-W... Rogues in the House: Vol. 1: https://www.amazon.com/Rogues-House-L... Prehistoric Magazine: http://www.prehistoricmagazine.com/ Mike Esola (Primal Publishing): https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Esola/... #swordandsorcery #darkfantasy #serial #pulpfiction #thrillerbooks

Hunter of the Masks: Part 1

I got a chance to go out hiking today and while I have had this story in the "concept phase" for quite awhile, being able to get out and be in the wilderness really got the juices flowing. I am not sure how many parts this will be, but I will post a part a day until it's done. Hope you enjoy! Leave me a comment and let me know what you think so far! Chatan of Red-Deer Clan unconsciously shivered as he plucked the simple wooden mask from the floor. It had been carven simply but with care, crafted from wood, bark, and untanned hide. The eye holes were small and narrow, adorned with white rings signifying hollow, soulless eyes. A larger hole had been bored where the mouth should have been. A black strip was painted across the breadth of the decoration, jagged peaks of white symbolizing the fangs of a flesh eater painted upon the black. He promptly threw the mask to the earthen floor and smashed it with his heel. “What does it mean?” whispered the quavering voice of a woman, huddled at the door. She was young, shapely and beautiful, though her face was now marred by the stains of tears running down her face. “He has been here,” replied Chatan, hiding the anger welling up within him. “Who?” The woman’s voice grew shrill. “Tell me, Chatan! Who killed my husband?” “I do not know his name, Rain-Cloud. I only recognize him from the sign he leaves behind.” Both of their eyes darted to the splintered remnants of the mask upon the floor. “If not who, then why?” Rain-Cloud’s voice was desperate. “Why here of all places? And why my poor White-Sand? Why Chatan? Why?” The woman dropped to her knees, sobbing deeply into the cupped hands that hid her face. Chatan made no move to comfort her, he did not help her from the floor, nor could he answer her question. His eyes moved cautiously to the corpse of White-Sand slumped in the corner of the simple, single room farmhouse. Blood, still warm, was splashed across the man’s simple cotton robe. The attack had likely been a surprise, but something had alerted White-Sand to the presence of another. Judging from the deep gashes running along the man’s arms, he had tried to defend himself or at least stave off the attack. He had been forced hard against the back wall, so hard that his skull had cracked, leaving a smear of red on the wall of baked mud, but that had not killed him. Where White-Sand’s throat should have been, only a ragged hole remained, his neck having been ripped out not by knife, but tooth or claw. Just like the others. Chatan had been tracking the man – for it was indeed a man - responsible for White-Sand’s slaying for nearly a full turn of the moon. There had be two occasions where he had been within bow shot of the killer but had not had enough time to nock and draw. The nameless man had been responsible for five deaths along the Great Serpent River, normally striking upon isolated farms such at this, but he had killed twice within the bounds of the Pueblo cities. While Chatan was a barbarian, hailing from the Sea of Grass far to the east, he had lived among the desert tribes long enough to understand their customs, although they were strange to him. They were a superstitious people, believing ghosts and spirits dwelt within every piece of creation. A violent death such as this could bring about sickness, or bad harvest, but there was little chance for White-Sand to haunt this place. Cannibalism was a grievous offense, for a man to be consumed as White-Sand had been, meant his soul was bound to the one who partook. If what these people believed were true, White-Sand would never reach the next world, and never find peace. At least until his slayer had been slain. “Rain-Cloud, you must go from here.” “I-I can’t leave him, Chatan. I can’t.” “There is nothing left for you here. Your husband is dead. Go south. Follow the slopes downward until you reach a village or town. Tell them what happened, and they will find work for you to do.” “What about White-Sand?” “He dwells here no longer. His spirit is gone. Be thankful you were out, or you too would suffer his fate.” “At least then would be together,” whispered the girl, sullenly. Chatan had no argument. “We will seal this house, and let it lie.” Rain-Cloud cried out in pain, her heart barely able to withstand the torment. Chatan moved to put a firm hand on her shoulder, to give what little comfort he could in that moment, knowing full well that time was all that could heal the young woman. Just as he knelt, the hard crack of a twig announced the presence of another. At once, Rain-Cloud ceased her crying at met Chatan’s eyes with a shot of stark, living fear. Chatan bounded past the weeping girl, snatching up his bow and placing a flint tipped arrow at the ready. He would not miss this time. Rain-Cloud’s farm sat upon the eastern slope of a cluster of ancient mountains where they subsisted on maize, beans, and squash. Many such farms peppered the slopes, taking advantage of the rain-bearing winds that blew in from the plains. With the rains, great forests of towering pine cloaked the crags in a shroud of deep green. As the summer faded, so did the vibrant emerald of the corn stalks that rustled in the wind not a stone’s throw from where Chatan stood. Silent as stone, he listened. A woodpecker sought greedily for its next meal high up in the pines. A pair of bushy eared squirrels darted through the duff not far off, unaware or unconcerned with the human drama at hand. The man-high stalks of maize rustled again, but not in tune with any mountain breeze. Squinting, the hunter thought he could make out the shape of a man hiding, standing still while buried in the swaying stalks. The figure was tall, and broad shouldered – not unlike the man-killer he had glimpsed on the run. There was no doubt that whoever it was had seen Chatan, but like an ancient statue, they refused to move. With the speed of a striking snake, Chatan dropped to one knee, drawing his bowstring back toward his cheek. The arrow shot true, tearing a path through the stalks of corn. Where there should have been howls of pain, perhaps even fury, there arose a cold, unearthly laugh. It was not the laugh of a man, but hollow and bitter like the howl of a winter wind. Behind him there was another snap of a twig and the frantic padding of footfalls on the dirt. Chatan turned suddenly to see the familiar shape of a man as he frantically crested a small ridge. He nocked a second arrow and loosed. The arrow grazed the man across the thigh, cutting a deep line through muscle and bare skin. Faltering, the runaway ducked behind the trunk of a tree and disappeared. Suddenly, from where the strange figure had hidden in the patch of maize, a furious, painful cry bellowed despite there being no one there at all. Rain-Cloud leapt from the safety of her desecrated home and ran to Chatan’s side. “What was that?” she asked, a wild fear upon her face. “I am not sure, but you cannot stay any longer. Take what food and water you can carry, then leave.” “Did you get him, Chatan?” “No. But my arrow grazed him, I watched him stumble before he disappeared into the woods. He is wounded and bleeding, easy enough to track.” “Are you going to kill him?” “Yes," growled Chatan. "I will find him, and I will kill him.” #swordandsorcery #fantasy #adventure #thriller #pulpfiction

Cussler Classics: Atlantis Found

It's been awhile since I've written anything here. I'm told that regular posts and newsletters will help me grow my audience, so I need to work harder on keeping up with that. Luckily, I have a lot to write about. More to write about than my time allows, unfortunately. As my Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram followers probably already know, I spent a couple weeks adventuring around Mexico. I got to eat a lot of food, explore ruins, and hang out on the beach. But more on that later. One of my goals this year is to review every book I read. Most of them will likely not be new releases, however I am going to do my best to read mostly Indie Published books from hard working authors like myself. This is NOT one of those reviews. If you like Adventure Novels, Thrillers, Archaeological Fiction, or even the outdated genre of Men's Fiction, chances are you've already read a Clive Cussler novel. Hell, You may have even read this one. However, I totally acknowledge there are people out there that haven't read it, or any Cussler for that matter. That makes this review something of a double edged sword. I don't want to venture into Spoiler Territory in case anyone wants to pick this up. I also don't want to make this one boring for anyone who has already sipped from the cup of Cussler. To maintain this balancing act, I aim to elaborate on the things that make Cussler, Cussler. Then, of course, giving you a rundown of why I think that's a good thing or a bad thing. If that sounds intriguing at all, follow along and let's go find Atlantis. I first came across Clive Cussler (his novels anyway) at the ripe old age of twelve. I grew up in a small town in Nebraska, one that didn't offer all of the amenities of the modern world, so from time to time we had to venture into the nearest big city for groceries. I would always ask my mom if we could stop by Barnes & Noble so I could look at books. It was one of my favorite things. I didn't always get to go, and I definitely didn't always get to buy something, but I loved to just look at all the offerings on the shelves. On the particular day in question, I was browsing the Young Adult category when I came across two books that looked quite a bit different than the other YA books. They were taller, wider, and the covers looked more "adult" than the often cartoony or stylized designs on the average middle-grade novel. I was drawn in by the bold colors, big titles, and depictions of explosions and gold coins respectively. The titles in question were YA versions of two Cussler greats "Shockwave" and "Inca Gold" This was my lucky day, my mom let me get both. I devoured them, I had no idea there were novels like this that I could read. They combined what I loved about Indiana Jones and James Bond into one. There was daring-do, there were evil villains, and bold heroes using technology, cunning, and sometimes violence to save the day. They were a big change from the drama and "feelings" heavy books that I often found in school. Only three other authors have impacted me so deeply. That being said, I have a Love/Hate relationship with Mr. Cussler. "Atlantis Found" is a novel that is at once epic and cringe inducing - like all of his books. On one hand I applaud the overall execution of his pacing in this grand plot. The initial encounters with the antagonists, the weaving of lost history and modern-day conspiracy; all top notch stuff. The fact that I am a sucker for Atlantis lore pushes this particular read to the next level. The story jumps from one exotic location and danger fraught scenario to the next at a break neck pace. The action and set pieces are varied and interesting - all the stuff of great action flicks. Other than the addition of "monsters" (a la James Rollins), this checks all my boxes. Now for the hard parts. I readily admit that I don't particularly care about deep characters. That's not why I read. In fact, I pretty much get railed by my co-hosts on one episode of Rogues in the House for this sentiment. I'm sure my editor would also laugh at this statement. And to be honest, I think that good ole' Clive probably feels similarly. His two man protagonists, Dirk Pitt and Al Giorodino, are what you'd expect from an action hero duo. Dirk is tall and lithe, handsome, clever, and good with the ladies. Al is shorter, beefier, a solid jokester, and also good with the ladies. I do really like the organization that the pair are affiliated with. NUMA, or the "National Underwater Marine Agency", is ostensibly a scientific organization that is operated by the U.S. Government. This allows science, history, and military to cross and combine at will within the bounds of the story. That being said, Dirk and Al are cookie cutter heroic types, every other character fits some kind of stenotype role . There lies the rub. The depth of the characters really isn't the problem. For me, they fit their roles perfectly. It is where the secondary, female characters come in that I begin to roll my eyes. Women are always beautiful, flirty, and go ga-ga over Dirk at a moment's notice. Sure, they are also often intelligent, and successful, but even a recurring love interest/senator ends up pretty much forsaking a substantial political career to pretty much focus on popping out kids. There seems to be a lot of this kind of sentiment. This stuff pops so often in Cussler's fction it makes my eyes roll. Before you start crying "SJW!" and "Snowflake", just hear me out. I actually love this stuff. It definitely appeals to many of my sensibilities as an adventure reader. Dirk Pitt is mostly the kind of adventurer that I want to be, that I imagine myself as when I daydream. But, seriously? EVERY, FREAKIN' TIME?? That is another issue with Mr. Cussler's works. They are all so cookie-cutter in their pattern that you can more-or-less drag and drop characters and scenarios into any of the novels. This definitely gets worse the deeper you get into his bibliography. By now, I think Cussler has like thirty books, maybe more. "Atlantis Found" is in the first third of his substantial library. It is preceded by what I would like to refer to as the "original plan". While "Atlantis Found" reads like the culmination of a series, and ends like it too, it is followed by two more novels that Clive wrote himself. The vast majority of these books are solid reads, especially "Inca Gold" and "Raise the Titanic". I do honestly believe that Clive was trying to wrap the series up. However, his novels were just too damn popular to let go. And the downward spiral begins. After this initial run, Cussler starts to have partner writers and the quality begins to dip - sometimes significantly. I have to wonder how much Clive actually wrote in these books and how much is just "branding" like Tom Clancy novels now (oh how the mighty have fallen, poor guy). In short, if you are looking for adventure and thrills, action and daring, in the vein of James Bond and Indiana Jones, any of the "original plan" Cussler novels are a must read. Yes, there are things that will make modern sensibilities roll their eyes, but overall I think the adventure is worth it. "Atlantis Found" is one of my favorite adventure novels, and was the perfect vacation read. I honestly couldn't put it down. I read on the plane, on the beach, and on the bus. Just a good ole' fashioned, two-fisted romp. I think my favorite part of these books is that you can literally pick up any of them, read them and enjoy. It is extremely rare for anything to straight up reference another book in the series. They are very much written in the lineage of Pulp Serials like Doc Savage and The Shadow. I am not sure if I would straight up call them Modern Pulp, like I might do with James Rollins, as there is pretty much never an injection of the "weird" that we get from the 20's and 30's magazines and short stories. I say that and totally left out the genetically engineered Nazi family in "Atlantis Found" and the Robot Samurai in "Dragon". I have read some of the later co-authored outings, and I have enjoyed them, but they are definitely not up to snuff with the earlier Dirk Pitt adventures. Because the plotting, pacing, and other aspects are lesser, the cringe-worthy and sometimes shoddily made characters shine through more. My suggestion is to read reviews, especially the bad and mediocre ones. Decide if you can put aside those gripes and just enjoy the ride. Up next I will be reviewing the first book in WWII adventure series, and after that I will finally get to an Indie Author! So stay tuned for that, as well as tales of my adventures abroad! If anyone out there reading this would be so inclined to discuss this book, or Clive Cussler in general, please comment or leave a message! #clivecussler #adventurebooks #bookreview #vacationreads

In the Footsteps of Giants - Robert E. Howard and Carlsbad Cavern

I was twenty-one when I first sat down to watch the 1982 sword and sorcery classic, Conan the Barbarian starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was a life changing moment for me. While far too many people dismiss and deride this film as 80's cheese, nothing but oiled muscles and scantily clad women, they would be wrong. At its heart, John Milius' Conan is a philosophical journey masked by an age of high adventure, a journey that deeply resonated with me. I had come to the movie through an author named Howard Philip Lovecraft, creator of Cthulhu and the mythos it inhabits. I knew from my research that Lovecraft had a friend, a pen pal in fact, named Robert E. Howard. Howard was the creator of Conan, and Lovecraft considered the fictional era in history that Conan inhabited to be part of his fictional mythology. I dug that. So, I found the first thing linked to Howard that I could, the aforementioned film. While the film will always have a special place in my heart, and it overflows with Howardian elements (check out the Rogues is the House podcast for more), it is not the Conan that Howard created. I discovered this as I picked up the Del Rey edition of "The Conquering Sword of Conan", an updated collection of Howard's original tales. The first story I read was entitled "The Servants of Bit-Yakin", previously published as "The Jewels of Gwahlur", and takes Conan on an adventure of danger and intrigue through ancient ruins and a subterranean world. In the annotation of the tale, the editors mention that this story was inspired by Howard's only trip outside of Texas, a vacation where he visited New Mexico and took a tour of Carlsbad Caverns. I am an avid visitor of National Parks and Monuments, and I have been dying to visit Carlsbad Caverns so I could see what brought my favorite author got the inspiration to write one of my favorite Conan tales. Well, I am happy to say that I finally got the chance. Over this last Vernal Holiday, Easter to you religious types, my girlfriend and I packed our bags, loaded up the dog and headed south from Albuquerque, New Mexico with the caverns as our destination. I will admit that once you turn south from Cline's Corners, the drive becomes quite...boring, unless you are able to find beauty in the vast, never ending plains. Stretching toward the horizon are nothing but gently rolling hills, broken only by desolate towns, herds of cattle, and the occasional clutch of Pronghorn antelope. We had booked a small cabin at the KOA campground south of Artesia and north of Carlsbad (the city), and was pleasantly surprised with my first stay at such a place. The cabin was small, but clean, had A/C, there was a dog run, a pool, and the HQ even cooked their own BBQ. Each site had its own grill and fire pit where we successfully cooked hot dogs and baked beans on a classic New Mexico windy evening. Nearby Artesia is a small oil town with a beautiful downtown, but the smell of "money" permeates the area. We were a bit worried that the smell would follow us, but we had no issues with that. After a good night's rest, we headed out early to explore the caverns. I have been to a few caves before, the largest of which was Wind Cave in South Dakota (another great trip), but I was not prepared for what awaited me. In all the caves that I have been in before, I was lead in a tour group by a ranger or guide and shown all the marvels time and geology could muster. This is not the case at Carlsbad Caverns. The mouth of the cave is massive, but dwarfed in comparison to what lies beneath. the system of caves is so large, that a trail network was been created inside that allows you to wander and sight see at your own pace. The trek down into the bowels of the Earth was awe inspiring. At one point, just before the aptly named "Twilight Zone" there is a vista that I could have sworn was a matte painting ripped straight from the set of Temple of Doom. I am not sure if this is a testament to natural beauty or to the unbeatable realism of now "out dated" practical effects, or both. My photography doesn't do it justice. As we walked down the paved, switch back trail, I was taken aback at the depth were were diving. The trail never seemed to end, only going deeper and deeper into the gloom. I can only imagine what Howard felt as he descended with what likely amounted to little more than an lantern. For those of you less interested in the trek, there is elevator access both up and down, but be warned, the line is long. When we finally completed our mile and a half trek into the cavern system, we found ourselves in a dome that could easily fit multi-storied buildings. Eons of water had formed groves of giant stone columns and pillars, Intricate displays of delicate stonework created miniature shadow theaters at once fanciful and grotesque. I have no doubt that Howard's mind was working on over drive as he took in the sights, sounds, and scents of the cavern system. In fact, I can draw distinct similarities between passages in "The Jewels of Gwahlur" and the underworld through which we walked. "Above them gleamed the phosphorescent roof; a hundred feet below them stretched the smooth floor of the cavern. On the far side of this floor was cut by a deep, narrow stream brimming its rocky channel. Rushing out of the impenetrable gloom, it swirled across the cavern and was lost again in the darkness. the visible surface reflected the radiance above; the dark seething waters glinted as if flecked with living jewels, frosty blue, lurid red, shimmering green, and ever-changing iridescence." -Robert E. Howard, The Jewels of Gwahlur Fantasy aside, and despite the modern conveniences, it is easy to imagine how the first explorers felt when they began to explore the cave system. As history tells us, a curious teenager by the name of Jim White, first dropped into the caverns by a homemade rope ladder in 1898. The system was explored by numerous intrepid adventures, mostly in by lamplight, a solid wall of darkness enveloping them a mile below the surface. It wasn't until 1932 when the visitor's center began modernizing the access routes with a pair of elevators. Of all the sights and sounds within the caves, nothing hammered home the sense of adventure and danger those early men and women faced than the solitary wood and wire ladder still hanging above the abyss. I could talk for hours about my trip. I could tell you about geology and prehistory, I could tell you all about the people and fantastic creatures that have come and gone since the cavern's creation eons ago, but that's not really the point, is it? Go. Go explore. Go adventure. Go tread the paths of those that inspire you. I will tell you that I have never felt closer to my favorite author. As a writer, there was something special about walking the same path and seeing the same sights that Robert E. Howard did. I have a notion that it will only be surpassed by my inevitable visit to his home in Cross Plains, Texas. While I heartily recommend a visit to Carlsbad Caverns, if just for the natural wonder of it all, I also highly suggest you seek out the places that inspired your favorite authors. I promise you won't regret it. And as Conan would say: Live. Love. Slay. Be Content. #travel #adventure #writing #author #nationalpark s #goexplore #nps

Blasters at High Noon

I am not a Star Wars fan. I like the original trilogy well enough, I find the new movies to be decent romps, and I haven't seen those other Star Wars movies. I really liked Rogue One and found Solo to be fun. I don't really know any mythology of the Star Wars Universe, I think the Empire are actually the good guys, and I maintain that Shadows of the Empire on the Nintendo 64 is a good game. There. I said it. Now that that is out the way, I love love love The Mandalorian. But so does everyone else. So, why does that matter? So glad you asked. The Mandalorian series on Disney Plus is Pulpy-af. It is. And I understand that the original trilogy has many of the same influences, but they don't shine at the forefront like they do here. The titular character is basically Clint Eastwood in Space. The opening scene of the first episode is straight out of Segio Leone. The music as well harkens to the overt wild west feel of the setting and characters, but maintains an almost eerie sci fi tone. There are quick draws and shootouts in the desert, there is a whole horse taming schtick that is funny and fits right in. Even the use of Gatling Guns as the "BFGs" is straight out of Red Dead Redemption. My favorite part of this whole thing is that you could take the whole plot, all the characters and everything, and drop it into a Western tale with minimal changes. This is also what I don't like about Star Wars as a whole. The original trilogy is a fantasy. It's Lord of the Rings in Space. Exchange aliens for elves and gnomes, and bam. You got fantasy. Deal with it. But I feel like with The Madalorian, the creator (Iron Man's John Favreau), and the various directors know what they are working with and use the aesthetic unabashedly and to it's fullest potential. The series also doesnt pull any punches when it comes to action. There are explosions, lasers, vibrating knives, and you can't tell me the Forge Master wasn't in some part inspired by 1982's Conan the Barbarian. We don't get a lot of that in shows nowadays, as they seemingly conserve their budget by leaning on drama. I get it. I do. Big battles and action set pieces are pricey. That's why Game of Thrones has like one a season (7/10 needs more stabbing). Of course with the juggernaut that is Disney, they don't pull any punches and the show is so much better for it. The plot is driven forward by the action, which I like, but the characters are all also interesting and unique. In what is probably the most genius move in all of modern day marketing, the sheer cuteness if Baby Yoda keeps you glued to the screen. This strange little baby gremlin also offers up a huge and intriguing mystery that keeps you invested. Disney +, you have have my money. And everyone else's. You bastards. #starwars #babyyoda #disneyplus #mandalorian

A Survivor is Born: Retrospective of the Tomb Raider Reboot Series

Funnily enough, shortly before sitting down to write this review, I saw the announcement of Shadow of the Tomb Raider: Definitive edition. Serendipitous timing, to say the least. It seems as though the developer is offering this upgrade free of charge to players who already have the Season Pass. To those that don't, the purchase of the season pass will get you the upgrade. Enough shop talk. I have just finished up Shadow of the Tomb Raider, the third installment in the Tomb Raider reboot franchise aptly called the "Survivor Timeline". So, I figure it's a perfect time to do a bit of an analysis of the series. My goal here is not to necessarily delve into the critiques of game play, graphics, or the typical game reviewer stuff (although I will surely mention it). What I really want to do is reflect on aspects that make the game appealing to me and that have inevitably influenced my work. Here goes nothing. I will readily admit that I have no real experience with the "Classic" Tomb Raider series, although I have played a couple of the remakes. As a kid, I had a Nintendo 64 and Lara Croft typically adventured around PlayStation territory. It wasn't until the 2012 reboot that I got excited about the series. I was deeply enamored with the Uncharted franchise, with it's Indiana Jones style antics and cast of lovable rogues (More on Uncharted another time). I got a real sense of adventure from playing those games, something that I couldn't really find anywhere else. Then, Tomb Raider 2013 was announced. In the past, Lara Croft was something of a sex symbol for video games. She wore short shorts, a tight shirt, and was quite gifted in a number of areas. Her games also centered around complex puzzle solving, with short bursts of acrobatic combat. The reboot series was seeking to get away from the overly sexualized heroine, and also move toward more action/set piece oriented game play like the super successful Uncharted series. It was due to this last, highly publicized part, that I was both intrigued and initially disappointed. If you haven't played an Uncharted game, you need to understand that at it's heart, Uncharted is fun. Sure, Nate Drake and crew get into some tough scrapes, and there are definitely some nail biting moments, but overall it exudes a sense of fun. The characters are written realistically and more often than not, are humorous, all with their own personality quirks and story arcs that make you love them. They are genuinely people you would want to hang out with. The new Lara Croft? Not so much. The mood of the Tomb Raider series is not fun. The game makes that perfectly clear in the first five minutes of the game when Lara nearly impales herself. There is little joy to be had in Lara's adventures. Her adventures are hard, brutal, and often horrifying. In fact, the story arc presented with the three games sees Lara battling her growing obsession with her father, ancient mysteries, and the religions paramilitary sect, Trinity. This is a stark contrast to the plucky shenanigans of Nate, Elena and Sully. At first, this was super off putting to me. Indiana Jones, the quintessential adventure hero, has fun on his adventures. There are even smiles and laughs to be had in Temple of Doom, the most notoriously dark Indy film. Tomb Raider axes all of that. The first harrowing adventure begins upon the shipwreck strewn shores of Yamatai, a mythical island east of Japan. This Lara, similar to the first Lara, is following in her deceased father's footsteps as she follows a trails of mysterious artifacts across the globe. I have to admit here, that in comparison to the artifacts at the center of both Indiana Jones and Uncharted, Lara's fall a little flat. This was another bummer for me, as these McGuffin's are are typically a driving force behind an adventuring treasure hunter plot. I think my initial reaction is based upon the evident "fake-ness" of the artifacts. Indy encounters real mythological items, as does Nathan Drake. These made up artifacts can, and have been pulled off before, specifically thinking J. J. Arbams movies, they just aren't in Tomb Raider. While the locations that Lara visits are from world mythology, the artifacts they hide are paper thin copies of better, more familiar, and interesting ones. Hell, they aren't even ever explained, and two of them are super samey and that sucks. In the end, two of the artifacts basically just create zombies. Woo. Fun. Exciting. Note really. Zombie samurai are cool enough for a second enemy faction, as are zombie Romans, but they aren't really exciting as a recurring archetype. While the third installment does have "zombie" enemies, they are done far better, are far more interesting, and are not really zombies, just a mix up from the usual game play loop. I also feel like they are genuinely terrifying. I have to say that the stories present in all three of the Tomb Raider reboot series are all really mediocre. And most often, the characters are just not that interesting, especially when compared to the Uncharted series. I will admit, that Shadow (the third game), did much better in this department than the others, although the villains still fall flat. Lara is often an unlikable machine, driven by a singular purpose. I get it, she's obsessed and driven by that obsession, but that alone in not that interesting. I think the standout character is Jonah, a recurring friend in each installment. He acts as a human anchor to Lara's "otherness" in the second and third games. He brings a lot of emotional weight to an otherwise dry outing. As of right now, it probably seems like I don't really like these games. That is dead wrong. I actually love them. There are a few things that the series has absolutely nailed. First, I need to talk about atmosphere. From the first scene in Yamatai, you quickly understand that this knew Tomb Raider borders on horror at times. The ruins, both modern and ancient, are grimy, and often littered with mysterious remains. Yamatai is overrun with a cult of shipwreck survivors that worship a sun goddess and the whole place exudes a air of filthiness that makes you more and more uncomfortable the longer you take in the details. While trapped in Siberia in the second game, you are treated to grisly scenes of ancient persecutions by religious fanatics, and in Shadow (my personal favorite), the player is treated to gruesome Mayan tombs complete with sacrifices and mummies. That's friggin' cool. While often having a horror bent, much of the scenery is still breathtakingly beautiful and awe inspiring. Not even in Uncharted or the Elder Scrolls games have I seen vistas to rival the ruined coastline of Yamatai, the lost city of Kitesh, or the towering temples of Paititi. Even in smaller, more intimate locales, the visual world building is excellent. I have to say, the highlight of the series for me was exploring the small Spanish mission in the third act of Shadow of the Tomb Raider. Being able to talk to the citizens, learn the history of the church, and also discover that something dark lurks beneath the village was a fantastic moment. This leads me to the exploration. Uncharted feels like a movie, it plays like a movie too. The games are fast paced and a non stop thrill ride. This is what I initially expected from Tomb Raider, and what first caused a sense of disappointment. Upon repeat bplaythroughs and reflection, I was so wrong. Tomb Raider is often about thoughtful and thorough exploration. This is really hammered home by the sheer number of hidden items to be found on the maps. As a kid, I grew up with Mario 64 and Banjo-Kazooie (one of my all-time faves), so collect-a-thons are right up my alley. To add icing to the cake is the incredible amount of care and love that went into crafting these collectible notes and artifacts. All of them have fully voiced descriptions that often tell stories about not only Lara's world, but the history of our own. Each treasure and bauble are fully rendered and many hold extra secrets if you take the time to look. You want to explore every nook and cranny, you want to see what stories are hidden in these ancient and forgotten places. I absolutely adore finding the skeletal corpse of a previous explorer and then hearing about what they discovered and how they died. Jolly good, sir! I would also be remiss if I didn't talk about the special Crypts and Tombs. When the developers decided to move towards a more scripted affair, they knew well that they were deviating from the formula that made the original games so popular, the puzzle elements. The original series was more about complex puzzle solving than combat and scripted sequences. To compensate and attempt to find a middle ground, the large explorable areas often hid these Challenge Tombs that were filled with outlandish ancient machinery and abstract puzzles. Ask my best friend, and he will tell you I am not a puzzle guy, so I have no shame in admitting that many of these were difficult for me. That being said, solving them on your own is super satisfying and many of the environments of these Tombs are lush and creative. I will say that the Tombs and Crypts get more numerous and grow in quality as the series progresses, but overall, I really enjoy that aspect of the game. If you have read "Existence", or any of my other works of adventure, you may notice that I do my best to strike a solid middle ground in how I described the atmosphere of both Tomb Raider and Uncharted. I want to have fun and humor and sometimes plucky protagonists, but I also want to give you chills and maybe even gross you out a time or two. My writing background started with horror in the Lovecraftian sense, and then developed into Sword and Sorcery which incorporates a mix of swashbuckling adventure and cosmic terror. When I started writing my adventures with Ada and Penny (and soon to be Bryce), as well as other short stories, I knew that I wanted chilling elements. I tend to view the Tomb Raider series as one pole of my influence, while Uncharted is the other. The main body of my writing seeks to be somewhere right in between. Unfortunately for me, it appears that Shadow of the Tomb Raider will be the last in the series. There is some glimmer of hope, but it was never supposed to be more than three games. This bums me out, as both Lara and developers really seemed to be growing into what they wanted to become. Some part of me has hope that this isn't then of Lara the Survivor. But even if it is, her grim adventures can live on in my imagination and in my writing. So there's that. #TombRaider #Uncharted #IndianaJones #VideoGame #Retrospective #LaraCroft