C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 65

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: Blade Breaker 1.9

A little serial, based on my old RPG, written raw for practice.

Blade Breaker 1.1 (start here)

Blade Breaker 1.8 (in case you missed last week’s)

I was cautious leaving Gregor the Grey’s grim fortress of a shop: in the North it is often said that bad things often come in three, and I figure the saying goes for attempts on one’s life in Myrrhn, if it goes at all.

I saw no sign of watchful eyes, rooftop shadows, or deeper darkness in the alleys as I stepped outside. Superstition will only take you so far, even as Nordan.

I was interested that Gregor was one of the ascended, that smaller personhood into which I was born a second time. The case at hand, however, was far more pressing, so I committed that information to memory, for later use. So far I knew that Sapphire and her Nordan lover had been killed by as assassin of no small skill, but one who had crossed the line from professionalism into passion in doing the deed. The poison, the rape, the slow torture, and the mutilation of the bodies indicated that the killer knew Sapphire and felt some claim to her.

I considered returning the the Pink Pearl and asking around. I discarded this idea almost immediately. No matter how much the other women liked Sapphire, it seemed unlikely that any of them would risk the wrath of the Guild to help catch her killer. Prostitutes in Myrrhn, even the most pampered, had well honed survival instincts. It would take someone with stones like Madam Glorianna to risk butting heads with the Nightblades.

Aside from the knowledge that I was looking for an assassin who was in love with Sapphire, I now knew that he purchased his specialty poison from Gregor the Grey, making a rush order and paying the princely sum of a gold trade bar. The rush order confirmed to me that the assassin was not acting rationally: the act was planned, but impulsive, almost feverish. The gold trade bar meant I was dealing with someone well paid — in assassin terms that meant a prolific journeyman at the very least. That ruled out the pair who attacked me outside of Git’s, who despite drawing blood, were likely just out of training at best.

I considered this as I walked past dreamy eyed addicts and made my way to the nearest bridge. The larger islands that make up the various districts of the city are tall and jagged rocks and it is much easier to take the suspension bridges than to take the boardwalk or water taxi. The later were very popular for other reasons, mostly involving smuggling and other illicit activities.

I reached the bridge just as the twilight rush began.

There is a certain beauty to the sudden chaos of rush times. Tens of thousands of people spill onto the streets in a matter of seconds, a tidal wave of people. Everyone on the streets is swept up by the influx, which moves of its own accord, like blood pumping through the veins of some great stone beast. Orcs run shoulder with dwarves, students with merchant princes, and thieves with watchmen, all moving as one great mass. There is a certain logic, a pattern to the madness, that makes these times peaceful and profound rather than riven by disharmony. I believe it is simply the expression of an overwhelming mass consciousness, the will of the city made manifest in a brief, glorious storm of people that is as powerful and sustaining as the rain that accompanies Magni’s own thunder.

Another description of the rush that I am fond of, is that it is like marching with an army, only an army with a peaceful purpose and no particular organization.

The twilight rush is a combination od the movements of the shop-keepers and bankers leaving work, combined with the dockworkers, sailors, and day labourers moving towards their favourite taverns and whorehouses for the evening.

This bridge was a great span made of black stone, supported by steel cables and massive pillars sunk deep into waters below. It was decorated with ugly gargoyles, some possibly even real, and gave the impression of endless solidity.

I decided to head back to the Inn of the Willing Wench rather than risk a trip to the Black Tower before dark. It is best to deal with the Guild in broad daylight, even if you are a Shadow Wolf. A leg of lamb and a pint of Brunors Bitters would certainly help clear my mind and replenish all of the blood that I had lost. I was not retiring for the day, merely changing my investigation strategies. Anyone who had additional information for me would look for me at the Wench first, I reasoned.

Besides, if I was still being followed by a pair of neophyte killers, I figured it would be better to take them on in a stretch of ground that I was more familiar with.

Plus I really wanted a drink…

 

IOU

I had a great blog post about Caesar planned for today, alas I spent the entire day moving and now need to write like a maniac to reach my word-goal for the month. So… uh… IOU.

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: Blade Breaker 1.8

The ongoing saga of Ragnar Grimfang, exile, twiceborn, blade-breaker.

Blade Breaker 1.1 (the first)

Blade Breaker 1.7 (previous)

One of the nice things about having one foot out of the grave is that while I bleed like a mortal man, the bleeding generally stops of its own accord. I have heard tell that some of us twiceborn have even survived having their throats cut or major vessels opened. I cannot say that I am eager to see if I am made of the same mettle. Still, I was happy that I was no longer bleeding by the time I called on Gregor the Grey.

Buildings in Myrrhn seem to be built in a jumble of architectural styles, mostly because the city is both old and fad driven. While most of the newer buildings that sprout from the city’s thirteen islands follow a style called Thraxian Coppertop, they are forced to share the streets with Ancient Archaen, Neo-Archaen, Haute Myrhnese, Loragonian Pastoral, Dragmarian Uber, Westmarch Faux Pastoral, as well as many styles that are less well known or perhaps just individual tastes. Gregor the Grey’s shop was likely one of the later, a tall slab of grey stone that rose like a ship-breaker out of the pall of fog and smoke.

The street nearby was crowded with the human debris of misery and addiction, along with a shady looking tavern that no doubt appealed to the worst kind of customer. Several of the later watched me from just outside the tavern’s exterior, eyes measuring me before they glanced quickly away. Gregor’s shop-face was clean and accorded respect, which was noteworthy in a place like this.

The entrance to the shop was more like the entrance to a fortress, complete with a portcullis on the inside and two rather massive guards. The leg-breakers were well equipped and well paid, with that very-friendly-but-very-ready attitude that I learned to adopt when I was a doorman at whorehouses. They did not ask to take my weapons, even the obvious ones. Gregor the Grey was not a nervous man. I nodded my respect to both men, acknowledging my appreciation of their professionalism. It rarely hurts to be polite to men with swords, I find.

The alchemist manned his own shop, a rarity — especially for someone so wealthy. He was tall but nondescript except for a shock of long grey hair done up in a pony tail, at odds with a young looking complexion and dark, steady eyes. He regarded me with definite interest, which I took to be sexual at first, but quickly realized was him recognizing another ascendant. Twiceborn, Paragons, Legends, and all the other various paths to ascendancy can recognize each other. It is an odd sensation, like a piece of a puzzle falling into place, only you aren’t putting a puzzle together and aren’t quite sure what to do with the knowledge. It is often the catalyst for violence or intense posturing.

“Gregor the Grey, I presume?”

He nodded.

“I am Ragnar Ironfang, Exile from Clan Shadow Wolf,” I said. “I am investigating a crime that involved a particularly specialized form of poison. It paralyzes the victim, keeping them fully conscious and able to feel at the same time.”

“And what makes you think I would help you twiceborn?” asked Gregor, a note of curiosity in his sonorous voice.

“This poison was sold to an assassin,” I said, keeping my tone conversational. At times like this I like to pace slowly with my hands clasped behind my back, imitating some long forgotten bard from my youth, no doubt.

“I’m not sure how that piece of knowledge is meant to dislodge my tongue,” said Gregor. “The nightblades are the last group that a cautious man would want to alienate.”

“True, they do run this town after a fashion,” I said. “However, this particular assassin has made some errors which might cost him. Firstly, he murdered his lover and one of her ‘friends’ in a crime of passion. Probably took a contract out on her to keep within guild rules, but I expect they are not going to be happy with the results. The woman he murdered was a favourite of madame Glorianna, the man was one of my people — someone important.”

The second bit of information was a guess. For one, a place like the pink pearl was too expensive for just any Sea Wolf on shore leave. I used to dream about a night in such a place in the early days of my exile. How time changes our tastes… Secondly, he was a big, strong lad with some giant blood in him, which among a people who respect physical prowess would earn him a name. If he wasn’t important himself, one of his relatives would be. An easy gamble.

“I see,” said Gregor, frowning. My people are not well understood in this part of the world — our reputation in Myrrhn is that we are unpredictable and warlike, which is probably partly because we have attacked it a few times over various disputes. Madame Glorianna was also a powerful figure in the city. I could see Gregor weighing hsi options. “I won’t tell you who, but I did sell a poison like that to someone who I suspect of being affiliated with the guild.”

“What did you charge for the poison?”

“Given the potency and the rushed nature of the job, I asked for a trade bar,”

I whistled, that was a fair amount of money, even for an exotic poison. A gold trade bar could keep a man in good ale and a fine bed for a year in Myrrhn, more elsewhere. The fact that my quarry did not flinch at this price spoke volumes of both Gregor’s reliability and my enemy’s affluence.

Incidentally, this meant that the attack outside Git’s was unrelated. That assassin who had bloodied me with her knife was after me for an entirely different reason, it seemed.

Disease in Fantasy

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. – Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death

I have an annoying cold today, which, along with an episode of Vikings, inspired tonight’s topic.

Most of us who enjoy the benefits of modern civilization cannot quite fathom the  impact that disease once had. Disease has done far more to hold the human population in check throughout history than war. Times of plague could shape an entire narrative in a Fantasy world, especially when superstition and the politics of ignorance come into play.

The black death is perhaps the most famous of ancient diseases. It is best know for ravaging Europe, peaking in ~1350, a brutal time that is well recorded, but current theories have it originating  in the east and travelling along the silk road, the great east-west trade route that loosely tied Europe, the Middle East. the Orient, and Africa together. It reduced the world population from ~450 million to 375 million or lower, with a fatality rate of 30% or more at this time. Other outbreaks were reported, including a period in the middle of the eighth century that may have been just as bad. These are just general figures, but we don’t need to be exact to see how such an occurrence could be the centerpiece of a work of fiction.

In men and women alike it first betrayed itself by the emergence of certain tumours in the groin or armpits, some of which grew as large as a common apple, others as an egg…From the two said parts of the body this deadly gavocciolo soon began to propagate and spread itself in all directions indifferently; after which the form of the malady began to change, black spots or livid making their appearance in many cases on the arm or the thigh or elsewhere, now few and large, now minute and numerous. As the gavocciolo had been and still was an infallible token of approaching death, such also were these spots on whomsoever they showed themselves. — The famous quotation from Giovanni Bocaccio’s Decameron about the symptoms of the black death.

The Black Death had several interesting consequences. Naturally fanatics bloomed in many areas that suffered, seeking to blame the spread of the disease on whatever local group most offended them, feeling that the disease must have a divine origin. While it is a sad comment on human fallibility that these acts became common, this sort of madness makes great fodder for stories. The plague his some nations much harder than others, greatly changing the balance of power. It also hit cities harder than rural areas, changing that balance as well.

Disease is underused in Fantasy. My favorite use of diseases in Fantasy, excluding diseases that make you awesome like vampirism or lycanthropy, and zombie based diseases, are found in the Elder Scrolls games, Morrowind especially. What I liked about these were the weird varieties of diseases that your character could encounter, each with its own symptoms and origins. Of course the fact that a simple potion or spell could rid you of most of them, made it less than arduous, but it was a nice touch. Many older tabletop RPGs had extensive lists of diseases, some of which could be the subjects of great quests to find cures.

Here are a few ideas to consider when using disease in a Fantasy setting:

What is the nature of your plague? Is the disease fatal, or just crippling in some way? Is it passed by fleas on rats, brought back by soldiers on crusade, or the result of the vicious spells of an insane cult? Is death quick or grim, blissful or horrific? In a way the disease is like a character in your work and should reflect the mood and themes you are trying to convey. The bubonic plague works much better for Grimdark than for a more pastoral fantasy.
How will people react to the disease? The emotional response of the characters to the disease is important to the story, and the attitude of groups and nations  to the disease is a key part of world building in a plague ridden setting. If fanatics lash out and blame, who will be there targets? If your world has visible, active Gods, what role do they and their priests play in the cycle of plague? What happens if the disease only targets elves? these are all rich considerations for story material.
How will the disease change how people live? If the population of the world dropped by half in a short period of time, things would change. Settlements and cities would shrink or be abandoned. Labour shortages could cause problems, but also create a rise in opportunity for those lucky enough to survive.
How will the disease alter the power structures? Some groups will use every opportunity that comes their way. If a kingdom is weakened by plague, another might decide to invade (which could, amusingly, increase the spread of the disease). A nation or guild might decide that keeping the cure to themselves is the key to power. Essentially you need to decide what changes the disease will bring to institutions as well as to individuals.
How will fantastic elements interact with the disease? How does the disease interact with magic in your world. If wizards hold the only cure they might become very popular and very powerful, but also make enemies. What happens if the disease interacts or changes magic somehow? The possibilities here are endless, but you should consider what effects the plague will have on the more unique and unesual elements of your world as well.

The Shadow Wolf Saga: Blade Breaker 1.7

Follow the adventures of Ragnar Grimfang a Nordan exile, in my little serial.

Stabby

Blade Breaker 1.1

Blade Breaker 1.6

What separates a seasoned warrior, a hard hand as they say among my people, from a lesser fighter is the ability to recognize a call to action and to answer it without hesitation. A man who is merely perceptive will often see the same queues, but will rarely respond with the same celerity. A man who reacts quickly but lacks the judgement of a veteran, is easily lured by feints and other tricks, becoming a victim of his down swiftness. Among the Nordan, the second is the object of more derision; a man who overthinks is rarely a danger to others, while a jumpy man frequently misfires.

My ears caught the faintest sound of movement, almost lost amid the rush of air from the door closing behind me. No mere gutter rat this, only a skilled skulker could get so close. Instinctively, I knew someone was behind me and I pivoted on the balls of my feet, raising my hands to protect my vitals. My attacker shuffled, redirecting a blow that had been aimed at my throat into my shoulder. I grunted as the cold blade bit deep.

The reaction to pain is another element of a hard hand. Some people fear pain. Some people ignore pain. To people like myself pain is a gauge and a spur. It is a gauge because I have seen so much battle that the pain that comes from wounds, exertion, broken bones, and all kinds of fighting are as familiar as the smell of roses are to a Loragonian florist. I have a pretty good idea of how bad a wound is, short term, merely from the impact and the pain. As for the spur, well, nothing gets my adrenaline flowing like taking a good hit.

My fist thundered out, a hard right hook fit to kneecap a giant! sadly, only the air felt my wrath as my assailant ducked and came in low.  I caught the flash of light reflecting off of bright steel darting toward my groin, or more likely an artery in the leg. However, my assailant was a blue of colours, almost nauseating to look at. I concentrated on the blade/

My opponent was vastly swifter than I, possibly even ascended. However, reading their move allowed me to  defend adequately, stepping into the attack and making a grab for the blade hand. The assassin, twisted out of the way smoothly, raking the back of my hand with their blade. My leather gloves, tough wyvernhide, took away most of the sting.

I could see my opponent now. Lithe, but smaller than expected, possibly a woman. The assassin had some kind of scent mask on, conspicuous only in it’s lack of odour, as well as as suit shifting garb — clothing favoured by skulkers that acted both as camouflage and also confused the eye with bizarre patterns in combat. One hand held a Myrrhnese razor, a thin slice of metal that could slip through all but the best fitted armour plates on a thrust and yet sharp enough on the cut to  open a man’s throat with no more effort than a horse flicking its tail. Lovely little weapons, proof that not everything that comes from streets of Myrrhn is lacking in grace and refinement.

“Shadvarg!” I bellowed. whirling my cloak and reaching for my weapons. Most assassins are not fond of noise, especially those who are forced to attack during the day. My assailant lunged, seeming to blur. I twisted, trusting to the cloak to help obscure my movements. Nonetheless the assassin pricked my shoulder, sharp blade piercing the light mail I wore as force of habit. By now, however, my hands had found my weapons and I was longer defanged. I swung my pick low and my hammer high, hoping to draw the assassin’s attention away from the deadly spike with the descent of the heavy hammer. The assassin did not fall for it, instead trying for a lunge that would bury the their blade in my heart. I let it come, twisting slightly to avoid a fatal wound, ready to pounce. The assassin, eager for kill, took the bait. The razor bit my flesh, but did not end my life. My hammer connected with the assassins shoulder a moment later. Her weapon fell to the ground. A yelp, a woman’s voice, issued forth. I met her eyes and brought my pick in for the kill as she twisted away. The fight was mine.

Or so I thought.

Just before I could strike, I felt a powerful impact and slammed into the wall. A massive bolt, arbalest, buried itself in the stone beside me, dripping blood from where it had grazed me. I looked around wildly. The assassin recovered and sprinted away while I sought cover and silently wished that today had been a shield day for Ragnar. A card provided the safety that I needed. After a few tense moments I hear a scraping from the rooftops nearby as the unseen bowman left. I breathed a sigh of relief and took stock of my wounds.

All in all I felt that I acquitted myself well. The assassin was good, possibly exceptional, but I had risen to the occasion to fight through her initial attack and then nearly sealed her fate with a sacrifice lure. That she was working with a partner was unusual, especially since I expected it would have been smarter for the pair to shoot me as I came out of Git’s shop and then finish me while I was down. Understanding that would help me understand the attackers.

I grinned. At least I was near a place that sold healing salves.

 

True Detective: A Case for the Weird

“This is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men’s thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali; and my mind will bear for ever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with its beautiful stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth–a world which now trembles before the King In Yellow.”― Robert W. Chambers, The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

Hallucination?

Spoilers for True Detective

I don’t usually watch television. It does not engage me as a medium — I need to something a little more active to hold my attention. Perhaps this is because my three favourite past-times, reading/writing, tabletop gaming, and computer gaming all have a greater sense of involvement. Reading is surprisingly active — I must paint the scenes of the work using only the words the author gives me, directly engaging my imagination and often deeper thought processes. Gaming is by nature very active, requiring different types of input. My favourite games are, of course, those that I can think and dream while at work — making up a new army list, wondering what move to make next in building my virtual empire and so on.

Television, at least the television I grew up with, struck me as a fairly passive medium. Very few shows provoked thought — I might enjoy the emotional response, entertainment, or information I got from some TV shows, but little else.

True Detective reeled me back in.  Even before the weird became obvious, when they referenced the Robert Chambers’ King in Yellow and Ambrose Bierce’s Carcosa, strangeness was bubbling beneath the surface. In truth the wierd was present from that first full scene when Rust and Marty came to examine the body of Dora Lange. Subtle references to Lovecraft and other strangeness abounded, along with the symbols and ideas that ranged from ancient pagan to Nietzsche. Figuring out how these strange pieces figured in to a police procedural and imagining where they might lead engaged the part of my imagination that normally only gets a workout in my favoured activities.

In the end True Detective provided far more pieces than needed to finish the puzzle and it seemed that the finale ruled out any serious supernatural involvement. People that were hoping for the reveal of a full blown Lovecraftian monstrosity crawling out of the Louisiana swamp were crestfallen. I can understand. However, I found the ending satisfying enough, despite being there for the wierd. The growth of Rust and Marty, and their dogged pursuit of the case that changed their lives for worse and then for better was the real centerpiece of the show. Errol Childress was a horrific villain, even if you discount the supernatural, and the King in Yellow could be seen as an excellent metaphor for discouraging truth about the system of family connections that created and then hid and supported his villainy.

Still the wierd elements, from Rust’s philosophies to the references to eldritch horror, were what caught my attention with True Detective. These esoteric references caught my attention and I found myself wondering about the show in quiet moment and discussing theories with my girlfriend and workmates.

In the spirit of those enjoyable moments I will offer a case for elements of the supernatural in the final episode and how I hope the next season will play out.

The Father: At the beginning of the episode Errol is standing over what we later learn is the body of his father, tied down in a little cabin covered in names and other things. Given how long the Elder Childress has been dead, one wonders at the state of preservation of the body. Also, while we are safe to assume that Errol is crazy, we never really know why he is chatting with daddy and keeping his body. Just because dude is a crazy hillbilly psychopath, does not mean that he can’t speak to the dead.
The Son: Errol Childress is a wierd, perverse, and crazy villain. I love the writing here: Childress is a victim of his father and presumably the same cult that is pictured in the tape and yet transcends that victimization into a kind of supreme evil that defies pity or compassion. However there may be more to Childress than his just being a dangerous, well-connected killer. His strength seems verging on superhuman when he confronts Rust and Marty. He is able to lift a struggling Rust (who up until that point is the deadliest man in the series) with one hand. He is able to throw an axe with impressive accuracy and force even after being shot at close range. He is also pretty damned swift and sneaky inside of Carcosa. His almost inhuman strength and toughness lend credence to his claims of being on the verge of ascension.
That damned tape: The tape is creepy. We never get to see what is on the tape, but we know it is very very bad. An astute friend of mine compared the tape to the play talked about in Chamber’s the Yellow King, which drives men insane if they get to the second act.
The Cosmic Hallucination: Throughout the pursuit through Carcosa, Childress taunts Rust with the epithet ‘little priest’. This could be insanity or some sort of reference to Errol’s cult background. On the other hand Rust is a holy man in the purest sense of the word — he is a man who has visions. It is significant that his last vision is impressive and apocalyptic, and I am led to wonder if this is not a red herring but something else. It is significant that Marty is not around to discount this particular vision, which is far more impressive than the previous ones (and also not drug induced). Was Rust actually seeing something here? Another friend claimed that what Rust was witnessing was the power of the beginnings of Errol’s ascension, of which he was to be the last sacrifice.
The survival of Rust Cohle: So if you get a gut wound like that and spend a fair bit of time bleeding out in a hole, and are far away from any hospital you are likely going to die from blood loss. Rust said it himself “I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE,” — he did not even have the will to live, having been preparing himself to die since the previous episode at least. And yet he lived. It seems like a good case for the supernatural as well, and one that the writer takes care to underscore several times during the ending, with Marty even pronouncing Rust unkillable.

There certainly is a case for the wierd and supernatural left after the final episode of true detective. Errol Childress seemed to be a little more than a man in some ways, as did Rust Cohle when you think about it. It is subtle and open ended, which makes me think about it and keeps me interested. I would love to see more of the wierd in season two and to have some of my hunches confirmed. If one of the detectives has visions or something subtly similar, I will be really impressed.

Creepy, even if not Cthullu…

True Detective: A Case for the Wierd

“This is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men’s thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali; and my mind will bear for ever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with its beautiful stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth–a world which now trembles before the King In Yellow.”― Robert W. Chambers, The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

Hallucination?

Spoilers for True Detective

I don’t usually watch television. It does not engage me as a medium — I need to something a little more active to hold my attention. Perhaps this is because my three favourite past-times, reading/writing, tabletop gaming, and computer gaming all have a greater sense of involvement. Reading is surprisingly active — I must paint the scenes of the work using only the words the author gives me, directly engaging my imagination and often deeper thought processes. Gaming is by nature very active, requiring different types of input. My favourite games are, of course, those that I can think and dream while at work — making up a new army list, wondering what move to make next in building my virtual empire and so on.

Television, at least the television I grew up with, struck me as a fairly passive medium. Very few shows provoked thought — I might enjoy the emotional response, entertainment, or information I got from some TV shows, but little else.

True Detective reeled me back in.  Even before the weird became obvious, when they referenced the Robert Chambers’ King in Yellow and Ambrose Bierce’s Carcosa, strangeness was bubbling beneath the surface. In truth the wierd was present from that first full scene when Rust and Marty came to examine the body of Dora Lange. Subtle references to Lovecraft and other strangeness abounded, along with the symbols and ideas that ranged from ancient pagan to Nietzsche. Figuring out how these strange pieces figured in to a police procedural and imagining where they might lead engaged the part of my imagination that normally only gets a workout in my favoured activities.

In the end True Detective provided far more pieces than needed to finish the puzzle and it seemed that the finale ruled out any serious supernatural involvement. People that were hoping for the reveal of a full blown Lovecraftian monstrosity crawling out of the Louisiana swamp were crestfallen. I can understand. However, I found the ending satisfying enough, despite being there for the wierd. The growth of Rust and Marty, and their dogged pursuit of the case that changed their lives for worse and then for better was the real centerpiece of the show. Errol Childress was a horrific villain, even if you discount the supernatural, and the King in Yellow could be seen as an excellent metaphor for discouraging truth about the system of family connections that created and then hid and supported his villainy.

Still the wierd elements, from Rust’s philosophies to the references to eldritch horror, were what caught my attention with True Detective. These esoteric references caught my attention and I found myself wondering about the show in quiet moment and discussing theories with my girlfriend and workmates.

In the spirit of those enjoyable moments I will offer a case for elements of the supernatural in the final episode and how I hope the next season will play out.

The Father: At the beginning of the episode Errol is standing over what we later learn is the body of his father, tied down in a little cabin covered in names and other things. Given how long the Elder Childress has been dead, one wonders at the state of preservation of the body. Also, while we are safe to assume that Errol is crazy, we never really know why he is chatting with daddy and keeping his body. Just because dude is a crazy hillbilly psychopath, does not mean that he can’t speak to the dead.
The Son: Errol Childress is a wierd, perverse, and crazy villain. I love the writing here: Childress is a victim of his father and presumably the same cult that is pictured in the tape and yet transcends that victimization into a kind of supreme evil that defies pity or compassion. However there may be more to Childress than his just being a dangerous, well-connected killer. His strength seems verging on superhuman when he confronts Rust and Marty. He is able to lift a struggling Rust (who up until that point is the deadliest man in the series) with one hand. He is able to throw an axe with impressive accuracy and force even after being shot at close range. He is also pretty damned swift and sneaky inside of Carcosa. His almost inhuman strength and toughness lend credence to his claims of being on the verge of ascension.
That damned tape: The tape is creepy. We never get to see what is on the tape, but we know it is very very bad. An astute friend of mine compared the tape to the play talked about in Chamber’s the Yellow King, which drives men insane if they get to the second act.
The Cosmic Hallucination: Throughout the pursuit through Carcosa, Childress taunts Rust with the epithet ‘little priest’. This could be insanity or some sort of reference to Errol’s cult background. On the other hand Rust is a holy man in the purest sense of the word — he is a man who has visions. It is significant that his last vision is impressive and apocalyptic, and I am led to wonder if this is not a red herring but something else. It is significant that Marty is not around to discount this particular vision, which is far more impressive than the previous ones (and also not drug induced). Was Rust actually seeing something here? Another friend claimed that what Rust was witnessing was the power of the beginnings of Errol’s ascension, of which he was to be the last sacrifice.
The survival of Rust Cohle: So if you get a gut wound like that and spend a fair bit of time bleeding out in a hole, and are far away from any hospital you are likely going to die from blood loss. Rust said it himself “I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE,” — he did not even have the will to live, having been preparing himself to die since the previous episode at least. And yet he lived. It seems like a good case for the supernatural as well, and one that the writer takes care to underscore several times during the ending, with Marty even pronouncing Rust unkillable.

There certainly is a case for the wierd and supernatural left after the final episode of true detective. Errol Childress seemed to be a little more than a man in some ways, as did Rust Cohle when you think about it. It is subtle and open ended, which makes me think about it and keeps me interested. I would love to see more of the wierd in season two and to have some of my hunches confirmed. If one of the detectives has visions or something subtly similar, I will be really impressed.

Creepy, even if not Cthullu…

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: Blade Breaker 1.6

Long week, here we are again, late Thursday night, tired and melancholy — perfect for this:

Blade Breaker 1.1 (start here)

Blade Breaker 1.5 (last week’s episode)

Alchemy is magic that tries to masquerade as a science. Many magics, such as Artifice, are much more cunning in their guises, but none are sciences. Alchemy, in particular, lacks experiments with reproducible results.

I am no scientist, but it seems to me that if an alchemist writes down a recipe and leaves detailed instructions on how he creates a particular concoction, potions, or salve that another alchemist, or even a careful amateur should be able to create a concoction, potion, or salve with the same powers. This is not the case with true alchemy where the recipes are merely inspirational and only other alchemists have even a hope of creating the same effect. Certainly no amateur who does not have a spark of magic will never make them work. I suppose it is for the best though — if everyone could turn lead into gold, I would have to endure endless lectures about the declining value of gold from the merchants who frequent the girls.

The door to Git’s shop was open. I entered. The shop itself was made of stone and ceramic tiles. The shelves were full of bottles of all shapes and sizes in a rainbow of colours. A bored looking woman, pretty and perfumed, quickly stood and smiled as I entered the shop. Her hair reminded my of raven’s feathers, and I might have stared just a little too long.

“Welcome to Git’s Potion Emporium,” said the woman. “Can I help you with anything?”

“How about a love potion?” I asked, grinning.

“Certainly sir, we have several varieties…” she said.

“Which do you like?” I asked.

The clerk paused, pride warring with salesmanship. A woman like that would never want to admit to using such a thing, but she had to sell Git’s wares as hard as she could. I enjoyed the little ruse.

“Don’t be petty Ragnar,” Git’s familiar voice, low and steady for a goblin, drifted out of the back room. “I have enough trouble keeping good help without your jests. Besides, we both know that a potion that could convince a maiden to love to a man like you is beyond any alchemist in Myrrhn.”

“Who wants maidens?” I said, grinning at the clerk as she returned to her post. “I prefer someone who knows what she is doing.”

“I assume you have business, Ragnar?” said Git. “If you do, come back here so I don’t have to yell. If you don’t, come back after work and we can have a drink then.”

“Polite,” I noted. “Does that mean you have forgiven me for the Vestal Cult?”

“… no,” said Git flatly. “It means that I have discovered through long suffering trial and error, that the best way to get rid of you is to be polite and to the point.”

“Garm’s secret lore!” I exclaimed mockingly.

I squeezed through the door at the back of the shop. I had to concentrate on keeping my nose in check. Odours, both curious and offensive, demanded my attention. Glass vials full of bubbling liquids, decanters, and a spinning centrifuge. Git was grinding herbs at a mortar and pestle. The skin on his fingers was stained a deepre green. His long ears drooped, making him look old and tired. I sniffed — he was making an expensive dye; most alchemists make their money with mundane tasks, which are less demanding than the art.

“It has been some time, my friend,” I said, extending my hand.

Git clasped forearms with me, our eyes met briefly before he sat down and returned to his task. He looked sharp-minded, as ever.

“This about a case?” he asked.

“Yes, I am looking to pick your brain about a particular poison,” I said. I went on to describe the effects of the poison, as well as the way it smelled.

“Hmmmm,” said Git. “That sounds like a specialty item. Most people would just go for something lethal — even white spider venom would be less expensive than a poison that paralyzes that effectively and still allows feeling. Only Gregor the Grey and The Borik Sisters are skilled enough to make such a thing as well as unscrupulous enough to sell it.”

“Excellent,” I said. “That is a pretty short list.”

“You should be wary on this one, Ragnar,” said Git. “A poison like this costs a fortune. Your wolves can’t help you here if you anger someone with real power. They may not be able to kill you, but they can certainly bury you for a long, long time.”

“I do not fear death Git,” I said. “And the wolves are just at home hunting in city streets.”

“Well, I want no part of this one, Ragnar.” said Git. “I’m a legitimate businessman now. I cannot afford to anger the guilds or the merchant houses.”

“It is a shame, my friend,” I said. “We had some good times didn’t we.”

“We did,” said Git. “Some very good times, but also some bad ones, Ragnar.”

I left it at that. I lifted the conversation to lighter topics, ale and money, before taking my leave. I did not want thoughts of the past to cloud my judgement on a fine day like this. I still had to visit Gregor the Grey and The Borik Sisters.

Moments after I left Git’s shop it began to rain. I smiled. The rain was cold and pure, born of the northern winds.  It reminded me of home. It wiped away the foul smells of Burning Hill and Myrrhn in general and filled my ears with cheerful drumming. I let go of the unspoken sorrows of the past, the deaths and failures that lay between Git and I, and thought of home.

I almost didn’t notice the assassin.

Cities in Fantasy: Decay and Ruin

A ruined Toronto…

I just finished watching the final episode of True Detective (season 1, I hope they make more). I enjoyed it immensely, and felt it was a worthy end to a good series. I might write a review of it, but only after I have had some time to mull it over.

One of the artistic flourishes that I really enjoyed in True Detective were the amazing shots of decaying urban areas. This dovetails nicely with what I wanted to write about tonight, the use of decaying and ruined city-scapes in Fantasy.

As Fantasy broadens, branching out into regions far removed from its pastoral, feudalistic roots it is inevitable that it will cover urban themes. Some of the best writing in Fantasy these days including such diversity in tone as Jim Butcher, China Mieville, and Neil Gaiman.

I like the idea of using cities in Fantasy, and this includes ruined and decaying cities — cities that have been abandoned, are falling apart, that are trying to reclaim lost glory, or are slowly being overcome by nature themselves.

This is a separate idea from corrupt cities, a more common trope in pastoral Fantasy, where  all urban areas are seen as havens for moral corruption and generally a blight upon the world. If the first thing that pops into your mind when you think fantasy city, is thieves, then you are familiar with this

When I think of decaying cities, I think of urban areas where the sense of community has been fractured. Places where the will to keep the complex systems required to advance and grow a great urban area has been lost or subverted. This is something that we are certainly familiar with in western culture, where many of our cities have started to show infrastructure decay. Decaying cities make for a great atmosphere in a Fantasy novel — that tension of a civilization that is between renewal and ruin and the dynamics of the people who live with it.

Here are a couple of  examples of the use of decaying cities in Fantasy

Grundoone, the city under siege: This one was from a Fantachronica campaign. Grundoone was an old city, once the capital of a prosperous land. However, a great rent appeared in the earth, and all manner of foul creatures spilled forth. They ruined the land and attacked the city. Grundoone survived, partly because the citizens of the cities made a bargain with a cadre of Vampires to pay a blood tax in return for their assistance in beating back the war. The city, however, in constantly under siege, and over the years almost everything has been sacrificed in the name of creating a more defensible environment. Great villas have been replaced by narrow, orderly houses protected by immense walls and impressive watchtowers. Once welcoming gates are now defensive mazes, while farmers markets and bazaars have long since become armories and drill yards. Of course, the city survives partly because of the influx of crusading knights and partly because some people would much rather pay a tax in blood than in money (you know who you are!).
Urumquatal, the jungle-eaten city: Urumquatal is an ancient city that was once the heart of a great empire. History rolled on and Urumquatal lost its preeminence. It did not fall into ruin, however, and continues to survive to present day. The city is populous and bustling, but the outer wards are starting to give way to nature as the aggressive growths of the jungle encroach, eating old stone and overturning less popular statues, and the cobbles of roads that are rarely used these days. Rats and worse thrive in these places, giving the city a worse reputation than it deserves, something the current residents feel touchy about. They do their best to stave off the jungle, but Urumquatal is not quite important enough to regain its former splendor.

Ruined urban areas are also interesting settings. Pastoral Fantasy often has ancient ruins showcased as part of the idea that the past was somehow purer and more glorious than modern day, but urban fantasy can go far beyond that tired old trope. Ruined cities can act as a warning, a preview of the consequences of failure. Ruins can also acts as a place of gestation where the death of one civilization gives rise to another.

Here are a couple of examples of the use of ruined cities in Fantasy

Bogrut’s Nest, formerly Daigara: Bogrut led the sack of Daigara twenty years ago. As he was taking the city the great ogre chieftain noted the magnificence of the place and ordered that any human who could show their worth should be spared. This diminished the bloodbath somewhat, and provided the Ogres with a swath of highly skilled ‘helpers’. Daigara has truly been destroyed, looted, and despoiled. The great temple dome has been toppled so that Bogrut’s son could build himself a throne. The statues of the founders have been melted down to provide metals to equip the ogres with new armour and weapons. House and buildings have been demolished and rebuilt for new occupants, who have learned much from the dead city and are ready to show the world…
Glimmerlight: Hundreds of years ago Glimmerlight was once a massive city, powerful and populous. All of that changed in a single day — the eruption of a massive volcano buried the city in ash and mud. Few of the residents escaped. Glimmerlight now attracts monsters, who lair in the ruins, and adventurers who seek the treasures that still lie somewhere in its depths.  Gold, gems, trades goods, and many other objects wait for those who can find their way in through old sewers and tunnels built by previous expeditions. More importantly, the wise know that deep within Glimmerlight lies an important and well protected library containing magical lore that has long since been lost to the outside world….

Blade Breaker 1.5

The Shadow Wolf Sagas are a way of exercising my writing skills, particularly first drafting and first person POV.

Blade Breaker 1.1 — first part of the series.

Blade Breaker 1.4 – Last week’s chapter, in case you missed it.

Watch Sargent Murith did not look especially pleased to see me. I doubt she was unsettled by the sight of a man with a bloodied warhammer, standing over two corpses, grinning like a madman; the craven do not last long as as watch officers in this city.

“Hold right there,” said Murith, voice more resigned that commanding.

“Of course, officer,” I said. “I will be happy to cooperate.”

Murith directed her men to spread out and canvas the witnesses. As always her crew seemed better trained and diligent about their tasks than most watchmen. None of them even asked me for bribes. In the meantime I cleaned off my hammer and hooked it back to the back of my belt, moving slowly and carefully. After a moment Murith turned back to me.

“Ragnar Grimfang,” she said. “What is your explanation for this mess?”

“Well met, Watch Sargent Murith,” I responded. “I was on my way to the shops when these lads and two of their friends decided to rob me of my money and my life. I claim self-defence.”

“You have permits for those weapons?” she asked.

“You know I do, Murith,” I said. “They are on file with the watch, same as always. You working Burning Hill now?”

“I’m filling in for a friend,” said Murith, squatting down and examining my dead. “Wounded in the line of duty — buggers use poison on their knives over here, more often than not. I was just on my way to see if I could fine a few of the alchemists who supply them.”

“Tough to make that stick,” I said.

“Aye, but it will make some of them think twice,” said Murith. “You working a case?”

“Yes,” I answered. I saw a flash in her eyes. Watch Sargent Murith loves all aspects of the craft of investigation; this is why she is stuck as a petty Watch Sargent, as an investigator she would be far too good at actually solving crimes and she was not amenable to bribes. I often consulted Murith when I needed someone with a nose for investigation to challenge my ideas; the red-haired dwarf was as thorough and tenacious as she was observant. Occasionally Murith provided assistance in the field — she was a remarkable shot with her arbalest, as well as quiet, cautious, and not bound to jump at shadows. “I can’t let you in on this one Murith, it involves an assassination.”

Murith whistled “Been nice knowing you, Northman. Even you should know better than to stick your nose into guild business.”

“If fate has it that I will die, who am I to gainsay?” I said. Murith was born in Myrrhn, ran with the twilight docks gangs as youth, the assassin’s guild and the merchants houses were the gods of her youth.

“I thought you always said that you were fateless now that you have died once?” said Murith, frowning.

“It came to my lips without thinking,” I responded.

“Automatic?” said Murith. “Much like what you did to these guys. I hate to get on your case Ragnar, but even street rats have family; you could end up making serious enemies. A man of your skills could easily have disarmed them.”

“If we were in Nordan lands, I would make amends with their kin,” I said, leaving out the part where I felt that I thought I was doing the city a favour by ending them. “But we are not and such an action would be frowned upon here. And if I had not been the one to emerge from this alley, you might be collecting the corpse of their victim.”

Merith sighed. “You think this is random attack?”

“I’m not entirely convinced that it is,” I said. “But anyone who knows me enough to want to kill me would send more men.”

“I’d just drop lifebane in your mead,” said Merith.

“Ouch,” I said. “But an empty jest, we both know you can’t afford lifebane on a Watch Sargent’s salary, and last time I checked Murith Stouthand was not padding her vaults with bribes.”

“I might make an exception to be rid of a troublesome Nordan,” she growled. “Now off with you, my friend, before you set a bad example for my lads.”

I bowed to Merith, who flashed me a smile, before resuming my journey to find out a little about the poison that my assassin friend had used on Sapphire and her lover.

Burning Hill is organized even more haphazardly than the rest of Myrrhn, a mix of broad streets filled with gaudy and elegant shops that sell love potions and life extending creams; maze-like alleys that house the enraptured connoisseurs of the latest addictive creation of shady labs; and the specialty shops, the abodes of master alchemists who had earned reputations as specialists, and catered to select customers. Poison is not illegal in Myrrhn, but good poison, like the kind that  paralyze a giant-blooded Nordan while you slowly cut him to pieces are the province of the specialists. I had no idea who sold such things, but I did know a fellow who might.

Git Thunderpants was a useful goblin to know. He was a little on the crazy side, which meant he didn’t mind working with a man like me, but quite good at his trade. I occasionally hired him to analyze poisons and drugs, and once brought him on a little expedition in search of treasure in the undercity. Git’s place was a tall, thin stone house with a chimney that perpetually spewed strange smelling smoke into the air.

I have no doubt that Git was a major contributor to the famed ‘acid fog’ of the Burning Hills district.