A Grim Flavour

I haven't roleplayed in several months. In large part it was due to my health. But to a lesser extent boredom caused it.

You see I've been a storyteller my entire life, and the hardest part of being a good storyteller is to tell the stories that your audiance wants to hear. Too many storytellers don't do that. I have to limit myself to what my players can both handle (in terms of skill) and enjoy. My setting has a distinct flavour which I am very proud of. A dose of high fantasy, a touch of sci-fi, a few sprinkles of drama and intrigue. It reflects it's creators broad range of ideas as well as being a deeply fascinating mesh.

It would be unfair to say that I am bored of my world, or the ideas it represents, or the stories and characters therein. Closer to the truth would be to say I am bored with using the same tools, inspirations and general Mileu. I've added to my arsenal of storytelling almost non-stop for the last ten years. I've played in almost the same exact way for even longer then that. Its become a mold that stifles my creativity and bores me. I've been playing with an idea for a few months now. I've decided the time is right to gather some players and do it. I call it dreadspire.

It started with a simple image in my head. A row of battered bleary eyed heroes standing on a barren blasted landscape. Each looks with a combination of dread and awe upwards. It is wrong to call the dreadspire a tower, for towers are made of brick and morter. The dreadspire appears to be a giant ebon screw twisting itself into an empty sky. It's a marval of magical engineering; the spire itself breaches the ancient dimension of horrors, it appears to be made of whirling unspeakable darkness, but in truth it is the very fabric of reality twisted to new purpose.

It was an interesting idea, I had always intended to add more gothic elements to my setting but never had the time or inclination to follow them through. I took that inital interesting idea and melded it into my settings existing history. The tower was constructed by the 3rd apprentice of Zom who attempted to enslave the horrors of the otherworld. Being undead he was resistant to the effects of the horrors at first. But slowly it started to erode what remained of his sanity. With what remained of his wit he attempted to seal the breach between the two dimensions. Although partially successful the taint from that dimension has leaked into the countryside... a remote valley kingdom along the eastern border of Brenntor and Kokuran.

The tiny kingdom's armies are soom engulfed by lesser horrors and the crazed necromancers now escaped minions. It escapes the notice of the major powers completely. Mordathal has been sacked and the children of Taia greatly depleted. The knights of Brenntor and the Elves cannot leave the Worldseed unguarded and therefore cannot be of aid. Most of the other powers suffered heavy losses in the war of the sundered soul, the only two major players to remain unscathed were the demons of Kilrah and the Celestials of Sethror. Both had refused to venture troops to the mortal plane and it appears that trend would continue.

The temples to the gods are destroyed in this tiny country, the monasteries for monks, the wizards towers. The survivors are pushed back farther and farther. Heroes, adventurers, knights, sellswords and even the occasional supernatural rise up to fight the spreading corruption. Most are cut down or driven insane. Some become undead and others are twisted by the otherworld into soulless monsters.
Finally from the west comes a hope. The crusader Pell brings his army of undead hunters, with him are an order of Chronomancers who intend to seal the rift of the Dreadspire.

The genre of Gothic horror is famous for some elements of this situation. The powerlessness of the local government, the fall of heroes, corruption of even the most noble or powerful. The themes are plentiful. But what makes them interesting in the context of my setting is what I bring to bear against the unspeakable horrors. Often in Gothic horror the heroes are portrayed as being powerless against the old ones except for a bit of rare lore or a powerful artifact. In my setting magic is plentiful and replaces technology in many regards. The old ones are powerful but they are they are not indestructible. Mortals have the power to combat them. The breach can be repaired by the Eternal Order who watches over the health of time and space. The undead are not so fearsome to Pell's crusaders who have fought them for two decades.

Also one thing makes my Gothic horror sub-setting better then most others. No werewolves fighting vampires. Seriously. We get it. Cut it out with the vamps v wolves thing.

Clutter

Today I was bored.

I’ve had this problem my whole life; I have unwatched DVDs on my shelf, unfinished games for every console I own, stacks of books to read and dozens of projects that require urgent attention.

So I spent the first half of my only day off this week doing completely nothing. After some delicious café rio I went on a shopping trip and got the next book in “the age of discovery” series. After that I tried to play some La Pucelle on my PS2.

The problem I have with La Pucelle is I’ve thrust deeply into the game without much leveling or taking time to build my team. It’s gotten to the point where I am vastly under leveled and the irony therein is the crafty tactics and skillful use of purification tiles I’ve been using doesn’t grant any XP. So the game is actually punishing me for playing well. If I played the game like a generic hack ‘n slash romp I would be level 18 instead of 12 and not frustrated with the sudden maddening increase in game difficulty. It’s gotten so bad that unless I level I cannot progress any further in the game.So rather then the much hating task of leveling I turned my attention to more then two years worth of paper backlog.

Every time I design something I write it down, every time I hear something or feel something I try to write it down, every interesting thought, dream and experience gets written down. Throw that on top of everything I write professionally, scholastically or for practice and it adds up. Then add on medical paperwork, bills, magazines, work requests and correspondence that accumulated while I was sick and during my move. To make matters worse the vast majority of it is unsorted or roughly sorted.

My mind is surprisingly orderly, with thoughts that run in logically sorted paths or trees. Often I’m able to handle large abstract concepts by building them out of smaller concepts. I might have a hard time remembering a specific fact or concept but I can “backtrack” and find it with a few moments of thought. The way I organize my files mirrors those thoughts; and although it makes perfect sense to me almost nobody else can understand it. My files are sorted first by what category of my life they go into. Personal, professional or social; then they are sorted by genre, then by Genre again.

For example I have files on role-playing: I have file for 1st. 2nd and 3rd edition D&D, Shadowrun, Whitewolf, Paranoia, various homebrew’s, JRAS, GURPS, Palladium and BESM. Then I take it a step further and isolate the game folders by setting; in my Drakkor setting alone I have 8 folders. I also have folders for extra character sheets (Shadowrun, D&D 2nd and 3rd edition and Whitewolf specifically.) and future character concepts.

The idea of organizing them alphabetically, chronologically or randomly doesn’t make sense to me. Instead everything is ordered according to use. 3rd Edition Drakkor stuff is in the front, Palladium and JRAS is in the back.

Thankfully my formal writing, research, design and role-playing is formatted and sorted pretty well. The big problem is what I call scraps.Scraps are anything I start to write and give up; scraps are half or fully formed ideas that I write down and stuff into my pocket. Scraps are interesting designs that I scribble on the back of a receipt while I’m working or driving. I have unsorted scraps from as far back as high school. Many of them were the genesis of ideas that later became thesis papers, stories, character/class designs or philosophical musings. Each layer reveals a very orderly progression of my natural thinking. To see those little seedlings of ideas on paper touches me in a strange way: I can really see my mind at work in microcosm.

It has however added up to the point where I have dozens of pages of rewritten scraps and only a fraction of my way into that epic pile of ideas. Add to that old dance pictures, playing cards, recipes, awards, phone numbers from long forgotten girls, manuals for video games and other odds and ends that have ended up in my oversized box of scraps.

This is both a task that is both complex and inane. When it is done I will have a database of my thought processes stretching back into the formative era of my career; both as a game designer and a writer.

Two Dreams and a thoughtful wtf

In the course of a life you experience moments of spiritual and religious awakening. Moments of precisence that allow you to awaken for a moment to the possibilities of the universe beyond what you are at that second. Each should be prized, cherished, reflected upon and measured. One should also share in that wisdom and insight, So here are 3 events that taken apart don't mean much. When you take them together it reveals a different insight into both my mind and what I am beginning to see as the truth of the world.


Event One:

I had a dream last night. This is the first lucid dream I've had in two weeks.
I was walking along a beach with several shallow sandbars in the water beside me. I sat in the sand and watched the water flow in and out of the narrow passages such.
It takes me some time to realize I am asleep because I am sick and not feeling well. Also my emotional energy has been taxed as of late. I watch the water and feel calm and peaceful.
Farther down the beach I see someone walking toward me, it occurs to me that he is Serros the grey elf Knight in my novel. (Keep in mind if it wasn't Serros before he became Serros when I thought that. I'm not sure what kind of Kantian stunt I pulled there.) Since nobody alive has read my novel I'll tell you what Serros looks like. His skin, eyes and clothes are a smooty almost rocklike grey. His hair is a lighter shade of grey and he wears a suit of loose fitting chainmail over his generic brown tunic and trousers. He carries a runed longsword and Runed Armlets on each arm. The hair on his left is drawn into a ponytail that falls over his left shoulder and the hair on his right is shorter and unkempt.

Serros walks byside me and sits. Together we both stare out into the sea. Creator and creation.
I never had a voice for Serros in my head. But I do now. His voice is forceful, measured and somehow soothing... like he speaks of things as certain. He is a man who knows his destiny and isn't afraid of it. He tells me about the properties of the water and the geography of this land. (Sea of Mud on the western side of the ithamus of Solthus. South of the starting point of my second adventure series... for those curious.) I ask him about the battles he fought and the people he knew. I knew the answers of course. I wrote them. After awhile I stopped and just looked out at the sea again. After some time he pulled out his sword and laid it on the sand.
I never named the sword. I don't think I will now actually. But in my mind it has always been etched with spidery elven runes. It felt cold in my hands when I touched it. Cold and wet.

"It's a beautiful dream to see this firsthand" I told him.
"Are you certain it's a dream?" he asked me.
"I am. When I awake it will disappear." I replied to him sadly.
"And when you die will that disappear too?"
I was stunned by his arguement for a moment. It was true that when I died there would be no proof reality would exist for me anymore. I may believe in an afterlife and extended reality but my perception has no proof.
"Then the dream is real?" I switched positions on him. Something in me sought to look deeper.
"It's real right now, and when you write it becomes real to those who read it. You create reality when you change perception of reality." Serros replied it with ease.
"Then why wake up? Why not stay in this dream forever?" I taunted him now. He was after all my creation and dwelling within my mind.
"Why not indeed. Your not awake in either reality. Your mind and spirit are elsewhere. You live a life of distraction." A creation of my imagination told me in a dream that I was asleeep. Whats more he told me that I was distracted when I was awake. This ranks on odd things that have happened to me.

I shifted uncomfortably in the wet sand.
"I'm distracted?" I finally replied with a dash of uncertainty.
"When you wander off the path so much it is bound to happen." he challenged me again.
I fidgeted around the sand alittle. I knew what he was saying. It's words were not the words of Serros the knight but my words in his mouth. I started to draw in the sand now. I drew little rivers and lakes with my finger and watched the water fill them first... then overfill and splash against my feet.

"When I battle myself there are no winners, only the constant weakening of my very soul."
I do not know which of us said it. But I remember it from my journal when I was in Detroit I wrote it.
"You made us and in turn we make you. Creation as an act is perfect in it's symmentry."
I watched the water more closely now.
"There are no fish in this sea." It wasn't a question but a statement.
"No. You didn't make any." My creation replied.
"It makes me appreciate the attention to detail god possesses." I countered him.
I had hoped for a response but he had none. I suppose I didn't have a response either.
There was one more thing I had to know.

"When I come to my dreams I fight a dark man. I have fought him my entire life. Who is he?"
Serros did not answer right away. Red began to pour onto the beach and over us. The sun began it's slow descent behind the mountains of the far away barrierlands.
"He is what you say. A dark man."
"Listen..." I began to lecture; but when I turned to point his eyes were filled with resolve.
"You faced your waking nightmare and won. He only has power in your dreams now."
I think at this point I started to cry alittle. I'm not certain.
I realized then that my dreams were nothing more then a memory given form. Serros did not exist and neither did the Dark Man. Both existed within my mind, this is what he wanted to show me. (Which in some twisted way I was trying to show myself.)

"Distracted?" I asked once more. Certain that our time was running short.
"The children of Genna are called Shadowlanders. They exist only to destroy and return the universe to the void." He sounded more like Serros now. The Knight who swore vengence against them...
"I made them... like that." I didn't understand the endgame. At this point I was lost.
"They are men of shadow. Creatures of your nightmares. They mimic life to destroy it."
I still didn't understand his point.
"Fight them, you have fought them before."

At this point I start to wake slightly. I can hear my birds in the other room calling. I'm so tired and fevered that I huddle in my blankets and return to my crazed half-dream.


Event Two:

The walls of Brenntor exist perfectly in my minds eye. The elaborate sluice at the top of mount Brial and the twisting magestic white marble walls guarding the city. It is here that Serros lays down his life to avenge his race. At the walls he cries in elven: "This day I come for you. Men of Shadow. Children of Genna. Twisted Souls who seek the peace of death." He raises his sword in the air and opens all the gates of the city. The shadowlanders pour into the first two lines. The walls stand firmly as black creatures of all shapes and sizes skitter, crawl, ooze and climb them. With a signal Serros lets loose the water flushing out the first wave of attackers. The water burning their bodies like acid. The first row of knights opens and riders pour out like the sluices water... the shadowlanders are forced back. and the battle for the city begins.

A have played out this battle a hundred different ways. With different commanders, different armies defending it, different types of shadowlanders attacking and vastly different tactics. It is my own personal mind game. It's useful because you have to remember a shadowlander is much stronger then a human, if he kills you then there is a chance you become a shadowlander too.
They are resistant to magic and weapons not of high quality. The more powerful shadowlanders can fly, control the weather, shapeshift, burrow, consume the souls of the departed, cloak themselves in darkness and rain down putrid death. For every defense there is a counter. For every counter there is a new defense. It starts a cycle that never ends.

In my dream I watched the walls with an almost idle curosity. The sluice was deployed too early and Knights of Brenntor don't use calvery. Furthermore a calvery attack is suicide because most shadowlanders are too fast to be caught in it. They are wall fighters and they misused their advantage at the start. The shadowlanders countered hard; the horsebound knights were thrown and trampled under the blackened horde.

"Serros! That was a vanity attack. Pull your men into a defensive formation." I called to the knights leader.
He signaled roughly to his men who pulled themselves in a more effective triangle formation just as the wave of black formless bodies struck. They poured to each side of the triangle and were divided.
"Serros! Tell them to charge. You can split them.!"
Serros did not hear or heed my call. He stood in the enter of his men watching the enemy struggle with his front ranks.
"Serros!" I called him over and over.
The knights unity began to breakdown. They fell into small units and engaged skirmish tactics. The towers began to rain arrows down onto the battlefield. Serros and his core of knights advanced on the horde. I watched from the wall as he waded into a hopeless battle.

For a brief second I saw him on the beach with the sunset spilling down on him.
"Why!" I called out to him.
He drew his sword and charged strait into the writhing mass of darkness. He didn't flinch or waiver as the shadows overcame him.
I felt an anguish fill me. I drew my sword smoothly. Perfectly. Like water rolling across a beach. It was not raging river (Which would've been more appropriate. but whatever. I can't ask for perfection from a dream) but Gaki Yuki; my katana that I actually own.
The small units held by the wall, the arrows slowed the dark hordes awful advance.

"Rally!" I called to the men-at-arms.
The knights milled about confused. A few stragglers fell before the incoming horde.
I raised my sword high above my head. A technique that is both amazingly stupid and symbolic.
"RALLY!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
The knights close to me ran to my side, more and more saw this and ran to me.
"Hold this door." I pointed to the portculis behind me.
The horde grew closer. My instinct was to do as Serros had and charge them.
I felt bloodlust in my arms, I yearned to battle them.
"FIGHT!" I screamed at the top of my lungs once more. My sword slid down into a standard fighting style. The horde charged into us but faltered. I slashed at them with unnatural ferocity. After a minute I realized we were being pushed backwards.
I didn't issue any orders, nor did I speak. But the door behind us opened and we fell back into it.

(Also of note Holley tried to wake me and almost got punched. Right about here.)
The dream followed this line of thought for awhile. Until I awoke confused, wracked with fever and ill.

Event 3: "aka the thoughtful WTF"

Following the rather disturbing events of the night I decide to delve into the truth of the matter.
I sat and thought deeply and thoughtful about the events of the night previous.

For starters. Serros charged because of his emotions not because of his sense of logic or leadership. It was a stupid move that felt right. It satisfied his need for revenge but didn't accomplish anything. That is something I myself am more then guilty of especially in recent weeks.

The shadowlanders are extensions of the dark man. The dark man is my nightmare. He is the reality that I fear when I am awake or asleep. I fight him over and over in my dreams but he returns. He returns because I need him to return. I need to fight him. Just like I need to fight the battle of Brenntor over and over again. It is my expression of a nightmare that lingers just behind the fringe of my conscious mind.

My nightmare began a reality when I became sick. Almost magically I managed to defeat both the dark man and the infection/pain. The link between the two existed (Either because I imagined it or because it was so.) and when one was defeated the other fell as well. Now a memory it haunts me as only a memory can.

Serros is one of my overlooked characters, I have never used him in roleplaying. He doesn't have an extensive backstory or history. Aside from his plot value in setting up the first and second novel of my series I don't have a reason for him to exist. Yet when my dreams try to tell me something they send Serros. Why I am not entirely certain.

He is right. I have been sleeping awake. Distracted like when one goes to the dentist. You think about everything except the the dentist to take your mind away from the pain and discomfort.
Life is full of pain and discomfort but it isn't a trip to the dentist. I feel like there is a fog that has hung over me. It isn't gone but I am aware of it now. It cannot last long.

Some people have perceived that who I am is defined that shadow man. They define me by the nightmare I fought and the measures I took when I stood against it. Perhaps it was a despertate fatalistic push that put me in this mindset. But I am not a monster, I have looked into the void and into the darkness. I felt the tug on my soul and the desire to give in. To become what everyone thought I was already. A liar. Cruel, manupliative, hollow and vain. I did not walk away unscathed and I did not walk away with a happy disposition. But I did walk away.

Most of the people I hurt and the relationships I destroyed have been repaired. There are holdouts that I can do nothing about. There are situations that plagued me because I was uncertain of my course and path. My emotional and spiritual health is improving by leaps and bounds. It is a mixed bag and an exciting and difficult challenge for me: The last of this dark chapter of my life. When I finish writing it I wonder... will the next chapter be one of despair? Will it be filled with even greater suffering? Will it be filled with the challenge of love? The challenge of new enemies? New rivals? Will I finally uncover the deeper meaning that my life hints at? Perhaps like all good stories it will have many elements: A dark tale of love and heroism ending in tragic loss of the hero.

I'm actually kind of tired of that story. I'm sort of itching for a happily ever after. I want the hero to live and thrive. I want him to charge to the aid of another instead of fending off his own crushing problems. I guess one of the measures of a true storyteller is if he can tell different kinds of stories. I hope I can.