Sworded Tales

Broken Iris

Excerpt from the journal of Iris Craven, 18-Aug-2009:

I exist across realities.

There’s really no better way to explain it, as best as I can understand, and believe me, I have front row seats.

When the portal flared to life, the world just…shattered.  As I flew backward through the air, something visceral broke loose in my mind’s eye.  I was suddenly inside a house of mirrors, but all of my reflections were different somehow, unique.  Infinite variations of myself, nested within a single instant.

But I was the only one screaming. Continue reading

In the whispering glow of the nearby fireplace, Deadspring’s swift and surefire fingers hovered over one of her rooks, drumming a chaotic dance against the calloused pads of her thumb.  Her eyes flicked to her king and back, as the spidery shadow of her hand danced in reflective harmony amidst the other chess pieces scattered about the board.  For several long moments the choreographed duet continued, until the heroine’s hunched form finally sat erect once more, digits now moving to her face and ceaselessly fluttering at her lips while she pondered.

From a semi-reclined state on the opposing leather sofa, Dakota Sunrise lifted her head slightly and peered out from under her seasoned fedora.  One eye crept open momentarily to visualize the status of the game before sliding closed again, her head lolling down in quick succession.  The contented sigh which followed, elicited solely by the delightfully sedate ambiance, was mistaken by her counterpart as an indicator of impatience.

“Yes, yes.  I know.  I know,” Deadspring chattered, hunkering forward over the table once more, “Move, move already.” Continue reading

What would heroism be without villainy to serve as foil?  The signature characters in City of Villains resonated with me more than their do-gooding counterparts.  Ghost Widow especially, but I have a soft spot for the strong female lead.  So no surprise there.  Heroes break the laws of physics.  Villains just break laws.  The primal appeal of walking the dark side is often reflected in the evil-doers I chose to play.

Widow Palm

With this open handed striking technique, the masters of Widow Palm are able to convey such concussive force, that they can liquefy internal organs with a single impact.  Primarily an art directed against a single target, the art was largely taught to the practitioners of Ninjitsu and those who specialized in assassination.

Origins of the art have been lost to the combination of secrecy and the passage of time, though the naming of the technique is said to be rooted in the number of husbands that were dispatched by the ruthless fighting style.

Speed Load

“Wanna see that again?” the thin figure chuckled menacingly. Continue reading

“I cannot die,” Gilgallon said to him, her words tinged with pleading.  One of the girl’s delicate hands slid up the unyielding stone nearby, her chill grip seeking to ground her belief by latching on to something familiar.  For a few desolate moments, nothingness was all she encountered.  Then their bony fingers met, hands joining comfortably as their thumbs wrapped around each other in an affectionate embrace.

“I know, my dear,” the man known as Valentine whispered delicately into her mind.  The skeletal mask which gazed down upon the recumbent heroine conveyed no sympathy, no love, only the eternal rictus which was etched into its flesh from millennia past.  How anyone could find solace in the grim spectacle was truly a mystery, but Valentine’s presence seemed to put Gilgallon at ease, if only for the moment.

“Why must I sleep here?” she asked, each word puffing from her lips in a dense plume of fog.  The heat had long been sucked from the surrounding area, and the corresponding energy swirled violently in the cobalt blue of Gilgallon’s eyes.  Eyes that momentarily glistened with a thin sheen of moisture.  In an instant, those pools glazed over into frozen lenses. Continue reading

Sharrock

“Our primal instincts are what has allowed us to survive this far.  Suppress them long enough, and you will evolve into extinction.”

Sharrock struggles against civilized suffocation as she wreaks her own special brand of havoc across Paragon City.  Her strong moral compass guides her in her hunt against the seditious predators which abound, but her ferocity often paints her in a poor light in the public eye.

Every dawn brings with it new challenges for this warrior who sees herself as the next step in the evolutionary ladder.

Prismatic Hugh

“The rainbow is the real treasure.  There is no pot of gold.”  –Prismatic Hugh Continue reading

City of Heroes was my first foray into MMOs.  Seven years is a long time to participate in any endeavor, remarkably more so for a genre as transient as computer gaming.  Every minute was worth it, and I have met some of the most amazing spirits this species can put forth.

I’ve been ruminating around in old files lately when I came across a compilation of character background blurbs.  I’m going to share a few from time to time, both to honor them and to help show how those seven years in virtual spandex shaped the core themes of my creative engine.

Tara Volts

“I eat batteries.  So what?” the woman formerly known as Tara Hodge challenged, “Don’ look at me like that.  We all have our little quirks now, don’ we?”

Tara accidentally ate her first battery at the age of six.  Instead of the battery passing though, the young girl -digested- it.  She didn’t realize her ability to convert the stored energies into a more active form until later.  As a teenager, she swallowed a triple-A battery on a dare and was surprised at the levels of increased energy she experienced afterward.

Tara’s dabbling eventually turned into a full blown diet, and she now finds herself with huge surpluses of energy which she expends to right injustices.

“I consider eatin’ them old batteries recyclin’, and I like to–” she demurred, stifling an electrically charged belch, “–do my part.  Bustin’ heads is just a bonus.”

Spin

We all get our spin on the big wheel of life.  Some just get to ride a little bit longer than others.

How does one define immortality?  Through lineage?  Corporeal existence?  Maybe spiritual achievement?  I guess I’m going to get to find out, one way or the other.  You see, as soon as I was fused together from two existing souls, I reached a pinnacle of sorts.  A static level of existence that hasn’t changed in the years since I joined.

No matter what happens, I always come back to this.  And truthfully, I’m sick to death of it.  I don’t know if I can stay sane forever.  So in the meantime, I’m looking for a way to stop this endless merry-go-round…

Mother Slug

“I deal in truth and lead.”  –Mother Slug

Mother Slug’s arrival was heralded by the screeching of metal and the echoing reports of gunfire.  Careening out of an Atlas Park tunnel on a smoldering monstrocycle, one clip of a passing SUV sent rider and steed skittering across the pavement.  The metallic mount exploded into glittering fragments against a nearby cement pylon, and after a few seconds of road rash, Mother Slug rolled to her knees.

Two polished hand cannons extended from her knobby hands back the way she’d come, barrels still smoking from recent discharge.  The revolvers all but hummed in the brilliant daylight, but stayed level and steady for several long heartbeats.  Narrow eyes scanned thoroughly before she rose, first one gun, and then the other, dancing into worn holsters on her hips.

From that day forth, Mother Slug walked Paragon City with her unique brand of metal and machinery, serving justice to the lawless wherever she saw fit.

When I’m not dipping into sword & sorcery, you will find my writing laced with spandex and superpowers.  I grew up on comic books as well, long before they exploded into the multi-branching, crossover, graphic novel genre they are today.  I fondly remember subscriptions and getting my comics in the mail.  Those protective brown sleeves were a child’s delight peeking from the mailbox, and woe be to any postman who delivered one damaged!

A lot of comics came into our home, and many of them are still sequestered safely in my attic.  The Avengers, Captain America, Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, Spider Man, Thor and the X-Men were but a few of the titles that painted bold splashes of color across my youth.  As you can see, we were a Marvel household.  DC, not so much.  While enjoyable enough adventures, my brother and I shared those Marvel titles, common ground within our different approaches to growing up.

The comics my younger self sought out as personal preference were among those less traveled, Moon Knight, ROM, Warlord and the like.  The two primary characters I enjoyed were Conan and his line of comics, Savage Sword of Conan, Conan the Barbarian & King Conan/Conan the King (fantasy, go figure), and then there was my number one guy, Iron Fist.  The former taught me about honor and bloodshed and boobs and the latter about survival and spiritual balance and ninjas.  Danny Rand, a.k.a. Iron Fist, could do no wrong, and I have tremendous, musty memories of scouring comic book shops and flea markets for any missing issues for my collection.

As my tastes developed, I gravitated toward the likes of Ghost Rider, The Punisher and Wolverine, those figures that embodied vigilantism more than classic superheroic behavior.  Teenage rebellion at its finest it was!  My initial plunge into superheroic roleplaying was molded after these questionable characters who walked a fine line with the law, and I was glad to lance that particular boil in my twenties.

While the influence of all of these elements can be found throughout my creative forays, they ebb and flow with the tides of emotion and the temperance of age.  There will be vengeance and justice.  There will be honor and deception.  There will be fantasy, and there will be spandex.  Through the decades and all the multitude of comics though, I find myself always coming back to Iron Fist.

He is simply the shit.

I killed 5.8 billion people.  No small feat to be sure, and the guilt plays hell on your psyche.  Then I was given the opportunity to save them, and I took it.  I was from the future, until I made the choice to travel back in time.  My name is, was, Levi Deveron, but most folks now simply know me as Slipstream.  This is my story. Continue reading

Our unique muse pulls inspiration from equally singular perception.  Never dismiss your own viewpoint as anything less than the source of information it represents.  No one perceives the world as you do, and never grant anyone the power to disregard what hearkens to your senses.

Below are five different perceptions of the same scene.  Who is to say which is the most poignant?

Sisters of the Blade

Dakota

I saw the rage burning in Sue’s eyes long before tonight.  All of us had suffered with the Puño investigation, and the weeks of pursuit had added grueling hours onto already frayed nerves.  I had asked a few of the sisters to commiserate with Sue as well, probing for the problem I could smell boiling under the surface.  No true resolution was reached, but I had hoped the therapy would soften the edges of her anger.

Now this.  I tried to reach Puño before her, but she was always one of the quickest in our tactical simulations. Continue reading

Gretchen quirked an eyebrow at Donny as he stood there smiling with his hammer.  He had sprinted over from next door a few minutes earlier, all pasty skin and giant mop of platinum blond hair.

“Cap busting?” Gretchen asked, “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Right, right, I got that,” Donny said, “You see any guns?”  He raised his arms and spun.

Gretchen stepped back, avoiding the hammer claw arcing her way at throat height.  Her face dissolved into a frown. Continue reading