Sworded Tales

The smell of death is singularly memorable.  We’re not talking the pungent after waft of roadkill happened upon some days gone by.  Nor are we deluding ourselves with fresh spilt blood uncorked from behind the crosshairs of a rifle.  Even the specific reek of cancer devouring from within doesn’t truly hit the mark.  No, I’m referring to death that stalks, the kind that has teeth and that isn’t afraid to use them.  I would go so far as to say that encountering that particular stench is scarring and haunting in the extreme.

For all the naysayers of the world, I invite you to work the chute for a few days, and then see if you can ever sleep in the open air again. Continue reading

Upon reaching the logging station, Gerard found himself confronted with a Human, a Dwarf and one of the most beautiful Halflings he had ever had the curse of laying eyes upon.  A band of adventurers by claim, the trio needed to make haste across the north ridge of the sallow wastes toward the Goblin kingdoms to the east.  Important business awaited them amidst the green skins, and Gerard was none too concerned with what those affairs were.  He was a simple lad, and clear cut in his ways and means to achieving the soul satisfaction which allowed him his freeborn beliefs.

The journey began as harmless as any would.  Several steps onto a well worn path, followed by several more along a less traveled way until they found themselves deep within the unforgiving thickets of the bayberry brush barrens.  The two Halflings had passed the time in their native tongue, Gerard relishing the opportunity to again hear the buoyant cadence of his birth people.  They discussed matters of no real import, content in the simple shared heritage and bloodline that bound them closer than either would openly admit to.  She professed some talents with the arcane arts and although never really having been exposed to any of the finer conjurations of magic, Gerard was enthralled enough to ask a few poignant questions and to make some relative observations with regards to his own understanding of things magical or mundane.  The first several days of their journey passed with blinding ferocity, and Gerard was beginning to dread the remorse he would experience when they’re time together would come to an end. Continue reading

Brin Stolsom was born to a seafaring family along the western coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars in the year DR 1750.  Raised in a salty, transient household with little paternal influence, Brin looked to her two older brothers as the strong father figures needed to develop a healthy identity. Brin’s father, Caleb Stolsom, spent a great deal of his time at sea, and her mother, Alina, had her hands amply full caring for the six Stolsom children during Caleb’s absences.

Brin’s older brothers, Caleb and Ethen, were influenced away from the mariner’s life by their mother, but managed to assuage their seafaring genes by working for a merchant shipping business that ran regular transports across the sea.  In time, they were beckoned by the lucrative call of the adventurer’s life found in Raven’s Bluff.  It was only a few short months after their first wayward adventurers that the brothers disappeared while questing near the Dragon Falls.

The entire Stolsom family shattered.  Continue reading

A snorting chuckle followed from Cyric’s throat.  Head lolling back and forth, he shook with the indignity of his current imprisonment.  Thinking his rage had vanished some unknown number of days earlier, Cyric was pleasantly surprised to sense the return of the reddest of his emotions.  The rage blossomed in him anew, reborn through simple utterance of his now fruitless cause.

The feminine enigma above him leaned a few inches closer, nostrils flaring as she inhaled and released the breath with a delicious hum.  The purring vibration in her gullet gathered the humid moisture collected between her breasts and caused a single drop to roll down her rich flesh.  The crystalline liquid fell from her inverted form and splashed on Cyric’s cheek and chin.  He recoiled from the searing touch of the droplet with a shocked, feral grunt, as though acid had been dripped onto his already feverish skin.  The pain which was invoked shattered the illusion of her insubstantiality.

“What are you?” Cyric whispered through clenched teeth.

“I am your deliverer,” the woman replied smoothly, with no hint of sympathy. Continue reading

Lillian Djorn was born in the frosty coastal town of Neverwinter along the Sword Coast of Faerun to a moderately wealthy wizard and his mistress.  Her father, Halmodar Zorath, was an arcane researcher for a small faction of a rather large wizard’s guild based in Waterdeep, who was enthralled with his work to an almost unhealthy level.  Jidae Djorn, Lillian’s mother, was a simple farm girl from a local family who had been sent to serve as a house maid to the group of researchers.  Were it not for the domestic ministrations of Jidae, Halmodar would have likely starved himself into unconsciousness with his work.  Their years of shared proximity and time eventually developed into a symbiotic form of love that would occasionally include sharing of the flesh when Halmodar was able to tear himself away from his studies. 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.

Jesus Ramirez cupped the aged circular thermometer in his hand with a clawed fervor that bespoke of a feral rage slowly subsiding.  Tiny cuts along the lengths of his knobby fingers gave a rich red hue to the brushed silver of the thermometer’s worn case.  Droplets rained unnoticed from the underside of his hand as he continued to stare, disbelieving the gauge within the chunk of metal.  The glass face of the temperature meter had cracked in two places, long slivers symbolizing the fragile existence of the balance within the now defunct technology.

Moments before, the tiny red pointer had been clearly visible through the unmarred glass cover, dancing wickedly within the wedge of red numbers along the calibrated length of the thermometer.  That was before First Corpsman Maintenance Class Ramirez had shrieked in disbelieving rage and snapped the archaic dial clean off, tearing it from its decades old housing with a wrenching twist, ripping loose the thin colored wiring and splintering the glassy surface.    Continue reading

A message had been delivered to Gerard by one of the more nimble forest folk in the area.  He often smiled as Chitter Tick bounded erratically from side to side, waiting for him to finish the brief note and offer a response.  On more than one occasion, the small chigger had scolded the Ranger for dallying over a missive that was clearly marked as urgent, perhaps even life threatening.  Nothing that was issued by the Forest Warden’s Guild was ever that critical, and if it were, there was a great certainty that it would be sent along its journey by some means of aviation, not the bounding skittering of a Chitter Tick.  Still, Gerard took his work seriously, and upon receiving the message to rendezvous at a logging station a half day’s travel to the southwest, he sent his affirmation along with the Tick and began gathering his supplies in preparation for the journey. Continue reading

Empires rise and fall.  Histories are recorded and forgotten.  Even the gods themselves wax and wane with the passing of the Ages.  What does one do when faced with the realization that the time of their species has come and gone?  That they are in fact only seeking footholds upon the slippery slope of extinction which looms all too near?  One simple precept had been engrained into a rather nondescript young Dragonborn hatchling which would unwittingly serve to mold the entire path of his destiny.

All living things perish.  What matters most is how. Continue reading

Cyric was sure that his arm was only moments away from popping out of the swollen socket of his shoulder.  The muscles had long been numb from the constant strain of so much weight pulling on the tissue.  The tendons and ligaments had stretched to unnatural limits, and he wasn’t sure whether any of the damage being done was going to be permanent.

Not that it mattered.

He looked up at his blood encrusted wrist, flexing the hand and fingers against the manacle that was firmly shackled there.  No pain reached his brain, but the sensation of mangled flesh pulling and scraping along the metal bands was enough to ignite the anger within him anew.  The chain which stretched upward away from his hand was thickly constructed and continually mocked him with those tiny squeaks of laughter. Continue reading