Sworded Tales

A taciturn male Dwarf looks up with a start at the approach of the lone reptilioid.  Following his riding partner’s lead, the cloaked he tugs on the reigns, albeit a bit too fiercely.  The horse rears up on its hind legs as the Dwarf stifles a yelp, clinging to the reigns with all the strength in his stunted hands.  His stomach slides onto the saddle with his feet still in the stirrups, causing his buttocks to protrude perpendicular from the steed’s back in a most undignified position.

As gravity bears the Dwarf’s full weight down on the reigns, the horse rose ever higher, kicking its front hooves.  Ancient, inscrutable commands issue forth toward the animal, as the Dwarf flails his stirrupped feet.  The horse continues to canter backward on its hind legs, whinnying wildly. Continue reading

One simple tenet:  believe what you will and allow me to do the same.

Why is that such a hard concept for sentient beings to embrace?  Why must there be a right and wrong way of thinking?  A good versus evil mentality?

I understand that a civilized society requires some overarching system of rules to maintain order, and the larger the society, the more important the system.  These govern our actions.  Nothing should govern our beliefs.  Nothing.

The concept of morality is a tricky one though, circular.  Each individual has their own unique morality based on their own perceptions of reality.  Which of these perceived realities should serve as the moral foundation for the whole?  And what if the chosen moral foundation is in opposition to your own beliefs?  How do we know when it is time to cross the line between belief and action?

I have no easy answers.  There are none.  All I can hope is that you strive each day to further open your mind to possibilities.  Take a few moments to consider the beliefs that ring true in your heart, and I’ll do the same.

I believe all things are better in moderation.  More, bigger, faster is not always better, and too much of a good thing quickly becomes disgusting.  Moderation fosters sincerity and appreciation.

I believe you reap what you sow.  I’ve seen Karma’s wicked backhand often enough.

I believe everything works out as it is meant to.  Be true to yourself and to your heart, and all else will sort itself out in the end.

“You, but you’re,” Gerard started with beautiful stultification.

“Dead, yes,” the wonderful smile replied, “It’s difficult to explain.”

The crashing siege in his mind had been replaced by the hammering blows of his heart.  The clearing where he had encamped for the night materialized around him as Gerard tried to swim free of the dream fugue.

“I’m awake,” he stated.

“Oh, indeed,” the Halfling woman replied, the double entendre of her tone lost on the groggy male before her.

“And you’re still here,” Gerard continued without pause.

“Not really, Gerard,” she replied, glancing in the direction of the shrouded corpses, “Our journeys have just taken new turns.” Continue reading

A lone traveler garbed in hooded dark green comes riding into view around the bend.  As the rider gets closer to the bridge, the man pulls back his hood from his bald head to better see the place to which he was summoned.

Examining the workers as they place stones in the bridge and looking around at other travelers at hand, the man dismounts, strapping a medium sized chest onto his back and pulling a covered shield from where it hangs on the saddle.  Going around to the front of the animal, he pulls an apple out of his pocket and feeds it to the horse.

“Thank you, good fellow.  I appreciate the ride,” the rider says quietly as the apple disappears while he pets the beast. Continue reading

Seriously.  Ninjas.  Love ’em.  Love everything about them.  It’s what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Love the whole genre.  The bizarre, the ridiculous, the unknown.  The silence, the murdering, the mayhem.  The mystery, the discipline, the legendary mythos.  How can you not?

I don’t mean the Ninja Burger ninjas, or the Fruit Ninja ninjas, or even the Pirates vs. Ninjas ninjas (bitch, please).  I mean the ninjas you never ever see or hear about, because, you know, they’re nin-jas.  If you see what you believe to be a ninja, then either you will be very dead, very soon or you did not actually see a ninja.  More like a ninja-wannabe.  A ninjabe.

That’s the whole point of being a ninja.  That’s where the love stems from.

As evidence to the inspiration, I submit this pic of my VHS copy of Shogun’s Ninja.  As a child this movie was transforming to watch.  So much so that I sought out and purchased my own copy as an adult…and, here’s the good part.  I do not own the means to watch VHS technology.  Fortunately for us all, the film can be viewed in its entirety on the internet.

If I could bottle and sell the nostalgia which seeped from my pores upon enjoying this piece of art from 1980 as an adult, it would smell of ninja.  Which is to say it would smell of nothing.

Pardon me, while I go create my new fragrance line, Liquid Ninja.

Two points about language:

1.  I cuss.

There’s not much more to it than that.  I’ve said it before.  I wanted to reiterate it.  That’s one of the reasons I sallied forth with a website instead of using one of the myriad free platforms.  I respect the language and the array of opportunities presented from choosing the right word to convey the desired meaning.  I don’t use vulgar language gratuitously, but if the tale calls for an f-bomb or a solid assmaster, then so be it.  As for character dialogue, they have minds of their own, and I cannot be held responsible.

I just wanted to address that relatively up front.  I have no interest in debating the semantics of morality in the written form.  If language doesn’t offend you, read on and enjoy.  If it does, the rest of the internet awaits and enjoy!

2.  I make shit up.

Words…if they sound right, I use them.  They may or may not be in the currently accepted ‘dictionary’.  If someone is vomiting hard enough to witness their liver, I might call it hurking.  Fake word.  Meaning conveyed.  I call that a win.

The essence of language, of communication, is so much more nuanced than what classical grammar and literature would allow.  Yeah, I’ve never really fit inside the standard box and have no real desire to do so.  Be unique.  Be yourself.  Speak your own language.

Anyone who says you can’t is a mind-controlling shit, and you should kick them in the jubilees.

I live in a world of shattered fragments.  We all do in truth, but I think I tend to dissect and reassemble the reality around me in a more fervent and chaotic continuity than most.  Bits and pieces floating about and woven together, snipped and tucked, burnt and recreated to better suit.  All of this morass is my own personal primordial ooze.  Good stuff.  Lovely stuff.  Enough to drown in.

I am forever uncovering snapshots of my gaming life, the history of those who I have created and destroyed, loved and lost, worshipped and shunned.  Oh, there are so many I have shunned.  So, so many.  Point being, I often marvel at how a simple glimpse into a past thought process can recreate the picture of what I was planning to do, what essence I envisioned.  Don’t get me wrong, I also come across those doozies that are seriously like W-T-F is this and that rekindle nothing, only continue to sleep the stink of rotting fish.

Not this one though.  This one brought a nostalgic smile, and that is often enough to make my day.

Satheris – Level 3 Eladrin Wizard Continue reading

A long time ago, there was a young girl named Elizabeth who lived not too far from this very lake in a small cottage.  A truly beautiful creature if ever there was one.  Long flowing sunrise hair, slim and lithe, with a smile that shattered dreams.  Young Elizabeth would often times spend her afternoons frolicking around the lake, chasing butterflies, or skipping stones.

Living around the other side of the lake in a run down hovel was a boy just about Elizabeth’s age who was called Horace.  He always spied on the beautiful girl when she passed near his dwelling, watching her and following her any chance he could.  Horace was enthralled with her magical nature and with the way the sunlight danced across her hair.  He had dirty brown hair, and often time people would make faces when they saw Horace coming. Continue reading

A meal of meager fare and the blistering fatigue combined with blissful perfection though, and Gerard found himself awash in a pool of dreaming sanctuary.

Flowers dotted the war trampled landscape, blossoming and fading in pulsing regularity.  The wash of color echoed with the windy hiss which sent his hair flapping forward.  Tickling strands kept nipping at his eyes, but his sluggish dream arms could never find their way to redirect this tactile assault.  Distant siege engines sent flaming spheres skyward, crashing into the frozen parapets in Gerard’s periphery.  He could not make out the specifics of the structure which shielded him, but the crescendos of thunder made his teeth and testicles ache with each impact. Continue reading

A Shadow of Hope was a PBEM game I ran for several years with a host of different players and characters.  I have always wanted to edit the shared content into a contiguous storyline and have decided to do so here.  I look forward to revisiting the tale which was such a pleasure to tell, and am grateful beyond words to those who contributed their considerable time and creative muse to breathe life into the characters.

A Shadow of Hope

“Watch to yer port `dar, ya fool!”

The cry of alarm rings out across the swollen breadth of the Winding Water river, sending a sputtering flock of wings skyward from a grove of trees along the far shoreline. Muttering curses follow as the four polemen lean heavily on the weathered lengths of wood which serve to steer the sizable barge bearing them down the frigid runoff waters.

The barge rides dangerously low in the current, responding sluggishly to the efforts of the fur clad men. Seven tremendous blocks of quarried granite rest at the center of the float, restraining straps creaking against the sheer weight of the endeavor. The barge finally turns in a slow arc along the swift current, causing only a mild thump as the outermost log glances off of a sinister rock peeking a few inches above the surface. The camouflaged fang, seeking to sink any floating prey and spelling a frozen doom for those who ride above, waits once more as the current sharpens its edge. Continue reading