Sworded Tales

Merinde turned and dry heaved along the trail again.  Deep painful chucks that ended with her surprise at the lack of internal organs splayed at her feet.  ‘By the gods she was out of shape!’ her mind crowed.  She was sure she would pay the price for last year’s sloth with a kidney.

The game trail was doing little to facilitate a smooth journey, though the narrow defile was more promising than the rest of the rugged terrain surrounding them.  She had regurgitated her light breakfast shortly into what became a rather intense dash across the landscape.  Merinde would have been angry with Gerard but for two things.  One, anger required effort, and two, that damn Halfling was barely breaking a sweat! Continue reading

Horil was furious.  So much so that she quivered in silence for a few moments before letting the pressure release.  “If you’ve forgotten the count.”  She bit into each word, resisting the urge to bite directly into Farrin.  “After all the calculation, after chucking every unnecessary piece of weight.  If you don’t remember how many times we’ve tumbled, I may just have to kill you and carry on alone.”

Farrin let her vent.  He needed her focussed, and anger was the most efficient method.  “No, wait, I’ve got it,” he said, balancing her emotional state once more, “Number five was when my shoulder went.  There was one before this, and now this one.  We shall call number seven, the belt of gaseous form!” Continue reading

“Can you handle the wagon?” Borlak asked of Katarina, “I will ride ahead a bit and see if I can find a safe route.”

He hurried Galagina ahead with practiced agility. Heels administered a sharp tap to her withers, prompting the horse to step smartly forward and a bit to the right; a slight, follow-up tug on the reins brought the well-trained horse to a halt.

The barbarian secured the reins to the saddle’s pommel whilst taking up his shield; best to guide the horse with just his legs. A few practiced motions secured the shield to his left forearm, and he rested his now-free right hand on the grip of his sword. He glanced back to ensure that Katarina was ready to proceed before starting toward the eastern edge of Westerly. Continue reading

I’m a Browncoat.  I’m also a big fan of Joss Whedon.  Yet somehow I overlooked the existence of Firefly Online (FFO).  Just a wonderful example of how out of tune I sometimes fall in an industry that is chock full of limitless opportunity.  I fancy all game forms, but there is something alluring about those special occurrences that strike chords with the senses, and Firefly is among the most sensual.

These blokes have my money and don’t even know it yet.

Now, FFO is not an MMO, more of an RPG with interactive elements player to player.  One of them being ‘job creation’, i.e. mission creation, which was a huge perk for me when I played City of Heroes.  Play your awesome business?  Check.  Write my own awesome business to play?  Supercheck.

We’ll see how well the genre is managed, but I get a sense that the spirit is true to the crew of Serenity and Whedon’s vision.  With luck, they’ll do well enough to develop it into a full fledged MMO.  If so, I very well may have found my niche once more.  Either way, keep an eye out for more FFO goodness here!

The Sibari Terraces were blasted with civil war. Clans shed blood for years after the assassination of Gomar-Tuk the Spinebender. This fluid and horrific culture was the backdrop for Yor’Tahl’s coming of age. The waste and wanton destruction weighed upon the young Orc with uncommon purpose.

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Jasmine walked around the contraption with care. There really was no better word for it. Machine was insulting to every machinist that ever was. Device was too generic a term, and it implied cohesion, uniformity. This hodgepodge of metal and plastic had some symmetry, but it bordered more on death machine. She knew that Lorne was incapable of creating something harmful though, so it was definitely a contraption.

“Okay, what the hell am I looking at?” she asked.

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Merinde’s eyelids fluttered open to the mute glow of darkness.  The hot embers shaded the clearing in orange, and the starlight gave her a picturesque sense of the camp.  No moon was in the sky, and a deep blue orb on the horizon nudged the night away.  This dawn was like none she could have dreamt.

Her heart pounded still.  Her own dream disintegrating with each fevered pump.  Her miniature efforts upon a giant game board.  The pieces crashing down around her.  Huge fingers plucking her out of harm’s way and dropping her into another embattled region.  Had it been Seravis’ hand?  That smarmy bastard.  She couldn’t recall, and already the imagery sifted away on the conscious winds.

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“Okay, so jumping onto the dragon was a bad idea.  I’ll admit that,” Farrin said.

“One of the worst you’ve ever conjured,” Horil replied, shifting her weight to gain better purchase, “I just can’t believe she hasn’t come back.”

“Matters could always be worse though,” the wily man continued his rationalization, “She could come back, for example, or it could be raining or snowing even.”

“We’re over a thousand wheels in the air!”  Horil’s distaste at the way her shout vanished into the cloudy nothingness was paramount. Continue reading

Without missing a step, Marcus smashed his shield into the face of the would be robber as he turned to flee, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

Katarina lead the animals away via the path of least resistance, as she didn’t want to attract any undue interest to herself while getting the supplies back to camp.  She realized with a grim thought that many will be needing the healing touch of Trymeya as well as her own skills.

A deep sigh escaped Daroun as cursed his inopportune luck.’  He had just released his hold on several spells to make room for the elemental magics they would need against the Trolls.  Now he had not the time to study them, caught more unprepared than ever.  Continue reading

We all have them.  Some perish with youth.  Others flourish lifelong.  Most are personal arch demons that wield no power over others we know.  For each of us though, these psychic scars carry the weight of the world.  Sometimes of other worlds too.

The basement of my youth was furnished but unfinished.  Poured cement walls and floor encased a cavernous space supported by three steel posts.  I spent a great deal of time within that stone lair, and each return to the house proper was a race for my life.

Twelve steps, finished with a railing.  Not even the kind you could see (or reach!) through.  I took them three and four at a time as I aged.  I would often hit them running and flip the light switches off mid-stride.  Then I would smack the stair switch off as I snaked through and closed the door with swift assuredness.  I attribute some of my athletic ability to the training on those stairs.  Whatever emerged into the darkness behind me helped to forge me into who I am.

I like the darkness today.  I have come to terms with it, on my terms.

The same cannot be said for shower drains.  I do not like standing on them.  I do not like touching them.  I can.  My adult self rationally destroys whatever menace lurks in the drain, waiting to burrow into my foot.  But the emotional attachment remains.  The outdoor shower we installed sits atop pervious concrete with a french drain beneath.  No actual drain.  Is it any wonder?

Fear is a potent organism that can carve out personalities along the paths of song or shadow.  Know your fears.  Understand them.  Even learn from them as you may.  The important bit is, don’t let them control you.  The path you choose is always yours.

So, what little fears still walk the corridors of your mind?