Sworded Tales

Rôhn nodded, a glimmer of fierce determination in his stony gray eyes, and strides forward, muttering on the word “Rôhn,” with some emphasis, as he passed Kurn.

Cheskith pushed aside his debate as to the horse as the tension rocketed skyward with some unknown discovery in the bushes and Borlak’s odd reaction.  A battle seemed imminent, and whomever was out there – assuming that this wasn’t all some horrendously false alarm – wasn’t likely to give him the time to work his words more subtly and dissuade them from their course.

He whispered words to himself, bringing power to the fore in preparation for its next unleashing, then paused; if there were indeed people or creatures hiding amidst the underbrush, then surely they were not entirely beyond detection. Continue reading

What an outstanding word.  Cattywampus.  Cat-tee-wam-pus.  I would work it into every sentence if I could, if it were cattywampus to do so.  That usage might have been a little cattywampus.

Words are potent.  Words carry power.  Words can transport you.  With so many goddamn words available in this astounding gift we call language, please strive to appreciate the nuances that each carries.  Realize the value of this craft which sets us apart from the animals.  Language.  Words.  Power.

Grammar’s nice.  It keeps us all moving in the same direction and prevents literary chaos.  But you know what?  I would choose a legion of unique chaotic wordslingers over a regime of mundane grammar Nazis any day.  Communicate, in whatever way best suits you, but stretch your mind when you do so, or you’ll bore the donkey shit out of everyone.

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Dar Thrun’s curse was to herd the dead.  As an apprentice necromancer in ill standing, he was relegated to the lowest position possible.  Well, lowest among the living.  The slime suckers had taken the prize for worst task performance for several years running.

As a half-Orc, his facility with arcane magics was the first facet of his accursed gem of existence.  Grovius Throng, shaman of the Knucklemuncher clan, saw the perverse nature of the adolescent half-breed and understood the threat to his own seat of power.  Exiled to the Bafari Wilds, Dar Thrun found himself mercilessly hunted by the ancient Orcish enemy, the Shimtree Elves.

It was his flight from the Elven hunters which forced him into the Feckless Wastes, a haunted region of perverse demons and lustful jellies, or so the campfire tales told.  Instead he found death waiting. Continue reading

The wind vibrated through the frame of Kevin’s Element.  A smirk formed on his lips as the boxy car wrestled with the elements for which it was named.  Aerodynamic it was not.  Versatile like a motherfucker though.  He had hauled more shit in this vehicle than he could recall.  That they stopped making this model didn’t sit well with him, and his eyes flicked down to the odometer.  The numbers had just rolled over a hundred thousand this month.  What was he to do when he needed to find another car?

The wind abated some when he cleared the bridge, but mother nature was not playing around today.  The clouds glowed with that eerie incandescence which sang of severe storms.  He was hoping to catch some serious lightning strikes, but he doubted his luck of late.

Traffic was thicker than he expected, and the throng of vehicles at the red light did not promise a timely transit.  The eighteen wheeler he coasted up behind added its own malevolence to that foretelling. Continue reading

“May?” Merinde asked.

“The region was fickle to begin with,” Gerard replied, “Now it’s more so.  Anything beyond that is speculation.”

“Why you and why alone?”

“Those are wonderful questions,” Anibel said, her matronly stare falling on Gerard. Continue reading

This is not a tale of heroism.  There is no plucky heroine finding the means to outwit and defeat the killer that stalks the greenhouse.  This is a story of adrenaline, and fear, and luck, and the dead will outnumber the living before we reach the end.  If you’re okay with that, by all means read on.

Lyida had pissed herself a little, and she didn’t even realize it.  Her blood was pumping too furiously for her to sense such minutiae.  She could only hear the roar of madness as her mind imagined the sensation of metal sliding into flesh.  She crashed into the main corridor of the garden center, knocking a display of terra cotta over with a calamitous splash.  Everyone looked in her direction, including the blood splattered maniac. Continue reading

Kurn raised his own hand and passed Borlak’s signal back along the line.  He then moved his mount a stride ahead of Erellia’s to shield her.  Getting the horses into cover would take many seconds, so Kurn accepted exposed shield point on the halted line as everyone prepared and moved as they would.  Whether Borlak’s intent was to conceal himself and flank once whatever was advancing had passed his position or whether Borlak intended to himself advance and investigate on foot remained to be seen.

Kurn pulled his shield to arm and his sword to hand.  With no immediate danger yet evident, the riding horse he sat upon accepted the halt docilely.  He looked forward to try to follow Borlak’s indication and determine the source of the warrior’s alert. Continue reading

My current jag of Pathfinder has concluded.  Twenty-one games averaging about an hour each, including setup.  Play really accelerates when everybody, in this case just me, is an experienced player.  I know this particular style of game is not for everyone, but I cannot say enough good things.

I continue to marvel at the balance of the game.  Varied party size, play style or level of adventure all play with equal interest and enthusiasm.  There are those who dislike waiting for their turn in a full party, but these are often the folks playing characters that are soloists with few options during other players’ turns.  Funny how those types of players and characters always seem to match up.  Fickle card deals and dice rolls happen but only afford different tastes to how each game plays.

The customization of your character(s) is a great draw for me.  The deck building is slow, with card reception being random, but a good party shares and blends their abilities and treasure to everyone’s benefit.  I find the appreciation for obtaining a good card right at the level it should be.

The versatility of play styles and card choices creates a dynamic environment, allowing each person the ability to shape the game as they see fit.  Some of those choices may not be ideal, but by god you can make them if you wish!

The aforementioned card deals and dice rolls set the replay ability of Pathfinder at extreme levels.  Every game has felt different to me, even scenarios I’ve had to duplicate due to failure.  Some play like a breeze.  Some are a horror, and the rewards are usually commensurate with the effort involved in a successful adventure. Continue reading

Vl’Lavinda Feinn told a different tale each time she recounted how she lost her eye, each more grandiose than the last.  The most recent incarnation included a Beholder harvesting the eye to transplant it onto one of its own damaged stalks.  She included the fact that she sometimes witnessed phantom images of what the creature was seeing.  Few sought to see beyond the veil of hair she fancied to find the eye still intact within its socket.

In truth, the eye simply went dark for no discernible reason over her pubescent years.  A gradual process considering her Elven heritage which granted her the time necessary to come to terms with her singular vision.  The healers found no solution to the blindness and attributed it to congenital anomaly.  She was not bitter or torn, despite the unlikelihood of her ever finding a suitor among the great Houses.  Her own family, while supportive, conveyed enough subtle pity that Vl’Lavinda chose to relinquish the study of her arcane gifts and to strike out on her own. Continue reading

“Jooorreeeeey.”

Sputter’s call snapped Jorey from her reverie.  She was off course for the first bridging.  She shook her head as she spun into a corrective loop.  Old age was making her complacent.  Taking a little more air in her modified wings, she gained the altitude necessary, diving to accelerate through the final correction.

Sputter waved at her as he spun lazy spirals.  It was a wonder how he didn’t throw up more regularly.  Jorey had developed a fondness for the boy over the years that they had been traveling together.  More of the protective older sister than a mother son relationship, but she hated thinking of the time she would have to leave them.  They were a good bunch, but she had to move on from time to time for everyone’s safety.

She regenerated whatever damage she took, and some of her comrades were starting to notice.  She had also stopped aging. Continue reading