Category: Fantasy

‘Race you.’

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

The snow-haired mage leads the way down the gangplank, into the hangar proper. The vast iron doors leading to the neon-lit night beyond. Winter makes a beeline for some small vehicles, made from blue steel and fashioned into stylized representations of horses with long legs and fixed wings.

She throws a leg over one of the Air Steeds, and motions for Echo to do the same. From a small compartment, Winter pulls a pair of large goggles and pulls them over her eyes. She looks back towards the druid.

“Race you.”

A thousand neon lights blaze past Echo, as she fumbles the Seafoam goggles from their compartment at the base of the steering wheel. She notices that the green light at the back of Winter’s steed leaves a blazing trail of light across her vision as she maneuvers.

The hot air whips past, and the two scream on.

The sounds of Bard’s Gate begin to rise — music and talking, and the pump of steam engines are everywhere.

Winter banks sharply downward, and disappears into a large culvert, ringed with stone. Echo can hear her delighted bark of laughter as she speeds away. The druid pulls hard on the unfamiliar controls and kicks the throttle hard to follow.

The culvert opens up into another world — the darkness gives way to a massive golden light, shot through with orange and purples. A whole street is nestled away down here, a brass band plays on the roof of the building closest to the entrance. Literally, a band made up of brass automatons play trumpets and cornets — reminding Echo eerily of the guardians of the Vault of Flaubert I.

Winter pulls up her Air Steed at a three story building, roof butting up against the bottom of the culvert. She pulls up her goggles, and waits for Echo to land.

Teardrop.

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Sam Bosma - Self Portrait -- sbosma.tumblr.com

The devil-kin emerged carrying the emaciated form of an old human man. His bones showed through wasted skin — silver hair, and a long scraggly beard. His tunic was rotting, and food spilled down his chin, crusted up in his beard. His eyes were tightly bound, with a surprisingly clean strip of white cloth. The man worked his mouth feebly, trying to come to grips with the sudden flood of light and abrupt jostling.

Amidst the wrinkles on his left arm, a faded tattoo could be seen. A white spiral, shaped like a teardrop.

Lodestar Backstage: Iax

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Just some behind-the-scenes notes for Lodestar. I’m really jazzed about this setting, and if you can parse the nerd-arcana, I think you guys will find it pretty cool as well.

It’s been really interesting working on opposite ends of the same story — separated by a decade of in-world time, and thousands and thousands of words. I come up with ideas in That Thing, that echo in Lodestar — or a place or character that I can’t resist sticking into That Thing. If only the Lodestar crew knew….

IAX

[Knowledge:Local]
The underground city of the Shadow Elves is located approximately two miles below the surface of the southern part of the continent, Onis. A sprawling network of tunnels extend for miles, but finally lead to a vast cavern – and the city of Iax. The city rests on a grand disc of crystal connected to the cavern sides by various support beams, bridges and columns. The dark city is several miles across, gleaming in the faint light of thousands of crystals in a rainbow of colors.

They have been engaged in an intermittent offensive with the Illithid and the Dark Creepers since the fall of the Red Wizards of Thay.

[Knowledge:Religion]
Iax is named for the Lost God, a mysterious deity that all Tyr-Elves serve. His crypt lies at the center of the city, tended to by the priesthood and the Paladins of Iax.

A common religious saying of the Tyr-Elves is “By His Will”.

Tyr-Elves
[Knowledge:Survival]
All Tyr-Elves suffer from Light Sensitivity, and cannot abide direct sunlight, or any other bright source of illumination.

[Knowledge: Nobility]
The Tyr-Elves have a patriarchal society, fiercely regimented and controlled. Their leader is known as the Erl King – selected by right of combat, once very eleven years.

[Knowledge: Religion]
The paladins of Iax are known for their fierce loyalty to their race, and terrible ferocity in battle. The god, Iax, is believed to be devoted to Order. Most followers of Iax channel positive energy.

[Knowledge: History]
Long ago, before the coming of the Arkanics, before the birth of the dragons, and before the humanoid races of Aufero lifted themselves above base animal savagery – the High Elves ruled the entire world.

Little information survives that describes their civilization, but one thing is clear. They left.

As the High Elves passed into whatever strange fate awaited them – four families refused to leave. They loved this world so much, that they could not bear to part from it.

They traded their immortality and their grace for the chance to remain. One family loved the blue skies, the endless clouds – and they grew wings and became the Sky-Elves [Rus-Elves]. One family loved the blue sea, the endless waves – and they grew gills, and learned to speak with their minds, and became the Sea-Elves [Nai-Elves.] One family loved the great forests, the endless life of the planet – and grew swift and cunning, learning the gift of foresight, and became the Wood-Elves [Yad-Elves.]

The last family loved the earth, the endless caverns and secrets – and grew hard and quiet, and became the Stone Elves [Tyr-Elves].

Shadow Elves is a misnomer, affixed by land dwellers – who saw the dark skin and fierce black eyes of the Tyr, and were afraid. All Tyr-Elves live in Iax , and bow to the rule of the Erl King and the god, Iax. Those encountered elsewhere are exiles.

[Language:Undercommon]
Most Tyr-Elves can speak this tongue fluently, but view it with complete contempt. They prefer their own lilting tongue, which they refuse to teach to outsiders. Most Tyr can also speak Common.

Dra’Lusair
[Knowledge:Dungeoneering]

The entire prison is actually a giant teardrop of stone, dangling beneath the southern edge of Iax. The cells are natural geodes and caverns within, while the wardens mainly operate from the top of the stalactite. The way out is up.

The cavern wall to the south – the one that opened when Simon arrived – seems to be adjacent to a tunnel. Best estimation is that the stone on that wall is the thinnest of any of the other walls – approximately 3 feet thick.

[Knowledge:Local / Perception]
The walls of the caverns surrounding the prison, and all of Iax are shot through with a unique mineral called Balestone – or Bloodrock. It has the ability to block and negate all arcane abilities, and renders all magical items inert. It has allowed Iax to remain almost impervious to attack, as their main subterranean enemies are primarily spellcasters.

Drop-Cage
[Disable Device]
The cage has resisted all attempts to at breaking it, or the chain that lowers it down. It appears to be made of adamantine.

[Knowledge:Engineering]
The cage seems to operate on a simple pulley mechanism – suggesting that it is manned by an operator each time that it is lowered. There does not appear to be any mechanical device that lowers or retracts the cage. When pulled, the chain gave an extra two feet of slack, then stopped completely. The pulley only seems to have about 200 pounds of lift – when the Ghosts piled onto it and held onto the cage – the pulley simply stopped. Eventually, when they got tired of holding onto it, they let go. It sat in the cell for several hours before the operator checked again, and pulled it away.

Normally, when depositing food and water, the cage is only present for five minutes.

Crystal Moss
[Knowledge: Survival]
The crystalline moss is an plant – but it seems to be infused with a naturally occurring chemical reaction that provides the illumination. It appears flammable.

[Knowledge: Engineering]
The moss could conceivably be used as an accelerant – but a large quantity of it would need to be used. Best effect would be achieved by reducing the moss to a powder.

The moss will not ignite on its own; some other form of energy would be required to ignite it.

Chaos Birds

G. Derek Adams4 Comments

“You see them birds, boy?” A brown glob of spittle hit the side of the lime-green fusion reactor.

“Yes, Pa.”

“Them birds….them birds is chaos birds. Make sure you don’t feed them no maths.”

“Yes, Pa.”

Pixellated wings rustled, then were still.

[The world is improved by this. You’re welcome, Brent.]

The Umbra

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

Or Various Thoughts and Extrapolation Fantastical upon the Theoretical “Shadow Plane”.

By Kellean Turbspik

There are many of my colleagues and antagonists in the academic press who claim that I have lost control of my mental faculties – some even going so far as to insinuate that I have gone insane.

They are correct.

For to grasp the true nature of reality, the frail mold of the mortal mind is too shallow and constricting – only a consciousness thoroughly shattered could have any possible chance to conceive its wonder.

My colleagues – or “dabblers” as they should more honestly be called – worship a quaint and comforting view of reality, and the various planes thereof. I have seen learned scholars wag their gray beards confidently over various maps and charts of the Outer Planes, laying out the various demesnes as confidently as a bricklayer mortars a wall. The Corporeal Plane [commonly, Material Plane] in the center, with the other planes neatly arrayed around it, first the Elemental Planes evenly spaced at the cardinal directions – then the planes of Chaos and Order slotted between, along with the planes of Altruism and Malevolence, all strung together like a child’s bracelet.  Some even go so far as to draw connecting lines, showing easy locations where the planes may be bridged.

All of this is nonsense. Mythology masquerading as science.  Reality does not conform to your pretty scribblings, gentlemen, no matter how carefully you select the proper ochre shade for the Plane of Fire, or how expensive a scrivener you hire to depict fanciful drawings of the demons in Abaddon. Had I time or inclination I could pierce your simple theses like wet tissue paper thrown before an oncoming lance.

Suffice it to say that everything you have ever read, or been taught about the Planes of Reality is wrong.

This is not the subject of my research, however. My research is into the plane of reality that my colleagues claim does not exist. A glaring omission on their precious maps, as they lack the cognitive capacity to even grasp its existence. Perhaps it is because they view the other planes as physical spaces, like rooms in a house – easily traversable and susceptible to cartography, planned by some divine architect perhaps.

They are incorrect.

The planes overlap and shift, a Cosmic Wind whirls them endlessly. And this is doubly certain for the Umbral Plane – or as my detractors have dubbed it, the “shadow plane”.

The Umbral Plane overlaps the material plane – we walk through it every day. Multiple planes using the same physical space – this is what most cannot grasp.

Throughout this treatise, I will prove beyond any argument that the Umbral Plane is the most important of all the planes of reality.  The Lesser Planes, including the Corporeal Plane follow certain natural laws and internal consistencies – the Plane of Shadow follows none of these.  It seems to permeate all of the other planes, comprising the same physical space – but kept disparate.  I theorize that all of reality is but a crude echo of the Umbral Plane – how else could one explain its prevalence throughout the other realms? It is we who are the shadows of that greater reality, the Master Plane – a greater Candle burning that produces our weaker, ephemeral reality.

As my colleagues refuse to admit the Umbral Plane exists, so has research been exceedingly slow to prove my hypothesis. But even from the smallest grain of sand, a true Scholar can glean some knowledge of the desert. Those of you who seek the true knowledge of Reality, read on – but be prepared to leave the comforting confines of sanity behind.

Most troublesome.

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

I killed him.

My quill almost snaps in my haste to write it down.

I turned into a mist, slipped under the door and stabbed him fourteen times with my claws. I cracked a nail on his sternum.

It was most troublesome.

He was a Nai-Elf — a mighty shaman of his tribe — come to meet with my employers. He plead his case most eloquently – the poison in the seas, the lowered birth rate of his tribe, the incalculable destruction of the natural world. The glowing tattoos in his blue skin, and the elaborate mirrored earrings and and bangles at his wrists and ankles made him savage and strange to the board — but it reminded me of home.

Clarke Peters and Dominic West in OTHELLO. Holy crap, how come I didn't already know about this?

His breath stank of sardines and aged cheese. I hated to watch him wring his hands, so nervous and uncomfortable. My employers smiled, and laughed behind their hands at him — then nodded and said soft words. It made me angry to see this wise old elf disrespected. I rushed over as he stormed out, determined to salvage some measure of good will from the shaman – Mistress Karis’ derision and anger was a risk, but I couldn’t let him leave totally empty handed.

He was angry, but he heard me – the lines in his face softened. He thanked me for my concern, and placed both of his hands out in front of his face, in a Nai-Elf gesture of respect.

I saw his eyes casually look into the tiny mirrors at his wrist. Then widen, then dart to my face.

Shit.

I whispered the word, completely surprised. He realized that I didn’t have a reflection.

The shaman left , keeping his eyes on me as his hands reached for the door. He knew what I was — which meant his fate was sealed.

I felt regret looking down at his corpse — even as I fed on his strange blood. Just a taste, our of principle.

In short order, the body was discovered , and the captain — a good, decent man himself – put the ship on lockdown, seeking the murderer. My employers were annoyed by the inconvenience, completely untouched by the shaman’s death.

I had guarded my secret for too many years to let if fall now — my sire’s commands ring in my ears as loudly today as they did a hundred years ago.

I am the spawn of Zed – the Neclord himself, and I will not fail.

There is a commotion on deck — apparently a small ship has come alongside, a group of investigators perhaps?

I sit in front of the mirror, and imagine my face — a picture held in my mind. I make the picture smile kindly, I make the wrinkles fade.

A knock at the door – I leave to go make myself helpful.

– The Journals of Enton Blake, 21st of Arrowspan – 1179

 

[Story on Demand for Steven.]

Suddenly, Mermaid.

G. Derek Adams3 Comments

The white porcelain shone in the yellow-bulb light. Mark looked down at his hands, they hung over the edge of the tub – the tips of his fingers were white and bloodless. He slapped his hands against the sides, trying to awaken his flesh.

Mark didn’t know where he was. The tub was an older style, all white and round — but the room appeared to be a middle-range motel of some sort. The tub was full of ice, a brittle square line right below his nipples.

He felt his stomach turn. He’d heard the stories. Mark forced his hands down below the ice, feeling glacially for the fresh stitch marks, the gaping bloody hole.

There was no hole. Also, there were no legs.

Unbroken blue scales, starting from below his ribs running down into a  trim point — three massive flapping fins at the end.

Mark screamed, hurling grocery-store ice all over the floor. His new tail spasmed, making even more of the cubes fly through the air.

He rocked back and forth in the tub, and finally managed to flip himself out onto the cold terra cotta floor. He could just spy his laptop bag through the cracked doorway, and he wriggled toward it. His new tail was difficult to control — he finally realized that the tail bent the opposite way of his old human knees, and then he was able to scooch more ably.

Mark clawed at the bag, blood and pain returning to his fingertips – and he fished out his cell. With the screen an inch from his face, he updated his status.

Mark Cotton – Best birthday ever!

Mark sighed happily, and pulled the tin of sardines he’d prepared from the side pocket.

[Story on Demand for Jason.  As old comedian’s say — ‘It can’t be Christmas every day.’ Sorry that this was the best by beleaguered brain could manage.]

Whiskers and Chrome

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

Black screen, thunderous fanfare — followed by agonizing squeal of electronic fuzz.

In a world where every dog has his day….

Jump shots of a vast metropolis. Cars honking, police brutalizing a lemonade stand, a nun jumping off a 23 story building, a kid crosses the street and spontaneously explodes.

…and there’s a lot of fish in the sea….

Scientists and researchers mill around a cluttered laboratory. A stereotypically blonde and buxom researcher rips off her glasses and wails with concern.

“Professor, do you think this is wise? Do you think this is morally ethical? Is it right, Professor?”

Camera spins to the Professor, he is wearing a black leather jacket and has finishing a bowl of banana pudding. He throws the bowl to the floor,and rips off his dark glasses — revealing that his eyes glow a bright green.

“Dammit, Charlene — don’t question me. Not now — not you–not ever!”

The Professor’s voice continues over the next few shots.

“We needed something stronger, faster — more cunning. A machine that can bring order and peace back to our world gone mad.  This mad world, full to the brim with madness.”

Shots of a machine being constructed. Metal being forged, wires being connected. The shadowy outline of some robotic killing machine.

“Synthesizing the instinctual algorithms of 75 alpha predators was easy — now we get to the hard part.”

The robot is active — quadra-pedal, pacing around a narrow enclosure. A slot opens and a small shoebox is pushed in by a long broom handle. Cut back to the Professor, putting back on his sunglasses.

“Now we need to teach it to be….a cat!”

Cut back to the shoebox. The robot leans over the box, red eyes burning. A quiet “Mew.” comes from within, and an orange kitten pokes its nose out.

Shot of the kitten and the robot touching noses.

When you let the cat out of the bag — you’ll need a little more than curiosity to kill it.

Quick shots of the robot pouncing on a schoolbus, running up a skyscraper, playing with the Statue of Liberty like it’s a ball of yarn. The orange kitten sits on its shoulder and purrs.

FALL 2012.

[Story on Demand for iwaurokoinko – wander over and deface his blog.]

The breaking sound.

G. Derek Adams3 Comments

The Lodestar

The Vagabonder looked up from his work. It was rare something could distract him, pull him from the pure world of his research — but the sound Izus was making was unsettling.

The villain was crying. A quiet murmur that wound its way around the regular sounds and rhythms of the engine room.

Silo and Jump looked up from the corner of the bay, where they were studiously scrubbing a patch of fungus that had sprung up from a long forgotten crate of mushrooms.

“What’s that guy’s deal?” Silo asked, Jump only shrugged.

“It’s the sound of a man giving up.” Martin said, from the stairs. “When there’s no chance of coming back, and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks anymore – you’re alone in the dark. That’s the sound you make. I know, I’ve made it myself more than a few times.”

Joao Ruas

“It’s the breaking sound before you die.” the ranger struck a match, and set fire to the bowl of his pipe.

Kythera – The Circle of Silver

Haskeer fought off the waves of exhaustion and revulsion emanating from the medallion, and led the others northward. They heard sounds of Seafoam patrols, but for now they seemed to be mostly to the south. As unerring as a compass he walked through the streets — his need, and the need of the dark Precursor spirit the same. To find the light, to find direction — to find their lodestar.

Haskeer led them to a strange open area on the northern edge of the city — a few structures dotted the green lawn, but the greatest oddity lay in the center. A massive ring, as tall as a man, and as thick as an aurochs – gleaming, unmarked silver, suspended three feet off the ground. As stable as a rock in a stream.

And then, there she was.

She darted from one of the small buildings, still wearing the gray smock that she had been abducted in. Talitha ran directly into Haskeer’s open arms, crowing with delight. The others gathered around, and for a moment all was well.

Talitha looked at the others, and wrinkled her nose slightly.

“Where’s Gloompa?”

“Who’s Gloompa?” a gravel-voice called from the shadows of the building. The orange-skinned tiefling Sideways leaned out, and gave a half-wave.

Kythera – The President’s Garden

The President’s right hand twisted and pulled out the rogue’s heart. Corben watched with fascination as it continued to beat frantically, square crystals of ice forming around it, in Jaiden’s candle-white hands.

It was kind of beautiful.

Corben blinked, and his heart was still in his chest.

Jaiden’s black eyes. Black on white on black on white.

“Because you’re still useful as bait.”

This is what my book is about.

G. Derek Adams4 Comments

Sing in me, O Muse

the tale of two travelers, the ones who burned

across ruddy hill and serpent trail —

the last golden days of youth

Mountain airship by Hong il An

before the fall.

Spell and sword,

song and steel-

the green hills roll on, and the dark forest waits

but before the sun dies,

let the thousand tales be told again,

forgotten cradle-rhymes spun again,

glory-gold and terror-black,

the tale of two

before the shadows fall.

 

 

[A scribble – possible foreward for That Thing. Or is that too pompous to even talk about? And YES – I have huge nerd boner for Homer.]