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Sand & Tea

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

[Hit a big ‘end of disc’ moment in current Pathfinder campaign. Here’s the first little bit of the next story, and a fond adieu to some of the characters off on new adventures.]

Back in black I hit the sack
I been too long I’m glad to be back
Yes I am
Let loose from the noose
That’s kept me hanging about
I keep looking at the sky cause it’s gettin’ me high
Forget the hearse cause I’ll never die
I got nine lives cat’s eyes
Using every one of them and runnin’ wild
Cause I’m back
Yes I’m back well I’m back
Yes I’m back
Well I’m back back
Well I’m back in black
Yes I’m back in black
– Trollkin Drinking song, Traditional – Bard Unknown

The hounds and the thieves fell back into the world like a sack of potatoes tossed on the floor — all eyes and with a loud whump.

Several of the party coughed, as hot air and gritty sand blew into their mouths. They were surrounded on all sides by dunes made of yellow sand. They had landed in a small hollow between the dunes that gave some protection from the wind, but none from the heat. The wide face of the sun was well on its way to the far horizon, it would be night soon.

There was no sign of their quarry, the strange woman and her perilous sword. Only on the crest of a dune a few hundred paces to the west, a black discoloration could be seen in the sand.

Zed, or rather Bowman as it would soon become impossible to keep the Zeds straight without reverting to their Rainscour nicknames, shrugged the bound wizard, Janus, onto the sand as he stood up, putting a hand over his eyes to shade them.

rainscour“We didn’t see what we just saw. It’s preposterous. There’s no way we just saw the actual Sword of Ruin, right?” the notorious thief asked. “Someone please reassure me, just lie to me if you would be so kind.”

The other Zed, Dagger, laughed and hopped up as well. “If you like. It was just the Saber of Major Unpleasantness.”

The desert wind blew across the thieves and hounds alike, bearing with it the faintest smell of ash.

Somewhere Else

Lysander’s eyes popped open. For the first time in days his head felt clear – so frustrating to be in a wondrous place like Rainscour and then the starry void between worlds with a headache brought upon by dimensional distortion. The cleric sat up and looked around.

A few of his companions were nearby, most still unconscious from their escape from the shattering constellations. The only others awake were their savior, the steel-touched traveler Crim and and the tengu, Fletch. The magus Ozmen snored loudly against the bright blue tile of the plaza floor.

Lysander looked around – they were in a a plaza, not too dissimilar from the one they had sheltered in the strange streets of Rainscour. Where that city had been filled with rain, this place seemed to almost riot color and sunlight. The only water burbled joyously in the fountain, ringing against the sides of the marble with tranquil rhythm. Off in the distance, the cleric could make out the sound of construction – hammers on wood, hammers on stone, voices shouting instruction and derision as they went about their work.

From a nearby building with wide arched windows, a broad head topped with red hair furiously shout through with gray appeared. It appeared again at the next window, then the next, as if the person was making their way towards the entrance, but couldn’t resist looking out each window as he did.

At last, the short and stout figure of a dwarf appeared at the entrance, trotting with exuberance that belied his age towards the party. Crim stood up sorrowfully and waved, but most of his attention was focused on the shattered Jump-Node that he held in the crook of his elbow.

“Well, hellacious day, travelers!” the dwarf boomed as he approached. “You just made every doodad and scrying stone I have go bonkers. Hell of a leap you must’ve made from wherever you came from.”

Ozmen helped Fletch to his feet, both blinking their eyes at their strange new surroundings and the garrulous greeting party.

“Where is here?” Lysander’s mind reeled. “We’re from the world called Cynus, and we kind of jumped blind from the dimensional void. Is this Cynus, is this home?”

“Or could this be Turn?” Crim asked without hope. “I never met any dwarves there before but…

“Sorry, my new friends,” the dwarf smiled. “You’ve fallen victim to the Thief, I’m afraid. Our world is so greedy, it’s always plucking strays from all over the place. This is not your world, traveler – but we’ll do our best to make you feel at home. My name is Bragg – and while our world has many names, this city has but one. Welcome to Kythera! The City of Wonder left by the Precursors for us to explore. Now come on! You’ve got some stories to tell I imagine, and the tea just came to a boil before your portal got everything squawking at me back in the lab. They do have tea where you came from, I trust?”

Lysander felt himself smiling despite the strange situation. “Depends, do you have sugar here?”

“We do, lad. We do.” Bragg nodded sagely.

The lost travelers followed the dwarf to tea, and off into their own story which will find its own time to tell.

Podcast Appearance!

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

first-cover-copy

My friend and boon companion, Brent Thomas, invited me to appear on his podcast where we discussed Rat Queens, scandals thereof, Villains by Necessity, and about 14 other topics.

Comics League International – Episode 6

This was a ton of fun – mainly because that jerk lives in Japan and we rarely get the opportunity to speak the Nerd Cant. His podcast is focused on exploring comics and our relation to them, but he’s also a fantasy author himself. Check his blog for his short fiction and keep your eye peeled for his debut novel, The Deadly Troubadours.

Before You Buy the Barrel

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Now available free here on the site: the first two chapters of The Riddle Box.

Sample Chapters This Way!

This is a common tactic – in both the world of traditional and self-publishing. It’s nefarious.  You’re going to read the first two chapters, just enough time to figure out you think the book is fucking awesome, then I’m SLAMMING THAT PAYWALL DOWN IN YOUR FACE. It is goddamn Machiavellian.  Even better this book is a murder mystery, so you will never ever know ‘whodunnit’ if you don’t fork over your filthy silver coins into my internet pouch.

I know, Kuwabara! It IS upsetting.
I know, Kuwabara! It IS upsetting.

So yes – give the chapters a taste, you fools! Commit yourself all unknowingly to an oubliette of narrative servitude that will last unto the cracking of the world.

Or maybe you won’t like it – also possible.

If you like what you read, you can pre-order the book via the link below — available November 26th!

The Riddle Box Preorder- Kindle Version – .99

So try that wine. I’ll be talking much more about they why and wherefore of the novel, trying to win you over many other ways as we get closer to the release — but ultimately you can just read the first few pages and make the decision for yourself, you informed consumer you.

Prophecy

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“Your future is an empty cup, Rime Korvanus.” The seer intoned. “And you, Jonas of Gilead, yours is a brown cloak.”

[Just putting this here so I can find it later. When the Dimensional Radio plays, better jot that shit down.]

I/O Tower – General Spell/Sword Shenanigan Update

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

1. I’m getting the final 50 pages of copy edits for The Riddle Box this weekend! With any luck I’ll be able to have the ebook up for sale sometime next week.

2. Which means I need to start the shilling. Eh, I’m not as bothered by it this time around — which probably just means I accept I’m not any good at it, and will be incredibly lackadaisical about the whole process. WHATEVS. I’ll put some posts up here promoting the book when it goes live.

3. Publishing Book Two means I get to start work on Book Three : Asteroid Made of Dragons very soon. Oh man, I’m practically slavering. There is slaver all over this place. It’s kind of a loose grab bag in my head at the moment, but I know the first scene requires the most absurd action sequence I can possibly manage. Exploding buildings, dragon mechs, ninja stars made of Pure Hate – it’s all on the table people. We’re going to see a lot more of the world next time around because Jonas and RIme Are Getting on a Boat [original working title].

4. I might try my hand at writing a script for a short film. Some friends are looking for a new project and need some script fodder. Could be fun? Interesting to write something that will have no budget to shoot. I’m thinking secret agents that work for minor deities.

5. Go NaNoWriMo! Good luck to all you typers out there.

Gilead Excavation

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[Some old words about Gilead – putting them here for easy research later.] 

The waters ripple, and Haskeer sees Gilead.

A gray city, made from simple stone. The towers and streets show signs of great age, and great wear. This is a place where it rains much, where the people must go to the walls to stand against an endless tide of dark. Yet in every eye, a fierce pride – a bright flame that burns against the dark. The people move about their day, and among them walk the men of the Legion. The Crusaders, the Swords of Iron – their cloaks white and blue. Their armor is brightly polished, but the paladin quickly sees the signs of steady use. Leather straps worn to fraying, dents in shields carefully beaten back to true, and burnished with care.

Pennants fly from the towers, each showing three swords bound in a circle, blue on a white field. In the streets Haskeer sees simple signs of nobility, peace and kindness. A young boy keeping his older brothers from harming a kitten, an old man doffing his cap for a passing milk maid, a portly baker giving barely stale bread to beggars in the church square. The quiet prayers at the temple of the Nameless God, the priests laying hands on their flock with the gentle touch of wise shepherds.

A king with a golden crown, white hair spilling down his collar – his family drawn close around a fine table. A plan is laid out before them, a bridge that needs building — the family laughs and argues good naturedly over the plan.

“This is Gilead.” the lady said. “The anvil where the hammer falls again and again, but the steel does not break.”

The lady smiles, one tear coursing down her face.

“This is Gilead, Sir Knight. You asked to see it. No other place in this world will ever be Gilead again. If you wish to see the place that was once Gilead, then look.”

A gray city, made from simple stone. The streets are clean, not a speck of trash or debris. Repairs have been made to shore up sagging towers and crumbled buildings. The devils move through the streets with frenzied care, putting each plaza and wall into precise, scouring order. The windows burn with red and green light, strange shadows move in complex dances of pain and perversion. Armies march in a rictus of order, regiments of the damned.

Pennants fly from the towers, each showing three swords bound in a circle, blue on a white field. The fabric is stained and tattered – a mockery, pulled from rotting basement and dusty museum to dance on the wind and laugh in the face of the defeated dead. An imp slices red dripping meat into squares to sear on an open flame, a winged horror cavorts with a brace of bound creatures on the top of a broad wall – it’s face twisted with lust, an obese monstrosity hangs sluglike from underneath an archway cramming stones wrapped in grass and goat-cheese into it’s ever widening gob. Tall, angular creatures move amongst the devils wrapped in long red robes – they are treated with deference, and are quick to punish any that do not show the proper respect.

A king with a crown of glass, grass-green skin and bone laughs in a high-backed wooden throne. Behind him in a circle of steel is bound a man of average height and average features. He looks up, as if he is aware of being watched and winks.

The pool ripples and Haskeer can see no more.

The Riddle Box – Music

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

“You know a lot of things. I say it, so you can hear it. It is very important that we all know this about you, yes?  You know a lot of things. Things and springs and wheels and the click-clack of numbers falling in a row. But music?” Geranium tapped a staccato beat, two fingers on the pulse of his wrist. “It cannot be known. You can’t contain it, you can’t weigh it, you can’t put it safe on a shelf or bury it down in a hole. There is a reason that the Songs of the Lost still haunt us, that the simple melody in children’s games hum and burn in our temples as we clutch the pension-staff and stumble our way towards the grave. There is a reason that I walk penniless and proud down dark roads, with only my guitar as companion, as every true Bard of Gate City must.”

“What does –”

“Quiet now,” the bard raised two fingers to his lips. “Listen and remember. It binds as it breaks, it slips up the tallest castle walls and shivers its way into the darkest of hearts. It burns as bright as the sun, warm as an oven while I stand on the stage. I sing and every eye is mine and every heart is mine and every secret unfolds and the music drinks tears and shines and shines and shines. One song, the right song, one song for every heart. Even if they’ve never heard it, even if the song hasn’t been written yet, there it is, quarter notes and red blood on the parchment. And when the wind is at my back, I can see it. I can hear it.”

The bard’s eyes shut tight.

“And if I can sing your song, I can break your heart.”

Rime interrupted sourly, “Ridiculous.”

Get Back into the Fight

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image

And so we begin again. Careful and slow, the embers spark and the cold howls the ramshackle hovel I call me.

We begin again. With the dull swords and halberds of rust we clutch and stammer in the wendigo afternoon. Turn and face, about-step and lunge.

I remember the way. My demons have taught me well. Cruel mentors are the surest sages. Rime knows this and Jonas will learn.

Again the weight and again the City of Rain. Again the fading halls and the broken sunlight. I have built my army well, I am not just what you see. I give my words away but the doors remain shut.

Keep faith in the gatekeepers.

We begin again. I am not alone. I have miles to go. From black earth risen, I burn like the Third Moon.

Stand shoulder-wide with me and shout. This is not the day we die. Jangle skeletons and foul-diamond horde. Ogre-pain and empty wind. We stand to face you. You, and your master, the Patient Dark.

This is not the day we die.

We begin again.

Wordy-type Makings: A Blog Hop

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2014-02-23 14.32.39-1

And now I catch the baton from my friend and sadly distant conspirator, Leigh from her blog Fun Things To Do While You Are Waiting. You absolutely should navigate your web-machine to her and Coralie’s site – it’s a lifestyle blog with tons of crafty adventures and receipes — much more regularly updated than my site. I’m terrible at these blog chain letter sort of things – the fun premise will quickly descend into navel-gazing, but I’ll try to keep it frothy.

What am I working on? 

I am working on the final re-writes and edits on The Riddle Box, the sequel to my previous novel Spell/Sword.   I’m hoping to have it ready to publish in another month or two. This brings to a close several months of editing — AKA the part I hate. I’m very excited to get it out there for people to read – but more excited to be able to start work on the third book, working title: Asteroid Made of Dragons.

Side projects — writing for three Pathfinder campaigns, game prep, world information, and forum play.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’ve expounded on this at great length in the past, but let me boil it down. I’m a special snowflake and everything I do is unique and wonderful.

The name I’ve given it is ‘Swordpunk’, but through my research I’ve found that Terry Pratchett has a much better term for it – the ‘consensus fantasy universe’ – that place we all understand instinctually without need for qualification or endless description. Dragons can fly and are mean, a hero with a sword is generally a good thing to have on hand, witches are potent, elves have pointy ears, etc. etc. etc. As much as I love the current heights of epic fantasy [Martin, Rothfuss, Sanderson, Abercrombie] – I’ve grown weary of the genre taking itself so seriously. Also by traipsing in this ‘consensus’ universe, I don’t have to waste any time or reader brain wattage to re-invent the wheel. We can jump right in and get to the action.

Also my work is not particularly popular, so there’s that.

 Why do I write what I do? 

HRMMM. That’s kind of a brain bender. I don’t know if that’s even the sort of questions I’m equipped to answer. Who knows what strange events and mental misadventures have resulted in my own particular output?

I do know that the forms of fantasy make sense to me. As a writer you’re usually trying to express something – something simple, or something profound – and you grab whatever tools are at hand to get the point across. Swords make sense to me, magic is the perfect metaphor. I think if I tried to write a story set in modern day about emotions, or culture, or banking — I would only make it a few thousand words before goblin-gunners start erupting from storm drains or roc’s land on the top of city buses.

The fun part of my work is I’m absolutely certain there’s some grand point I’m trying to get across — but I’m usually mystified about what exactly it’s supposed to be. I stumble into bits and pieces of the message as I keep rambling on, but completely by accident. My crafty subconscious has something to say, but it whispers in hindsight, in the corners of things.

Spell/Sword  is the pilot episode, so a lot of its energy is spent on getting my heroes together and starting some plates a-spinning that won’t resolve until years in the future – but I like to think there’s a nice through-line about Friendship. The Riddle Box is much more on point as I grapple with my thoughts on depression, and the sick, strange madness that haunts all human endeavor.

How does my writing process work?

I am a ‘discovery writer’ as the lugubrious buzz-term goes. I don’t plot or outline in advance, though I do have a skeleton plot in my head — or rather I have big moments and fight scenes like sign posts on the road ahead. Spell/Sword I had only the most basic of ideas of where I was heading — The Riddle Box, as a murder mystery, I had to know ‘whodunnit’ so I could reverse-engineer the plot. I know outlining is king if you want to truly focus on a marketable product – but I couldn’t go to work if I knew every twist and turn, half the fun is getting to see these moments for myself.

Beyond that, I try not to fetishize my process in any way. I don’t have a set time, or place, or a special mug that I have to have with me. I set myself easy deadlines, of between 5-10 pages a week [depending on the insanity of the rest of my life] and get to typing. I write when I have time between work and home, just as long as I’ve turned in my pages by the end of the week, everything’s kosher. Admittedly, I’m bad about putting it off until Friday or Saturday and jamming out that week’s allotment in one quick stretch. If I get in a groove and write more than my allotment – that’s great! – but I can’t bank anything in advance. Each week is always 5 pages more than where I ended the previous week. I write chronologically — mostly because I have to ‘discover’ the scene, but partly because if I wrote all the fun stuff first, I’d never go back and write the connective tissue.

That’s it – I just keep chugging along until I get to the end. [Or at least what I think is the end.]

 

Huzzar! I have completed my blog hop — of course, I haven’t had the forethought to get anyone else to take the next leg from me. So,  yeah — any of you want to take the next leg? Ping me in the comments for my thanks and blessings.