Okay — finished with all of the individual edits from my reporting Alpha readers. I wrote some new stuff, cut a bunch of stuff [mostly chintzy dialogue] that wasn’t working.
Now it’s time to see how the spackle dries.
Now to read the whole book with subtractions and deletions to see how it holds together — I think I’ll record it again, and listen to it while I edit further, that was super helpful the first time around.
The Ritual of Tears
Druid-born and wild-blood meet
In roots of stone beneath the feet
of Six-Branch tree and seal the pact
made in love at Eld World wrack.
Last of all, a true-hearted knight
Breaks sword of green, ends winter’s blight.
Now weep and wail, and keep the Word
Sorrow-song forgotten, but always heard.
[ Some flavor-text from my current Pathfinder campaign, Titan’s Wake. I’ll try to do some more substantive blogging soon — but, I’m editing, intrinsically lazy, and tearing my way through Homestuck…so….yeah…. and it’s National Poetry Day!]
How much detail is too much? I’m trying to flesh out some sections of Spell/Sword with some more detail, world description, etc. – but I never want it to weigh down the forward momentum. Got to just dab a sentence here, a short paragraph there — keep it lean, but still reward the readers who want more information about the world.
Good problem to have. Tough problem to solve.
Seriously. Don’t.
Don’t stop writing. Don’t stop telling stories.
You are in the enviable position of having formed a habit that most aspiring writers would kill to obtain. Or pay untold amounts of money on tuition for Creative Writing degrees, or workshops, or storytelling camps.
For the past two years, you have written, on average, 1374 words every week. Rain, shine, babies, heartbreak, plays, shows, gigs, arguments, new games, new books, new lives….every week. That means each of you wrote 142,896 words. Three novels or one massive tome.
Just by not stopping. By continuing to go.
For most humans, it takes 10 weeks of uninterrupted routine to form a habit. The habit is there. Don’t break it.
Right now, like me, you’re starting to feel the itch. A vague restlessness, an unease. A vacancy.
I have Spell/Sword to work on. What are you working on?
Open a Word Doc. Open a Google Doc. Open a notepad. Open napkin. Open your phone and email it to yourself.
Today, not tomorrow. Now, not later.
And start. Don’t stop.
It helped me to have a schedule. It helped me to have this blog. It helped me [eventually] to own the task, to admit to myself what I was making. Do all of those things, or none.
Just don’t stop.
Because, as unbelievable as it may sound. No one but us will truly ever read Lodestar. No one will ever hear your voices.
Unless you keep singing.
I can hear them. I have heard them for two years. It would be a great loss for them to fall silent.
Write. Tell stories. Write a book.
Because you already have. Three times.
Write another one.
And then don’t stop.
Huzzar! First pass on the Beta Draft complete — only 11 more to go.
Well, maybe 15. 19ish.
Progress has been made. That’s the takeaway here, people.
I’m going to be traveling this weekend, with uncertain internet access — so expect it to be a little quiet here on the blog. If I get time before I head out, I’ll queue up something…something good? You like? The goodness? As opposed to the badness?
“So you see, I would be a terrible captain.” Ballast concluded. “We’d all be drunk, dead and fucked — not necessarily in that order in a week. And we lost a good bit of the crew during the Symphony of Blood..we need someone level headed, cool under pressure, but someone that can scare the tar out of all the grunts on board.”
Mara picked up the strange wide brimmed hat, surmounted by long dangling rabbit ears. The gunslinger thumped one with her index finger. “Okay. But I’m not wearing this.”
“But, it’s traditional, Mara.” Ballast protested.
The red-haired woman pulled a hammer back on her revolver. “That’s Captain Flemay to you, squab.”
“Aye-aye, Captain!” the sinuous rogue snapped into a sarcastic salute. “You heard the captain!”
The crew of the Red Rabbit snapped to attention, including a scarred dark elf, wearing smoked goggles. A half-orc with bright green skin nudged her, and grumbled.
“I should’ve stayed in Pice, selling my hot dog sammiches. The new boss looks tough.”
“I don’t know.” a halfling with a wild tuft of hair crossed his arms confidently.. “She’s not too bad, and wait until she sees how I can control wind!”
He raised his hand, and a small gust of wind briefly tousled his hair.
“Pretty cool, right?” Mobius grinned proudly.
In a quiet corner of the world, a small tree sapling grows next to a lake. It’s leaves are a quiet green, but edged with black. The lake’s water is pure and clean, but the grass nearby has begun to twist and yellow.
The tree grows. The tree waits. The tree remembers.
The Keeper of the Grand Library in Carroway awoke, yawning. He felt a slight headache, and was surprised to look into the concerned eyes of his daughter.
“Father…you’re awake!” she said with relief.
“Well, of course I’m awake — that’s what people do in the morning.” he grumped.
“You don’t understand, Father — it’s been months. You contracted the extremely rare, but incredibly dangerous Plotzia Influenza Convenialus — the Convenient Coma Sickness! We weren’t sure how long you were going to be out, we feared for your life!”
“Listen, Alice. I have studied my entire life, and that sickness is pure superstitious poppycock. The idea that someone could be comatose for exactly as long as some larger narrative required — preposterous! As if disease gave a rip for plot. Now help me pack my things, I must make haste for the Library in Flenelle! The first Ritual must be completed!”
Alice sighed and gently pushed the old man down onto the edge of the bed. “Father…I think you need to hear a few things first.”
The Lodestar flies.
The skies are blue, and the white clouds whip by — barely kissing the hull, the new darkwood inlay shining in the sun. The stone rails glow bright magenta, and the ship hangs like an albatross on the wind. A simple craft, unbroken lines and pure curves. It flies, an expression of joy — a necessity to the sky. The sky needs the Lodestar, it requires it..and the Lodestar loves the sky.
The ship arcs away to the west, and the vision changes. A thousand threads, a thousand lives, a thousand stories. Some are more brightly colored and vibrant than others, but they all add to the tapestry.
The barbarian, Agnar, stands at a simple grave in a field on the edge of the sea. Similar stones fill the
green field from edge to edge. A battered copper half-helm hangs on the edge of the stone. Etched into the stone are the words Commander Penny Lavlock. A True Sentinel. Agnar shares a drink with the dead, sipping from a clay jug.
Dayjen Moore leans against a large pane of glass in a stark grey room.
Enton Blake stands solicitously nearby with a large folio crammed with Seafoam business. He does not interrupt his employer’s thoughts. Some attempts have been made to corral the young man’s unruly hair, haircuts, oils — all to no avail. It sticks straight up in blonde madcap mirth. Dayjen sighs, and his breath fogs on the glass. On the other side sits another blonde man. The same face, the same eyes – but a decade older, and a century madder. ‘Nayjen’ stares back with total contempt, three gems shining on his bare chest.
The President of the Seafoam Trading Company squares his jaw in determination. “We’re going to do it, Enton. We can find a way to get those gems out safely — and help Evil Me in the process.The Heartbreaker is gone — looks like it was swallowed by that freaking Sky Wyrm, but we need to get the key out of his stomach anyway. My father ruined enough things in this world, this is one more thing we can find a way to fix.”
Enton sighs with resignation, and adds another bullet point to the President’s ever growing list.
An old but sturdy wagon rolls up the dusty stone path that leads to the ruins of the Acacian Dragoon School. Abendigo bounds from the top of the caravan to the very peak of a lonely spire six stories high. He waves back to Master Arroz in the wagon in excitement, but the gruff old master just rolls his eyes. The small caravan behind them is loaded with a few masons, a few carpenters and their families, seed and livestock…and a double dozen of potential new Dragoons, each born with their strange Gift. It will be months before the ruins are barely livable, and years before more than a handful of those below can call themselves Dragoons — but it was a start.
The young archer looked up into the afternoon sun and breathed deep. “I wish you were here to see this, my friend.” Abendigo whispered sadly.
The Darkbreakers Headquarters was dim, as Corben stepped inside – shouldering his travelling pack. His father looked up from the fierce game of dominoes he was playing with the half-orc, wizened old wood elf, and a young boy wearing no pants. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“Always.” Simon Garamonde pushed back from the table, a slight hitch in his frame the only sign of the vicious wounds he was still recovering from. “Where are we going?”
“Well, a lot of places.” the younger rogue grinned. “But how about home first? Weren’t you saying something about the ancestral Garamonde sword, hidden in the family crypts?”
“The family sword?” Simon blanched. “But it’s cursed! Double, triple, quadruple cursed — and guarded by the remnants of the Spider Queen’s horde…and..and…this is just making it sound better to you, isn’t it?”
Corben laughed and pushed open the door. Simon came over and clapped his son on the shoulder.
There was a loud noise as three chairs scraped against the stone floor in unison. “Uh…can we go?” the young boy with no pants asked, hesitantly.
The two rogues shrugged, and the Darkbreakers scrambled to gather their gear.
Three men sat in a private room, in an opulent inn. They had ample drinks and food to spare, but they did not eat or drink. One simply wasn’t thirsty, one had brought his own dark mead from the vile bees in his secret forest — and one was simply dead. Or not-alive, it’s difficult to be certain with the Toymaker.
Lannis flipped his Harrow cards idly on the table, The boredom was palpable. It had been weeks since they had gainful employment — the world was growing entirely too warm and fuzzy.
A knock at the door, and the Dark Druid straightened his immaculate bowler hat.
A youngish man with flat black hair cut in a bowl entered. On his wrists were tattooed chains, the mark of a bondslave. Behind him an old man, dark-skinned with close cropped hair followed.
The Blackwings immediately rose – the Toymaker’s new joints clacking oddly, and then fell to their knees.
“Lord Zul, we have waited patiently for your coming. I see you no longer wear your mask of office.” Lannis said respectfully.
The old man threw a green mask on the table in disgust. His bondslave, Morris, closed the door behind them. Master Tumm, the last Red Wizard of Thay by right of blood and power stood amongst his acolytes.
“We will begin again. Evil never forgets, It begins again..it endures forever.”
The Blackwings bowed to their dark lord, and whispered the response. “It endures forever.”
[This section is long, broken up into chunks for easy reading — and lazy posting.]
In Valeria, change is an unwelcome visitor — a hard-scrabble beggar pushed to the curb, by the proud families of magic that reside under the ancient purple-tiled roofs. But in the aftermath of the Grand Wizard’s death — and the horrible discovery that two members of the Council had aided the devil’s schemes — the city grabbed the beggar by the hand, and pulled him into the parlor and introduced him to their daughter.
“Is the Council met?” Jopra the Kingbinder asked, the columns of the chamber white and cool.
“It is.” Icewick the Soulsteel said calmly.
“And we are agreed?” Jopra’s white mask moved to scan the gathered wizards.
“We are.” Song the Ender intoned.
“Then we are most pleased to welcome our new members. Master Abjurer, step forward.”
Adamantine teeth shining, Gorton stepped forward, picking at the hem of his new green robe.
“Your wards are stronger than any we’ve ever seen, we can think of no better master to instruct the College of Protection — and the courage you displayed in the Battle of Bard’s Gate is already legendary.” Gorton puffed up at the Kingbinder’s words. “And it will serve you well in your hunt for the former Master of the Green District, the villainous Tumm the Madwand. Stand and be true, Master Gorton the Unbreakable.”
Gorton looked like he was about to faint or throw-up, but managed to slip the plain green mask over his face and slide into his chair.
“Master Evoker, step forward.” Jopra continued.
With a sword strapped to his side, the tall gray-haired form of Darm Rookwood seemed most out of place..and did cause a small murmur from Marigold and Lord Asmos. The magus stepped forward proudly, and picked up the red mask of the High Evoker.
“This is a high honor, and I will serve this city well.” Darm said. “But I will not cover my face. I am who I am.”
“If that is your wish, then we will not fault you. We have sinned against your school, First Magus, in ignorance, if not in deed. We have much to repay. I hope that the construction of your new academy is a good first step.” Jopra replied. “Stand and be true, Master Darm the Blade.”
He slipped the mask on over his head, leaving it cocked to the side, covering the right side of his forehead. Master Graham snorted in amusement. “Nice hat, kid. Back up to eight, but aren’t we the Council of Nine?” the gnome said rhetorically.
Jopra stiffened, his dignity ruffled, but continued on. “Yes, Illusion Master – we are one short, but none of us can replace the Grand Wizard, not in wisdom, power or knowledge. So instead, I say we add a new seat, as he would have wished — to welcome in the new, the strange — the magic for which there is no school. Step forward, Master Summoner.”
A deep, bass roar filled the quiet council chambers as the new council member was proceeded by a gigantic red boar, flames rippling through it’s fierce mane. Ham Sandwich hopped into the empty chair at the table and proceeded to much on the complimentary bowl of nuts and fresh bread. The half-elf, Vondes covered his eyes with a hand in embarrassment,and stepped forward ruefully. He laid his other hand on his eidolon’s shoulder with affection. “It will be my honor to serve the council, and Valeria.”
“The summoners are to be your main charge, but also the strange magics unknown in Valeria. Witchcraft, the mystery of the oracles, the shamans, the mystics….the City of Lore will open its doors to all that travel the river of magic, regardless of the craft they use. Take your place, Master Vondes the Mindforge. Stand, and be true.”
Vondes slipped on the freshly crafted gray mask of his office, and nudged Ham Sandwich over on the seat, and perched on the edge next to the noisily munching eidolon.
“And now. A weighty task lays before us.” The Kingbinder reached into a white pouch at his side, and pulled forth a small mirror, no larger than two-handspans — the back seemed to be made of amber, the front was pure silver reflection.
“Ah. The Dragon’s Eye.” Lord Asmos said with avarice. “ A most powerful tool for the council.”
“That must be removed from our hands.” Jopra said firmly. “It is too great a thing for any of us here to master – I have barely dipped my hands below the surface of its power, and have nearly been pulled in time and time again. Total knowledge of all things — all time and space, everything that ever happened, might have happened,is happening, may happen. All at your fingertips. Too much for any mortal, too much for the gods.”
“But we could…” Asmos interjected, only to be immediately cut off.
“No.” Master Song said.
There was an awkward quiet, as the Djinn’s face grew tight with anger, but then subsided under the Necromancer’s flat gaze.
The white-robed Kingbinder began again, smoothing over the break. “ I have already arranged for our servant to take it from our hands.”
From the shadows stepped the grey-leather rogue, Sideways. He waved nonchalantly.
“By the Dark Pact, by the honor of his tribe, by the First Magic, and the death-curse of the Grand Wizard. He will remove the Dragon’s Eye forever from this world.”
“Yup. I got it.” Sideways leered comfortingly.
“Tut-tut-tut” Master Graham the Liar said, standing up in his chair. “That’s all well and good, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to take one last look, now would it?”
The Council of Nine exchanged glances.
“Would it?” the gnome demanded.
Jopra sighed, and held the mirror forward. The white mask dipped down on his breast as he concentrated. Sideways craned his neck to get a better look, each of the masters leaned in eagerly.
“Just a glimpse, the final threads of this age as it draws to a close. The ends unravel and fray, and spin off into the future — and there I will not dare to gaze. One last glimpse through the Dragon’s Eye.”
A month or so later…
Agnar kicks open the door, three or four darkwood boards jammed under his arm. His foot goes through the door, it takes him a few moments to get his foot extricated from the splintered hole. He turns the knob and opens the door with remarkable aplomb. He is drunk.
Echo-dactyl flaps through a large bay-window, sending glass everywhere, and slams against the opposing wall. She is very drunk. Carbunkle is mostly nude, except for a thin white toga draped around his genitals — he levitates through the broken window, sipping genteely on a martini. He is old-man drunk, which is to say unbelievably hammered but with a profound sense of dignity.
Boss Kreed, sitting at his massive darkwood desk opens his fat jowls to call for his guards…when Fin appears behind his chair, and wraps a firm arm around the lumber magnate’s throat. The monk is not drunk. That would be deeply inappropriate. He’s just very, very centered.
The lantern archon, Wick, giggles drunkenly — causing all present to briefly wonder how a lantern spirit even imbibes — then points a tiny fire-finger towards Kreed.
“We’ve come to discuss – hic–disourse?–no, hic– discuss the redistrubutions—retributions—of the Darkwood Lumber wealth amongst the poor workers of Flappy Bird Hollow!”
Witty repartee, and proper pants-shitting follows.
Corben leans out of the wheelhouse, one hand on the wheel. He blinks a little more than he should, and keeps idly tossing his chakram into the air and catching it in his teeth. Haskeer lies snoring in the prow, completely oblivious. The half-orc had easily held his own drinking in the Royal Gardens, even tossing back a bottle of Purple Rot-Gut with elan, and singing some classic orc chanteys with the Vagabonder. But then a page had arrived with a gift for Haskeer, left by a traveller for ‘Oscar Spider-killer’ — one of the many gifts that had flooded their lives in the past weeks. But the note had referenced the page by name, so he had made sure to bring it right along. A simple clear bottle, with a sweet-smelling clear liquid. The note attached had said — For the crew of the Lodestar, some Dragon Drank on us. To the Queen! – The Gang at the Diner
Haskeer had laughed and taken a mighty swig, and the bottle was passed around. Then ideas were had. Then the crew was clambering through the garden, to where the ship was parked. They had plenty of time, and this adventure was long overdue.
Corben grimaced as the crew boards. The Truescales and Brightflames had been excited to be invited along on this grand adventure, and they had made a mighty pile of darkwood on the deck in an alarmingly short time. Carbunkle is the last to board, hauled bodily to the ship by a red-haired woman in a low-cut bodice. She plants a warm kiss on the snoring gnome’s forehead then flops him over the stone rails of the ship.
“Now that Darkwood Lumber is owned by the people of Falcon’s Hollow — should we really be stealing all this wood?”
A witty, drunken retort.
“Well, we don’t have time to put it back. We have to haul ass back to Caleron, we can’t have the groom be late for his own wedding!”
Well, bang a gong, y’all.
Lodestar is finished. Preposterously, absurdly finished.
The idle seed of a bored work-day two years ago, now grown into a titanic million word wunder-tree.
[That is not hyperbole. That is a low estimate of the amount that me and the gang have written.]
I’m still more than a little shell-shocked. Not only from the bizarre notion that I actually finished 
something — but just the pangs of psychic vacuum as several areas of my brain whir to a halt. I’ve had Lodestar running in the background [and foreground] of my mind for two years – what am I going to do with all these system resources?
I told a lot of stories, and hopefully helped the players tell theirs. There’s literally so much, that there are sections I can barely remember.
You’ll notice that I’m posting the epilogue for Lodestar in bits and pieces over the next week or so, just a little buffer while I grieve, and GEAR THE FUCK UP.
For what, you ask.
Time to start editing the book, the Spell/Sword for Beta Draft reading! I’m making a Blog Promise that my Beta Draft will be ready before Halloween. This may be over-bold, but hey — I just helped write a million-word internet epic, nothing is impossible.
Once the Lodestar stuff peters out, the plan is to do more regular blogging and short stories for here — I clearly are going to have some energy to redirect.
Also expect some navel-gazing — WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN, MAN????
spell-sword.com 