Tag: swordpunk

Spell/Sword Critical Reception

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Four men sat at a table, rectangular with knife-blade edges. Steam filled the air, blasts of heat and cold.

Sean Andrew Murray - Artist
Sean Andrew Murray – Artist

They each wore floor-length white robes with deep cowls. Runes shone on the edge of each cowl with a fiendish light. Their names were known to each other, their proper names, the names that the world spoke in tones of fire and glory. But when they met here for their Conclave of Secrets and Power they took great care to use their Names of Secrets and Power.

“Where is he?” the One Called Wizzle said.

“Late. As usual,” the One Called [(4x) + 17.3y] sighed.

“I’m sure he will be among us at the proper time. When the moon and the wind and the turning of this fragile earth sing together in perfect harmony,” said the One Called Jambalaya, in between noisy bites of a pine cone.

Wizzle and [(4x) + 17.3y] rolled their eyes. Jambalaya was something of a wood nymph, only occasionally interfacing properly with reality. The fourth man said nothing, but continued to scribble frantic notes on a stack of napkins in front of him.

“How’s that coming, Fardancer?” Wizzle asked.

The One Called Fardancer hissed and wrapped his free arm around the napkins.

“Okay, then.” Wizzle stroked his beard in consternation.

A moment of quiet floated across the table, sickly and ominous like a vomiting ghost. The only sounds were the crunch of Jambalaya finishing his pine cone, Fardancer scribbling and muttering, and the other two men adjusting their cowls to better disguise their features.

“Okay. I can’t wait any longer, we’re just going to get started.” Wizzle oriented his beard at the other three in turn. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

“But the winds, the winds are not yet proper! Our art will be forever marred and turn the gyre—”

“Can it, Jambalaya.” [(4x) + 17.3y] crossed his arms.

“I think we all know why we’re here,” the beard continued. “A new power has arisen in the South, a troublesome upstart.  His followers are legion and the blasphemy that he spews grows and grows with each passing hour. It is a dark fungus, a creeping creep of untold crep. If we are not careful than it will spread beyond our ability to stamp out, much like the the weeds that grow in my garden. Oh, did I show you the picture of me and my son in the garden? Oh man, he did this ridiculous thing with some dandelions, you guys are going to love it.”

Wizzle pawed at his robes, searching for his phone. [(4x) + 17.3y] leaned across the table and shook the bearded man’s shoulders kindly but firmly.

“Please stay focused, my friend.” [(4x) + 17.3y] straightened his glasses. “We do not have time for one of your famous digressions.”

“You’re one to talk.” Wizzle retorted. “How about you explain to me how water flows downhill for thirty more pages?”

“That’s not germane. And a misrepresentation. The water flows uphill in my world due to the reversed polarities of gravity on fluid. It’s why it was so important that my Aquaemancelers could make the water flow downhill, as was prophesied in the 12,785th year of the Jtang Dynasty. Maybe if —”

“Oh god, you’re about to get out a chart, aren’t you?”

[(4x) + 17.3y] folded his hands neatly on the table. “I…might have a few charts in my robes, yes.”

Wizzle pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead and groaned.

“Maybe…” [(4x) + 17.3y] continued. “Maybe when you’ve written more than two books, you’ll learn to appreciate the efficacy of a well-made chart.”

“Excuse me?!?” Wizzle’s head popped up.

“Don’t you see, my friends?” Jambalaya cried, brushing pine cone debris off his black robes. “It’s this new book. This Spell/Sword! It’s tearing us apart!”

Wizzle and [(4x) + 17.3y] stared hard at Jambalaya.

“Weren’t you wearing white robes…before?” the glasses-wearing man tried to appear polite.

“Oh. Yes. That happens.” Jambalaya managed to look slightly embarrassed.

“Jambalaya is right.” Somber Wizzle rapped his knuckles on the rectangular table. “I don’t know why, but somehow this silly little book, this freaking Spell/Sword is tearing at the very fabric of–”

“You boys need a refill?” The waitress leaned over the cramped table with a coffee pot.

The white-robed men blinked at her for a moment. Her brown and white apron was freshly pressed, her gray hair tightly wound in a neat oval. The Waffle House was empty except for the four of them, their thick girth and arcane robes crammed into a corner booth.

“No, thank you, Glenda.” Wizzle managed.

The other three men shook their heads as well, and Glenda smiled and floated away.

“Why do we meet here, anyway?” [(4x) + 17.3y] complained. “None of us even live in this state.”

“Don’t you see. That is the thing. The very thing.” Jambalaya smiled, one tear rolling down his cheek. “Only outside of ourselves can we see ourselves.”

“Time for me to talk.” Fardancer interrupted, displaying his stack of ink-daubed napkins with pride. “I’ve prepared a solid list of reasons why Spell/Sword sucks. As soon as I post this online, the world will know that it sucks, and we can go back to our lives without a further thought.”

“Uh…arr. I’m not sure it’s quite that straightforward, Far–” Wizzle began.

“RESPECT THE LIST.” Fardancer slammed the napkins down on the table, neatly overturning the sugar dispenser. “Okay. Verbal List Power Activatus!

1. No one’s ever heard of it, so it can’t be very important. Only things that people have heard of are worth discussing. I’ve talked to all the very important people I know on Twitter, and none of them have heard of it, so it’s nonsensical to keep discussing it.

2. Even if it was important, it’s different and weird and silly. All of us have worked very hard to earn a little respect and credibility for genre fiction. To have this weird kid come along and try to make what we write about silly again undoes years of work. I like getting paid for my work, and I can’t keep getting serious-work money if all of a sudden people think we’re silly again.

3. Wil Wheaton said he thought it sucked.

4. Spell/Sword can eat my poop.

5. And by my poop, I mean the poop that comes out of my butt.

6. And by my butt, I mean —

“That’s enough, Fardancer!” [(4x) + 17.3y] waved both hands. “I think we get the gist.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Wizzle patted the napkins respectfully. “All good here.”

“Well,  I’ll go ahead and put this up on my blog, that ought to take care of things.” Fardancer pulled a smartphone, two tablets, a Chromebook, a Macbook Air, a TRS-80, and an abacus out from under his robe in quick succession.

“I like to write on oak leaves.” Jambalaya said, lost in dreams. “Oak leaves, just as they turn scarlet. I write with a grasshopper’s leg dipped in some Faerie Inkque that my beloved brought me from—”

The newly black-cloaked man’s words were cut off  by hellfire engine roar. A massive black motorcycle tore into the Waffle House parking lot, chrome and leather and a Valkyrie’s virginity.

“He’s here.” Wizzle said.

The motorcycle pulled into a spot and then hopped up on the sidewalk. The front tire crashed into red-flecked newsbox. Bent metal and flying newsprint filled the air. The rider got off the bike, and stalked in through the glass door entrance. He wore a sailor’s cap, and his white robe thrown around his shoulders like a cocksure cape. In his hands he carried a massive two-handed hammer, something that would be more appropriate at Medieval Times than Home Depot.

“Darklorrr.” [(4x) + 17.3y] said nervously.

“Coffee!” the One Called Darklorr bellowed as he stumped over to corner booth. “And four waffles on top of five other waffles. No syrup, just bring me some melted butter and three mugs filled with chili.”

Darklorr tossed his hammer onto the table and surveyed the other four men with a paternal eye. “I know I’m late. Deal with it.”

“We were just talking about Spell/Sword, Darklorr.” Wizzle gingerly pushed the hammer off the hem of his white sleeve. “And how we needed to handle it.”

“Handle it? Spell/Sword? HAR.” Darklorr laughed, pushing his sailor’s cap back. “Listen close, boys. I already know how to handle this. I’ll do what I always do with things that people love.”

The four others leaned in close with expectant horror.

“Kill it.” Darklorr smirked.

He picked his hammer back up and leaned it on his shoulder with a cavalier air. Then he started to laugh. The other four men looked at each other uncertainly, then echoed his laughter with their own.

[(4x) + 17.3y] quickly scribbled something on a spare napkin, and slid it across the table to Wizzle.

OR GO ON A TWO MONTH PIZZA TOUR, it read.

Wizzle shrugged in response, but continued to echo Darklorr’s amusement.

The Conclave of Secrets and Power had convened. They had made their decision.

Spell/Sword didn’t stand a chance.

[Just me throwing some eggs at some author’s that I respect, admire, and envy. I’ll send a free Spell/Sword button to the first five people who can name all five.]

I Dreamed the First 5 Episodes of a TV Show

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

I’m a quasi-lucid dreamer, so its pretty common for me to have a reasonably solid recall of what I dream on any given evening. Especially if I discuss it with someone immediately upon awakening, it helps to lock in the memory as a narrative. My beloved was treated to just such an incident Sunday morning when my late morning wanderings through the Dreamworld left me with a pretty solid outline for a television show.

“It’s a CW show, I think. Or at least a faux CW show. Part of how the show works is to get the audience invested in 147_jeffreyalanlovewithspearandswordweba certain style, then slowly subvert it.”

Dead silence for several moments, then my beloved stalked into the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on. Fair enough.

I’m putting  a brief description here on the blog for several reasons:

  • Sweet idea.
  • Some lonely TV exec might stumble across this and want to steal/buy it.
  • I can only pimp Spell/Sword so much in a given week.
  • My memory is a cagey beast. It’s good to get some things down while I still have it in my sights.

So, my dream centered around a group of high school kids travelling on an oversized school bus. They traveled from school to school, encountering a different wacky circumstance each week. Teen angst, unrequited love, all the tropes you can stomach. That’s where the CW idea came in — just a bus full of pretty, pretty folks. Except for one weird dude [more on him later.]

Admittedly, in my dream-logic — the kids went to each school to go to some sort of convention. Very DragonCon — lots of people in costumes, events, performances, etc. Clearly that won’t work for the television show, so I think a good conceit would be that the kids are from a Performing Arts Magnet School – they spend 4 months out of every year travelling from school to school, putting on shows.

The goal is to have the first 4 episodes be like Glee — but first half season of Glee when it was actually charming and good. Musical numbers, dance, scenes from famous plays, the works. We’ll get to know the main cast through their roles in the troupe — Lead Actor, Lead Actress, Tech Kid, Beautiful Wallflower, Soulful Fat Kid, Hyper Nerd Girl, etc.  The first few episodes are almost pure cotton candy — the kids have a demanding show to put on, and they pull themselves together at the last moment. One of the kids falls in love with someone at one of the school – but OH NOES, they have to leave on the bus at the end of the week . An Important Lesson is Learned About Disabilities/Drug Abuse/Gender Roles/Topic Du Jour.

I think the idea of the ‘School a Week’ premise lends itself well to the format. Lots of opportunities for Special Guest Stars, Themed Schools [Oh NO, this is the Racist School!], etc. For the show to work, the trope must be perfectly executed — the audience must be purely committed to this bubblegum pop show.

Which brings us to Episode Five. And the Weird Dude.

The one kid that doesn’t fit with the group, on the bus, on this show always wears black. The size of a linebacker, he wears a black trench coat with the collar always pulled up, obscuring most of his face almost like a mask. He has a battered backpack that he keeps near him at all times. He never speaks. He always wears black dirt bike gloves.

In my dream, the other kids just seemed to accept that he was there. All of them avoided him, of course, but there wasn’t really an explanation for why he was on board. I think for the show we”ll need some sort of contrivance — maybe he’s a kid from a bad past, who’s on the trip for rehabilitation? Maybe he’s the bus driver’s son — the teacher’s son? Or maybe no explanation at all – the kids think of him as That Weird Kid — accept his presence, but ignore him most of the time.

During the first four episodes, the audience is treated to a few glimpses of him. Staring out of windows into the dark, sitting silently in crowded lunch rooms. A few of the younger Kids on the Bus try to befriend him, but are met with stoic silence.

Artist - Jack Foster
Artist – Jack Foster

Most disturbing, the audience sees the Weird Kid collect a weird assortment of what could be considered weapons. Paper weights, letter openers, the arm off a desk — all crammed into his ratty old backpack.

The goal would be that astute viewers feel a growing sense of unease about the Weird Kid, a dark undercurrent to all the wacky hijinks ensuing each episode. Is the show working towards some sort of Colombine/Newtown sitiuation?

Finally, Episode Five.

The episode transpires very much like the first four — the Kids on the Bus arrive, and put on a performance for the school, in between trying to bone up on their course material for the EOCT on the horizon.  The main conflict is between them, and the entrenched theatre kids already at the school. They resent these fancy-ass kids coming in and stealing their thunder — but then they learn an Important Lesson about working together, and team up to put on the Best Show Ever.

After the last commercial break, we come back to the lunch room. The Kids are being congratulated by their new friends after the performance, and are packing up their things to get back on the bus. In the midst of this jubilation  the Weird Kid stands up and speaks for the first time.

Or rather he screams. A primal yawp, a guttural cry of absolute frustration and pain. The lunchroom goes silent, and shocked students pull back, giving the huge kid in the trench coat a wide berth. Some go for their cell phones to call 911, but they are stopped by the icy gaze that Weird Kid fixes on all of them. He looks at them with a deep well of sadness, pity and contempt — and slowly begins to stalk out of the school A long tracking shot of him walking through the halls, all who encounter him quail and make way.  Not a word is spoken — this should be a long sequence. A total departure from the frenetic, happy fun-times of the show previously.

The Weird Kid slams the doors of the school open and walks out into the late afternoon sun, fall leaves are drifting through the air. He looks up into the sky, lost in thought. The two youngest Kids on the Bus [AJ and AJ] creep up to the Weird Kid, and stir up the courage to ask him what’s wrong.

The Weird Kid places a gloved hand on each of their shoulders, and shakes his head. He leads them to the bus as he speaks quietly. “You can not understand. The time is upon us. The dark time, the end time. Ragnarok is a silly word, but it is the time.”

Weird Kid takes his seat and stares out the window again.

The other Kids get on the bus, and they pull away from the school.

They drive away for a few moments, then cross a bridge over a lake — seen earlier in the episode upon arrival. tumblr_lyh47jWq1H1qchs4mo1_500The bus slows to a halt, as they spot a group of people on the far side, it appears to be some sort of parade.

The parade advances — no instruments, no floats, only people in regimented lines. They wear the costumes that the Kids on the Bus wore for this episode’s performance. Their eyes are blank and empty.

And then, things begin to appear behind the parade, making their way along side. Vaguely man-shaped, tall stilt-like legs and arms, small circular heads surmounted with oblong caps.

The Weird Kid springs to action, ripping his backpack open. “Let me off the bus. It’s time, I’ll fight. I’ll fight!”

A mishmash of improvised weapons fall out, and Weird Kid grabs the two largest — he bulls past the teacher and bus driver and out the side door.

Just in time to see the tall things begin their work. They begin to eviscerate the parade – calmly, surgically — cutting off limbs, peeling off flesh, slitting hamstrings, and a dozen other horrors of torture. Weird Kid takes a step forward, but then quails as one of the tall things approach. Through a haze it seems to transform into a dark-haired man wearing the uniform of an EMT.

“You kids allright?” the thing asks. “There’s been a terrible accident, some sort of gas released in the area. Making people see things. Could you all get off the bus so we can check you out?”

Weird Kid flees back onto the bus, and slams the door behind him.

“Drive.” he says. “It’s no use. It’s no use.”

The bus driver floors the bus in reverse, and the Kids on the Bus sit back down in utter shock. The bus drives off into the gathering dark and an uncertain future.

IS THAT WEIRD ENOUGH? NOPE, I THOUGHT ABOUT IT SOME MORE.

This all made perfect sense in my dream, but this is where it really goes down to Crazytown.

All of the Kids on the Bus are the heroes of the Illiad. They are the reincarnations, avatars, whatever of the Greek heroes — and the time has come for them to stand against the might of the gods.

The conceit would be that Homer’s Illiad is a version of a real event — a showdown between mortal and immortal, with the fate of the world in the balance.

If this sounds awesome to you, then you are officially a Classics/English nerd.

The tall things are the gods, or maybe their most powerful servants — something alien and other, some powerful force that was stomped out in the time of Homer. And now its up to this bus full of CW pretty kids to step up to the plate.

I EVEN STARTED FIGURING OUT WHO WAS WHO ON THE BUS.

The Weird Kid is Diomedes [Dennis Mead], he who even the God of War fears. And interestingly enough, not the main character of the show. The two kids who try to befriend him are Ajax and Ajax [AJ and AJ], I think I would flip the script and make Achilles and Odysseus female and the leads of the show. Agamemnon is the teacher, Meneleaus the bus driver. Oh man, I could go on. Helen is male, and so is Paris. Hector is my secondary lead.

I just love the idea of establishing all the Glee/High School tropes — then cramming them into the oldest of tales, to turn back the clock on those tropes to their most primal forms.

And this is what my beloved has to hear on the way to lunch on a Sunday morning.

Names for the show:

Kids on the Bus

Heroes [oh, that one’s taken?]

Legends

Thanks for reading.

Supernatural can’t stay on forever, after all…

Zero Escape – Nerd Matters

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

[It’s been pretty tireless self-promotion here at Spell/Sword for the past week or so. How about some dyed-in-

Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown

the wool geekery to ease the sting? These are my DM notes from the Pathfinder game I ran earlier this week, presented with little to no context. If your eyes have already glazed over at this point, I wouldn’t bother reading further.]

 

Scene One: In the Cell

Most of the party wakes up at the same moment. [Justin’s Character] remains unconscious.

Everyone is wearing whatever clothes they had on when they teleported from the crumbling Stone Roots, but every other piece of gear has been removed. [DC 20 Sleight of Hand check to have hidden one Tiny object.] Falcon is nowhere to be seen. Everyone’s wounds have been healed, but they show signs of natural healing, not magical — suggesting some time has passed since they departed Rill.

The cell is 50 feet square, gleaming gray metal, adorned with regular bolts and rivets. Modular benches are welded to the floor in a square in the center of the room. On the far wall is a large crank over a spout, directly beneath it is a large hole with a metal grate over it.

The door displays no hinges or handle or window. The symbol of “0” is engraved into the metal, it gleams a dark copper shade.

The party have a few minutes to talk, compare notes. The Elven Cleric wakes up and introduces himself.

At last, a metal squawk fills the air — then a mechanically reproduced voice fills the cell.

“You must pass through the Dream to find the Truth.  You must swallow the Truth to find the Heart. The Heart burns and we shine in the darkness of the Dream. Follow me, Children — and Remember.”

“These words are written in the book that brought you here. These words were spoken by the Dragon Prime just before he fell into his endless slumber, he spoke these words to his acolytes and fell beneath the sands.”

There is a scraping metallic noise coming from the grate. If anyone checks, a large plate has slid into place closing off the drain.

“You have served us well adventurers. The seals chip and shatter with time and skill, but you have broken two in a matter of days with nothing more than luck and ignorance. The Guardian of the Endless Road and the Stone Roots of Rill — both destroyed and gone, blowing away in the winds of the Descabellado. For this you have been forgiven. The murder of Lord Argon and his retainer Lithium have been washed from your slate.”

The crank on the faucet begins to move, and clear water begins to pour into the cell.

“Forgiven. Forgiven and spared. And chosen — yes, chosen. Chosen for something greater, to become something greater. Servant of the Dragons, yes — we will take you into the Dream, and your true forms will emerge. You will break the chains of the foolish Balance.”

The members of the party become drowsy with a magical sleep. As they fall unconcious all can see the pool of water spreading from the back edge of the cell and rolling slowly towards their closing eyes.

Scene Two: Indoctrination

The party blinks.

They stand in a room very similar in size to the cell, but the similarity ends there. The walls are made of lines of light, squares – a wire frame of energy. Where the cell door was, an open archway leads into a formless void.

In the center of the room, stands a tall wood elf with dark skin. She wears a floor length dress of sheer material, bodice plunging nearly to her navel.Tattooed in the center of her chest is the symbol of the Dragon’s Dream. Her hair is wrapped in a high twist, coiled with some sort of thick brass cable. She doesn’t appear to be substantial, she glows like a light purple phantom.

Artist - Sam Bosma
Artist – Sam Bosma

“I am Xenon. Welcome to the Dream.”

At some point the party will notice that they similarly do not appear tangible. Each party member glows as a mental projection of themselves. [What color is your mind?]

“You must pass through the Gestalt. Travel forward. Learn and survive. Apparent time moves slower than actual time, but your shells still lie unconscious in a room that slowly fills with water. Dally and they will drown. And sadly…your true selves cannot survive without your shells, at least not yet.”

“You are young to this way, your minds only have a fraction of the potential that we can unlock. For now you have what you believe you have — the residual impressions of the items and skill you carry in the physical world. In time, with our training, these limitations will fall away. Now begin.”

Xenon erupts into a beam of light, that arcs away across the dark void.

When the party passes through the first archway — they unlock:

 

PSYCHIC Rank: 0

1

2-3

4-5

6-7

8-9

10-11

12-13

14-15

16-17

18-19

-5

-4

-3

-2

-1

0

+1

+2

+3

+4


A floor forms from green squares of nothing as the party proceeds into the void.

 

Room One:

The room is circular, about 100 feet in diameter. A doorway is at 2 on the dial, but the center of the room is dominated by a vast square table, 20 feet on an edge. An elaborate clockwork city sits on the table, hundreds of tiny houses, vehicles, people, all whirring and moving in perfect harmony. DC 20 Perception to notice the Draconian details to the model — tiny claws, spines on the roofs, gears shaped like dragon’s jaws, smoked glass like dragon’s fire.

Then, black blobs begin to ooze up through the floor and take the form of primal ogres, and attack. They seem to be completely focused on destroying the table.

The door evaporates when the last ogre falls.

 

Room Two:

The next room has the appearance of a temple, or cathedral. Wide pillars support an arched ceiling holding back the void. The outlines of cowled humans cluster around men with the heads of dragons, who touch them kindly and speak in hushed tones. The dragon-men beam with the expressions of proud teachers.

There are three main clusters/classes – then one dragon-man standing alone in the pulpit.

The three teachers speak in Eld tongue, the Examiner speaks in Common.

Daniele Buetti - Is My Soul Losing Control? (2006)
Daniele Buetti – Is My Soul Losing Control? (2006)

Red Teacher – DC 15 Will – 1d4 Temporary WIS drain

Fail: +1d4 PSY Succeed: +1d8 PSY

You see a vast field of lights spanning across the globe – dreaming minds slipping into the void and flying around and around the physical world, as free as the birds of the air.

Blue Teacher – DC 15 Will – 1d4 Temporary INT drain

Fail: +1d4 PSY Succeed: +1d8 PSY

You see a vast creature, a Titan — stomping across the fields of green. Decay follows in its wake, rivers fall sere and desert winds begin to blow. The people retreat to their cities, and try desperately to resist, but they are tramped underfoot.

White Teacher – DC 15 Will – 1d4 Temporary CHA drain

Fail: +1d4 PSY Succeed: +1d8 PSY

You see yourself in a cage, a cage of stone. It reminds you of the roof of the Stone Roots. Hundreds of people are crammed into the cage, they claw and bite at the bars — or simply turn their backs inwards and ignore it. You walk to the wall and step through as if it was made of water.

Gray Examiner

PSY DC 10

What is the Dream? The endless potential of the sentient mind. The Hidden Kingdom of the Dragons.

PSY DC 15

What is the Truth? The Balance is a lie.

PSY DC 15

What is the Heart? You are only caged if you choose to be.

 

The Gray Examiner steps aside , and a the dais irises open into a set of stairs leading downwards.

 

Room Three:

The stairs terminate on a featureless plain. Party makes out a faintly shining beacon to the north, as they approach, it reveals itself to be a tower with a torch on the top.

Xenon’s voice whispers in the void.

jeffreyalanlove:The Hound
jeffreyalanlove:The Hound

“You can save the planet.”

“You can undo what has been done.”

“Repair the breaking of the world.”

“You can break the Titan itself.”

“Break the Titan and break your own chains, Children of the Dragon!!!”

A second light appears at the top of the tower, and the party realizes they are looking into two burning eyes of a massive stone goliath. It pulls a vast scimitar from its chest and moves to attack! Scattered around the field are small nodes of psychic energy, a PSY roll of 15 unleashes a burst of energy against the Titan.

After defeat, the featureless plain collapses and the party slowly drifts down into a room similar to the first. Six Doors wait, each marked with an odd symbol and a word scrawled in Common on the door.

 

Xenon’s voice: Choose your name, choose your place in the Children. Choose a door and take what is offered. You are one of us now until the dragons awaken. Accept the power that is given and be blessed, or deny it and be enslaved. Or do nothing and drown. The choice is yours.

 

Beryllium – [Domingo]

Magnesium – [Rhoga]

Calcium – [Nenemi]

Strontium – [Anka]

Barium – [No-Name]

Radium – [Sir Mander]

 

The party each select a door — if they take too long, they all start to feel a pressure in their ears, and in their chest, the water is rising into their lungs. Each member goes into a door, and find themselves in a small closet. There is a stool, and a table with a chalice.

 

Those who accept the Dragon’s power gain 1d10 PSY points and Dragon Power: Telepathy 1/day. 10 min/level. you plus 1 person per 3 levels.

 

Those who resist gain 1d4. -2 Will saves against Draconic Effects.


The Dream begins to break up, and the everyone coughs and flails in the cold water they are laying in. Everyone stumbles to their feet, and see that the door of their cell lies open.

Book Feels

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

spellinside

It’s still very surreal to have the proof of the book here. That this thing that’s lived in my head for years is now a physical object. That I can reach into my bag and pull it out and touch it. That it can prop open a door, hold down the corner of a picnic blanket, serve as a completely ineffective projectile weapon.

I took some quick pictures to share on the Facebook Page [What? You haven’t liked Spell/Sword on Facebook? NAUGHTY.] Like a proud papa I want to make sure anyone who follows the blog gets to see them as well.

Such a tall genre-busting fantasy novel!
Such a tall genre-busting fantasy novel!

The book it’s standing on is the new Lemony Snicket book, and it’s super awesome by the way. It was just a convenient stand, my book is not trying to establish any sort of dominance in the pack.

Mobile Suite pilots are my core demographic.
Mobile Suit pilots are my core demographic.

People have asked me how I feel — and as usual I don’t have a ready answer. Proud? Yes. Excited? Yes? Terrified? More than a little.

So close to the finish line. One last pass through the proof to catch any errors or formatting issues — and to have a crisis of faith on the quality of innumerable facets of the narrative. After that, just a few more days and the release date will be set.

A Succinct List of Why the Spell/Sword Cover is Awesome.

G. Derek Adams6 Comments
Cover Design/Layout: margaretpoplin.comIllustration:poopbird.com
Cover Design/Layout: margaretpoplin.com
Illustration:poopbird.com

1. Mentions witches.

2. Has a sword on it.

3. Look at those crazy numbers! What’s that all about?

4. Well designed shoes.

5. Legible.

6. I mean, for real..those numbers! They are so interesting and strange. I’ll be the author is pretty cool. And handsome.

7. That girl looks pretty mean. I’ll bet she’s a badass.

8. What’s up with that kid’s hair? Ha ha ha…I mean, really.

9. Where can I get some of those shoes?

10. Ten reasons seems pretty arbitrary.

11. Why not eleven?

12. Seriously, kid. Get a comb.

13.  It’s not hip. It’s not cool. It’s not edgy or geek chic or expansive. It would look completely out of place next to a Wheel of Time cover, a Game of Thrones cover, and the Name of the Wind cover. It would look completely out of place on the Fantasy shelf at Barnes & Noble. And that’s the point.

14. It’s simple. It’s clean. It’s dorky. It delights me that people who read the paper version will be slightly embarrassed to have people see the cover. It raises a giant Nerd Flag and waves it for all the world to see.

15. Wait. What’s the weird little symbol on the spine? Mysterious.

16. It’s distinct, it’s different, it’s memorable.

17. Kind of like that kid’s hair.

18. For better or worse the cover is exactly what I want. It’s exactly what you’ll find inside. A weird, off-kilter world just shy of a cartoon fever dream. Things are silly, things are odd, things are real. Silly things matter even though they shouldn’t.

19. Oh, hey! It’s got witches in it.

 

Spell/Sword Inspiration

G. Derek Adams4 Comments
Aragorn.
Aragorn.

“Why’d you write the book?”

“Huhn?” I said, cornflakes falling from my surprised mouth.

“The book. Spell/Sword. Why did you write it? What inspired you?”

“Uhhhh.” The spoon hovered over the bowl. “Look, my cereal is getting soggy and you know I am borderline neurotic about that, so…”

“Fine. I was only showing a little interest in your work, a little curiosity if you will. Thanks for responding so elegantly.”

My mouth was already full of more cereal, so it took a moment for me to respond. I munched furiously and swallowed, pointing accusingly with the spoon — then took another bite. My hatred of soggy cereal is a cruel mistress.

“You’ve never cared before! Why the interrogation all of a sudden?” I demanded through half a mouthful of cornflakes.

[It actually sounded more like “Myouff nevarr cared befoo! Ay the inrerroration paul of a suddeth?”]

The orange cat flicked its tail and said nothing. I hate it when he’s like this. Aragorn is more sphinx than

Aragorn.
Aragorn.

housecat, a grand old lion and shaman of the Cat Tribe — but he can be a proper bastard when the mood strikes him. Like most cats.

“Hey…look. I’m sorry.” I took one last quick bite of pre-soggy cornflakes. “It’s just a big question.”

Aragorn eyed me, green eyes level.

I wiped some milk off my chin. “It is!”

The orange cat sighed. “You don’t have an answer, do you? People like to know where books come from, what motivated the author, the journey from idea to page to finished product. You should have a short, easily-digestible sound bite prepared for this question. Don’t you know anything about marketing? Prospective customers want an easy hook when purchasing from an artist online. Young Genius, Aged Artist Returning to the Craft, Nerd Royalty, Passionate Young Woman/Man, Social Justice Crusader, Super Cool Hipster, Erotic Smut-Peddlar. Pick an easy bucket and climb up in there, silly human. You should really have all this figured out—you are self-publishing after all.”

“But the answer isn’t short or easily digestible. It’s not even coherent.” I protested. “And that is some seriously cynical e-marketing advice, Aragorn.”

“I’m a cat. We take in cynicism with our mother’s milk.”

“How does it taste?” My eyes dipped of their own volition towards the mostly empty cereal bowl in my hands.

Aragorn flicked his tail again and turned to leave.

“Wait, wait! I just don’t have an easy answer. I’m not one of those people who knew from age 9 that their dream was to write. You know? Study hard, build their craft, working slowly and inexorably towards their heart’s goal? And I’m not one of those people who were just minding their own business when a lightning bolt flash-seared their pants to the chair, and they immediately started writing a Profound Work. I mean there was some of both of that, but it all kind of happened in fits and starts — and mostly by accident.”

The orange cat looked over his shoulder with faint interest, halting his exit. I put the cereal bowl with the small residue of milk at the bottom to buy myself a little more time to prevaricate. Aragorn approached the offering, keeping his green eyes on me.

“I mean, sure. I’ve been a reader basically my whole life. I was reading my mom’s books when I was 10, way before I was ready for them. Dune, Sword of Shannara, everything I could get my hands on. And fantasy was always the thing that fascinated me. All through middle school and high school, just burning my way through every piece of genre fiction that the library and my meager funds could provide. Eddings, Tolkien, Williams – anything, everything! And maybe in some sort of vague, half-hearted way I noodled around with the thought of becoming a writer some day.”

Aragorn’s tongue rasped away at the milk in the bottom of the bowl in the sudden quiet as I took a breath.

“But never seriously, never with any drive. Sure, I wrote a few scenes and skits and short stories through high school and college, but it never even occurred to me to think of myself as a writer. Maybe because the people in my Creative Writing class who did were insufferable ponce-wicks — but also because me and the Future are always on our first date. I like her, things seem to be going more or less well, but I don’t know her at all.”

“Hmph.” Aragorn chuckled into the milk. “So, how did you accidentally write a book?”

"Stupid human."
“Stupid human.”

“Well, not really by accident. Okay — this is long and involved, let me give you the short-short version. A couple of years ago, I started running a Pathfinder campaign…”

“What?”

“You know, Pathfinder? It’s a lot like Dungeons & Dragons, but it’s more similar to 3.5 than that awful, awful 4th edition.”

The orange cat simply blinked and went back to cleaning the cereal bowl.

“Okay. You don’t care about that. Uh…okay, me and some friends started writing a story together online. We mainly did it to avoid boredom at our respective jobs, but it quickly turned into something very expansive and involved. Like, over the two years we wrote over a million words for this story.”

“Is that a lot?”

Cats. They just refuse to be impressed.

“Yes. It’s a lot, Aragorn. And in the middle of all that I developed a whole world, hundreds of characters, super involved multi-layered plots and history and backstory and..you see where this is going? I suddenly had the Stupid Epiphany: This is how novelists work. They start, and they don’t stop — then at some point they have enough words to call it a novel.”

“That is stupid.” Aragorn said.

“So, in the midst of this vague idea, I met a guy at DragonCon named Joe Peacock.”

“Is that a real person? And did you just verbally hyperlink something?”

“Yes and yes. He gave this awesome presentation on Akira–”

“Okay, stop that. Stop linking things in the middle of our conversation, it’s just rude.” The orange cat’s tail lashed with agitation.

“Sorry. Anyway, I was looking on his blog and I stumbled across this massive article he wrote about Self-

Artsy shot.
Artsy shot.

Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing. It was really cut and dried, step by step instructions. It reduced the process to something concrete — something that I could actually see myself doing. Combined with my Stupid Epiphany it got me to open up a Google Doc and type ‘Chapter One’. I’ve never started a novel because I was absolutely sure I would never finish — and if I did nothing would come of it. Now I felt like neither of those were excuse enough anymore.”

“So,” the orange cat mused. “You wrote a book to prove that you could write a book? That’s it?”

” Partly, I guess. That got me through the first chapter, but after that it was about telling the story.”

“The story?” Aragorn curled up into a more comfortable position. ” What’s your book about?”

“Oh god. Well…” I picked up the immaculately scoured cereal bowl and dropped it in the sink. “How long do you have for this?”

[To be continued…maybe? 

Take a minute and ‘Like’ our page on Facebook, that way you can enjoy my randomness at more regular intervals.]

Help Wanted: Glassroots

G. Derek Adams5 Comments

Help me help you help ME.

As long as I’m the one on the net gain side of this Help Chain at the end of the day.

Daniele Buetti - Artist
Daniele Buetti – Artist

I’m taking my first scary steps into self-promotion.  The book should be ready to publish at the end of the month, so it’s time to put my Serious Pants on. I’ve set up a fan page on Facebook, I’m going to be modifying this site to be a little more buyer-friendly, and I’m steeling myself for a long, loooong process of asking for people’s help.

Because that’s what I’m going to need. I’m self-publishing — and as much of a bully as I am, and as much of a  shameless snake-oil huckster I am– I can only move so many of these books by myself. I need my friends, I need my acquaintances  I need total strangers.

So please — help.  All I want is for people to read it.  Buy it, sure — but more importantly read. Click the ‘Like’ Box, share posts across your laptops and phones and iPads and Nintendo 3DSs.

Glassroots is the term I’m putting forward for this process. I’m sure that someone somewhere already came up with this term, but it sounded pretty clever to me as I was staring into space in the shower last night.

Mental Transcript: …………chess pieces..cheese pieces…they should make cheese chess pieces…mmmm, gouda…gotta work my way up the internet ladder with the book, sort of like a grassroots political campaign…what’s a cool internet word for that…is there a cool internet word for that…? ….grassroots, grassroots, grassroots….glassroots? yeah! phones are made of glass and laptops are made of glass, well not really it’s some sort of space age polymer, but it sure sounds like a cool word that people should say…i’m awesome….like gouda…

It’s interesting putting myself in the role of the supplicant — or the traveling minstrel. Going from internet hovel to digital inn, singing for my supper. I’ll try not to annoy you people too much.

Spell/Sword Interview and Podcast

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

I was interviewed for a local podcast, hosted by the inimitable Demon of the Sea: Sean Polite.

It’s sort of a follow-up interview from a podcast we did about a year ago, when I had just finished the first draft of Spell/Sword — kind of fun to talk about it now, when I’m right near the oncoming cliff of self-publishing. The first half of the interview is basically me just yammering incoherently about the plot of the book, story structure and my aspirations as a self-published genre writer. I even give a somewhat coherent description of the book.

The second half Sean surprised me with a veritable gunny sack of various nerd/comic / genre greats — I expound at great length about their cultural impact. I have some killer material on Why Neil Gaiman is a Wood Nymph and Scott Summers Man-Love.

Click the image below to listen for free, or download to put on your music device of choice.

There is some naughty language used in the podcast.
There is some naughty language used in the podcast.

The Tudyk/Pikachu Intolerance Litmus

G. Derek Adams3 Comments
Image provided by:margaretpoplin.com
Image provided by:
margaretpoplin.com

Sometimes we perceive ourselves on the sidelines — when we witness intolerance, or hate, or discrimination. When we don’t personally know a Muslim, a black person, a woman, or a gay.

I mean, those people are rare, right?

But I get it — it’s hard to get enraged when you don’t have a personal connection to the subject of abuse. They’re just concepts. Not people, not our friends, not anything worth breaking the social contract for — calling out some casual or professional racism, sexism, trans-hate, etc. etc. — or just general shitty, rude behavior.

So, here’s what I do when I find myself waffling on whether or not I should speak up or show support for an individual or group. An individual or group that is getting worked over by systemic violence, workplace discrimination, or any of the thousand-thousand petty assaults humanity heaps on the Tribe of Other.

Just mentally replace whatever person or group is being attacked with something universally good. Something that every single one of us can agree is wonderful — and would provoke all of us to righteous rage if  we witnessed them being maligned or assaulted in any way.

alan_tudyk_99
Alan Tudyk pictured with Smolder Mode activated.

I pretend that they’re talking about Alan Tudyk and Pikachu.

Do you have any idea how fucking pissed I would get if someone was rude to Alan Tudyk in front of me? Especially if he and Pikachu were having some sort of picnic? You know, snuggling and eating cucumber sandwiches and reading fairy tales out of a big leather book. LIKE THEY DO.

“Shut your face, man. Alan Tudyk is a national fucking treasure and I won’t have you slander his good name. Of course we all his enjoy his work in Firefly — but have you even considered his less known roles? Like in Knight’s Tale or Dodgeball? Have you even considered his voice work? His voice work? I,Robot AND Wreck-It Ralph – phenomenal work. And Pikachu is a cuddly lightning mouse. A. LIGHTNING. MOUSE. THAT IS CUDDLY.”

That’s the trick. Make it personal. Use whoever you need to inspire the Godly Wrath. [Restrained and classy wrath please — anyone who would diss Pikachu is beneath soiling your own hands with physical violence.]

Because they are people. They are real. They are [nearly] just as important as Alan Tudyk and Pikachu. If Alan and Pikachu want to get married, that is a blessed event. If some of my money will keep Alan and Pikachu from getting killed in a country I’ll never visit, then please take some — I would just waste it anyway. If Pikachu wants to evolve into a girl Pikachu or a boy Pikachu, I know Mr. Tudyk is still going to be right by their side, and I should too. If Mr. Tudyk and Pikachu want to worship in a mosque, or a synagogue, or a church, or an empty field, or on the rim of an active volcano that is their right and I can’t imagine why anyone would have a problem with it.

pikachu_epic_pose_by_dhencod-d55ji0n
Pika!

Because even though I’ve never met them, I know that they are awesome. They are worthy of my love, worthy of my respect. And wouldn’t it be great if we extended the same certainty to the rest of the human beings, animals and Pokemans that share this dimension with us?

Just a thought.

Can I add that it is a sad state of affairs where Google Image Search doesn’t yield a single picture of Alan and Pikachu together? If anyone more photo manipulative than I could make that happen, you would get 750 points for the Hufflepuff.

UPDATE: 750 Points to Hufflepuff for Margaret Poplin! Thanks, Margaret! She did the photo manipulation – not sure about the pic of Mr. Tudyk, but the Pikachu art came from here.