Book of Teon II

What can I tell you about Home? I have tried many times to describe it to the people of this world, but something is always lost in the telling. Home is a feeling, a knowledge — and no matter how many times I described the towers of glass, the river bank where I learned to swim, the smell of my grandmother’s library — I could not catch it.

It was a place not much different than this world. The sun rose, the wind blew. We only had one moon instead of the three that dance in this world’s sky. Such a greedy world, this Aufero, how could it have less than three moons?

I wander. It is what I do, in speech as well as deed. Even now, even as I wait for the end. There is something to that. Something mundane and comforting.

Our world shone. That is all I can say. It gleamed more brightly in the heavens than any other star, every one of the Lost can point to it in their sleep — even though it shines no more. It was our Home, and we knew as we left it that we would never return. And we knew that we would never stop grieving the loss of it.

Desert by ~thefireis

The Dark swallowed it whole, and we fled. The entirety of my race crammed on half-a-hundred silver ships, flung into the sea of stars. But that is not the true beginning of my story.

My story begins with falling.

The fastest ships were chosen, to seek out a place to land – a place to begin again. My father was the captain and he slept not at all as our ship plunged ever forward into the dark. The far-singers hummed as we approached barren planets and balls of molten fire — every one was discordant.  Ugly noise and static.

We flew on and on, day after day. Hoping to find a place that the Dark had not touched. A whole universe of empty rock and death. In desperation we returned to the fleet and found the same answer in the weary faces of the other captains.

I remember how my father took my mother’s hands and laid his forehead on hers. They looked into each other’s eyes and she nodded. They knew what must be done, and the risks. The other ships would wait, and ours would risk Beyond.

My mother sang the Song of Away.

The universe grew thin and we slipped through the walls as she sang. I stood next to my father and listened hard for the tune of another place, any place that we could go.

I think I heard it before my father, but maybe a heartbeat before. I still remember the joy in his eyes when he heard the faint melody.

And then the melody was a march — Aufero, the greedy – Aufero, the thief — reached out and pulled us in.

We erupted into that universe like a comet being born. The silver ship bucked and spun, the songs of my people becoming screams. Through the windows I caught my first glimpse of the planet.

It was blue. I fell in love.

Then the glass shattered, and I fell towards the greedy planet.

My story had begun.

Book of Teon I

My name is Teon.

There was a time, and there was a place where and when that name meant something.  A bright name, a fell name. East of the Sun, and West of the Moon in the place we once called home. A place that is lost, a time that will never come again.

Now my name is rubble. My name is a relic. Here in the shattered foundations of Kythera it echoes and lingers, the voices

the nick of time
-guan-yu chen.

of my people scream out my name in pain and despair. I want to tell them that it wasn’t me, that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t bring the Machine.

It was my left hand.

It lies quiet now, folded on my stomach.  Black blood whimpers out of  a dozen small wounds, inflicted by the sharp instrument I hold in my right hand. It is a delicate instrument, best suited for aligning tiny wires or adjusting the fine components on a word-board. It served this purpose ably, plunging again and again into my skin. There was pain, but distant — not my pain. My left hand mimics true feeling but it is always false, the pain is no different.

I will die soon. At least, that is my hope. I fear that if I fall unconscious before my heart ceases to beat, that my left hand will rise and repair my wounds. I must stay awake until the Dark One comes. I have fled him all my life, running further and faster than any others of my kin. But now I welcome him as my boon companion.

To stay awake, I will tell my story. This sound crystal is fully powered, it shall last longer than I will.  I will speak the story of my name. How we, who the people of this world call the Lost, came here trying to escape the dark, on our silver ships made of song and steel.

But we brought it with us.

I brought it with us.

Light help me, I brought it with us.

Spackle

Mr. Poirot is unimpressed with my narrative structure.

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.

Oh Noetry Day

Jonas Burgert. Deed Marked / Tat markiert, 2009.

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!]

 

 

 

Too Much Pepper in the Soup

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.

 

To the Crew of the Lodestar: Don’t Stop.

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.

Schmediting Schmupdate

Huzzar! First pass on the Beta Draft complete — only 11 more to go.

Artist – Jayne Lockhart

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?

One Last Glimpse Through the Dragon’s Eye V

The Lodestar flies. The arc of the sun’s path reflects off the curve of its bow. It flies and it sings, a jubilant hum.

The Vagabonder polishes a long glass tube, then sets it into place on the console. It fills immediately with green jellybeans, and the half-orc frowns. It was supposed to be pink jellybeans. The massive Floatstone turns sedate and simple in its clear cannister, powering the heart of the ship — wires and cables, strange conduits and grids of unknown purpose and potential. The Lodestar still has its secrets, and the engineer prays that he shall never quite unravel them all.

Nearby, a massive orange cat paws at an old bronze pocket watch lackadaisically, it’s fat paw barely moving. Crackers blinks over to investigate, but then is rewarded with a quick swat to the nose. The young dog snorts, and trots out of the cargo bay.

Talitha bursts out of the Captain’s Cabin wearing a too-large buffcoat emblazoned with the ship’s symbol, and a preposterous hat with a skull and crossbones painted in glowing ink. She is dragging Lucas with her, who is doing his level best to keep the book tucked under his arm, all while holding on to the construct, Sinoe with his other hand. Crackers barks with excitement, and follows the three out onto the deck.

The three young adventurers ran to the prow of the ship, clouds streaming past. “Oy!” Della Half-hand called from the wheelhouse. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Well, that’s up to me.” Talitha said, hands on her hips. “I’m the Captain now, after all.”

“Ha.” the older girl scratched her scarred cheek. “ I guess that makes me First Mate.”

“And I’ll be Navigator.” Lucas said dubiously. “And you, Sinoe?”

“Gunner.” the automaton said, with no explanation. Her freshly-dyed purple hair whipped in the wind.

Crackers barked his position on the crew, and Talitha scratched behind his ear in agreement.  Della spun the wheel, a fierce grin on her face and the Lodestar sailed on –cutting through white cloud mountains and oceans of blue-sky.

As the ship sails off out of view, Talitha’s voice can be heard — growing quieter as the Dragon’s Eye goes dark.

“I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while. What IS a Lodestar, anyway?”

“Oh..well.” Lucas harrumphed. “ It’s a fixed point in the sky, a star that never changes. It’s an old sailing term — it’s something you can always follow,always depend on — let’s you know where you are, know which direction to go.”

“Okay. I get it. Like my Uncle Jonas, he’s a hero, you know?”

The Lodestar flies. Dreamers wake from their sleep, hearing the music of its flight. A holy wanderer, a noble king, a teacher of serenity, a proud grandfather, a queen of the wild sea, a wide-eyed explorer, a singer of songs, a spinner of tales, a fierce scholar, a battered ranger, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick-maker. For the rest of their days the dream will come, the Lodestar waits for them to board, just outside the window. So easy to slip out of their lives into the quiet night, into the golden dawn –throw their gear aboard, and sail away.

The Dragon’s Eye closes.

One Last Glimpse Through the Dragon’s Eye III

“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.”

One Last Glimpse Through the Dragon’s Eye II

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.”