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.
[And at last it is over. I’ll have more to say, and share in the days to come. A grand tale draws to its close. This is my dream, the most precious — thank you to my fellow artists helping me share it.]
The gathered crew look at Haskeer, each finding their own strength..their own way to hold off the oppressive weight of memory and sorrow.
None of them had the will or energy to tell the paladin of the thick runnels of blood that ran from his eyes.
Winter stood up, leaning heavily on the white sword. She looked carefully into each of the crew’s eyes, and saw the fragile control that each held against the madness. It was enough. It would have to be.
The paladin with his faith.
The monk with his serenity.
The barbarian with his pain.
The summoner with his love.
Then her eyes fell on Echo, stubbornly moving forward her eyes glazed and darting. Winter crossed to her, leaning the sword back against her shoulder. She gripped the druid by the shoulders and gave her a brisk shake — then a fierce, ringing slap. The sea elf’s eyes widened in anger, the memories beaten back. The snow-haired woman pulled the druid close and whispered something in her ear.
“There. Good enough.” Winter said, turning back. Echo’s eyes were clear with the same fragile control that the others held. “Don’t let go to what you have, not even for an instant. We must find a way out, none of us can hold out for long
There are some that say that Time is a river, flowing sedately in one direction…winding its way through the universe, steady and sedate.
There are some that say Time is a whirlwind, spinning and changing – a million directions at once. Every moment a new collision, hurling new dimensions of possibility into the ever-expanding storm.
There are some that say Time is a stone, graven and perfect — impossible to change or mar.
They may be right, or they may be wrong.
But for this now, this moment, this story — Time is a Book.
And the crew of the Lodestar fell through the pages.
They saw themselves in the throne room, the green skeleton with his fist full of golden fire. They saw the look between two friends, and then they pierce the page.
They see the room again, ten years earlier. A simple man in a brown cloak, laying his sword in the hands of the green skeleton. The page tears as they fall.
They see the boy fighting his way through dark streets full of rain and the unquiet dead.
They see the boy sneaking out of a broken down inn. They see a girl with white hair asleep in the hayloft.
They see the boy and the girl with white hair on top of a tall red tower.
The pages rip, faster and faster.
They see the boy and the girl in many places, in many days of glory and terror.
In the throne room again, the girl’s hair half-white, half-brown. The boy is in chains.
In the streets of a drab city, at a sumptuous banquet with plates piled high with lush, purple grapes.
On the edge of the sea, the girl sitting over a dead knight and the boy lumbering out of the ocean dripping and battered.
The pages of Time tear, and the crew of the Lodestar fall.
The boy on one knee with his sword flat in both hands, the girl on her face in a dank swamp, a turtle, a white bridge, an inn, a giant brass screw, a canyon of rain, a forest and night, the three moons shine and the boy and the girl meet in the dusty, dry soil of a forgotten town.
The book slams shut, and they see only darkness.
Really fascinating discussion about character, from Geek and Sundry, hosted by my internet-windmill, Pat Rothfuss.
The first part of the panel they discuss female anti-heroes – and I got super excited about Spell/Sword. I was like… just you wait.
Haskeer stepped through the steel door, and onto cracked linoleum. Red blaze of neon filtered through glass windows onto a crowded diner. The booths were crammed with humans laughing and talking. A long glass display case bisected the room, filled to the brim with faded toys and garish errata – twin rows of wide black booths down either side, with a long counter in the very back of the diner. A tall stool with a red-leather seat at the counter seemed to beckon, and the paladin moved towards it.
The humans seated at the booths were dressed strangely, somehow too simple and too elaborate — as if they were dressed both for work in the fields, and a journey across the tundra of the Northlands.. They paid little attention to his passing, or his gleaming silver armor.
A blonde man with a square jaw, sat with a baby in his lap – their eyes both wide and blue. A blonde woman at his side wiped the child’s face with a damp napkin and a certain elan. On the opposite side another couple, a man with a preposterous mustache fork-deep into a plate of fried potatoes and a dark-haired woman with a beautiful smile. The dark-haired woman was pregnant, and the man and his mustache nearly vibrated with concern and pride, each motion of his hands a prayer.
Two young men sat hip to hip in a booth, poring over a stack of brightly colored pages. They argued bitterly jabbing the page with pointed fingers, and gesticulating wildly as their argument crested into a familiar plateau. Across from them a woman rolled her eyes with exasperation, spreading cream cheese on a grilled bagel.
In the corner of the diner was a jukebox, glowing green and yellow. A man with glasses and a ponytail leaned against it, making a selection – his head bobbing unconsciously to the song already spooling through the air.
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray to a brighter summer day
When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
A tall, gangly man stumbled through the door behind Haskeer, and moved to the jukebox — hands already spread in mute apology.
In a back booth, three men sat hunched close together. A pile of tiny figures were arrayed on the table before them – small soldiers, goblins, knights, even a fierce looking black dragon. The tallest and shortest examined each figure with animated fixation, while the third stared at something glowing in his hand with boredom. A large man with a fierce tattoo of a squid-demon stumped over and flopped down a large sketchbook. Haskeer caught a glimpse of men and women holding swords of fire.
There were others in the diner, every seat was full. A curly-haired man stuffing lemon after lemon into his water, a thin man with his hands steepled, a balding man laughing and pointing across the restaurant. The faces began to run together as the paladin moved forward, his steel boots clanking on the floor.
Haskeer sat down at the counter, his back to the rest of the diner patrons. A warm fog of steam billowed out of the kitchen, accompanied by the wonderful smells of fried potato and seared meat. A man approached, pulling a well-worn jotter out of his pocket and the nub of a pencil. He wore thick spectacles, and a thick mop of hair pushed up into a white paper cap.
The man greeted the paladin, barely looking up from his notepad.
“Sup, Big Green. What’ll you have?”
TELL ME.
What’s it all about? What is the cipher of Lodestar? I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, as we creep ever closer to the end.
The art we make is a window. The artist sees the world through its lense, and the audience can catch a glimpse of the artist’s true nature. Lodestar is the longest work I’ve contributed to, so shouldn’t it reveal the most?
I find myself looking at the broad shape of it, and finding it oddly inscrutable. Certain themes are clear: great deeds require sacrifice, morality is inconvenient, exploration, friendship, freedom, sorrow.
But what about all the strange little curliques of my subconscious? Why are the devils so sure? Why are the villains so true? Why are the dinosaurs philosophers? Why do all the cities have plazas, and the temples have spires? Why is Simon a romantic fool, and why is the Grand Wizard dead? And why is all in ruin? Gilead, Kythera, the Dragoons, Caleron, Quorum, Bards Gate. Even Hell itself totters and quakes.
Serve or Destroy. Why is that the binary? They are fundamental tropes for the genre, but why do they emerge now? Who made the White Sword? What did the Lost flee?
What am I afraid of?
So, I know I’ve been pretty lazy on the blog — well, I’m going to DragonCon this weekend — so you can safely expect that to continue.
I’m going to be taking pictures of my adventures and posting them up on my Tumblr –feel free to check in on the shenanigans. I won’t get to the ‘Con until late Friday evening [EST] so don’t expect much before then, unless you’re into Chrono Trigger fanart.
[AND WHO ISN’T???]
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.”
[Can you be sad about a place that never existed – a fictional place that you as the storyteller destroyed? I don’t know if you should be able to — but I am. I just wrote this, but I feel like an empty jug.]
“The servant does as the master wishes. The master desires bread, the servant plants grain. The master desires a keep, the servant lays stone. The master desires gold, and the servant bleeds steel. At the end of all things the servant is still a servant.” Oak replied.
spell-sword.com 