Book Review: A Dance With Dragons

Book Review: A Dance With Dragons — Blue Ink Alchemy

Serials can be difficult things. You want to keep the fans you've acquired happy, regardless of whether you have five or five thousand or more, and you also want to keep your work from going stale as each old iteration gives rise to a new one. Many movies and games have fallen into the trap of doing 'more of the same' or removing the elements of the first title from the second in an effort to broaden the series' appeal. I hope that the makers of movies and games are paying attention, because George RR Martin is a creative mind who gets serial iteration right, as evidenced in his latest entry in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Dance With Dragons. The novel takes readers back to the fictional land of Westeros, where summers last years and winter can last decades. Winter not only promises cold winds, dead crops and snowfalls several feet deep, but horrible creatures beyond count and the dead rising from their graves. Such things seem beyond the concerns of some of the people in Westeros, however, as noble Houses feud to seize control of the Iron Throne. Banners snap in the breeze and swords shine in sunlight as forces clash across the land. The War of Five Kings is all but over, yet conflict continues to rule in Westeros. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, rumors of dragons and the liberation of slaves in the shadow of the ruined freehold of Valyria draws many to the Essos city of Meereen, as well as suitors for the hand of a queen quickly growing in legend as she struggles to maintain control over the change she's wrought. And in the North of Westeros, on the titanic Wall that sheilds the land from the places where winter never ends, an untested leader remembers the words of the House where he was raised: Winter Is Coming... There was some concern amongst fans before the release of A Dance With Dragons. It had been six years since the release of the previous book, A Feast For Crows. There's also the fact that in A Feast For Crows, many of the point of view characters fans had come to love were conspicuously absent. Considering the cliffhanger way in which Martin had ended the third volume, A Storm Of Swords, it's no wonder that many fans wondered what exactly Martin was up to. As it turns out, A Feast For Crows was merely the first half of a rather bold experiment in long-form storytelling.
One of the titular dragons. Originally, Martin had intended to relate much of the story in A Feast For Crows and the first half of A Dance With Dragons as flashbacks during "meatier" bits of his saga. However, when he realized how daunting a task that would be to relate so much story without things becoming dull, he opted to tell the stories that needed to be told more or less in real time from the perspective of the involved characters. There was apparently a lot of story to tell, as this transitionary portion of the story as told by more established characters dominates the first half of A Dance With Dragons. However, this move means that the events that have come before, first published six years ago, now have more depth and resonance. Narrative threads that may have felt as 'left hanging' are tied into greater portions of the overall story. In other words, Martin didn't just publish a new book. He produced a novel that some how makes his previous novel a better one and, rather than letting it remain attached like a vestigial growth, folds it neatly into his ongoing, sprawling epic. This is, in my humble opinion, nothing short of literary genius.
Guess who still knows nothing. Typically, this is about where I'd go over what I liked and didn't like about this book itself. However, I'd rather not betray any spoilers. I will, instead, say simply this. Martin continues to demonstrate that he is a superlative storyteller, creating characters that feel very human and deep in the midst of a fantasy world at once familiar and rather strange. His story turns are bold and his plans will keep you guessing. I have to say that fans new to the series or who got their introduction through the HBO series Game of Thrones should pick up at least a couple of the previous books. However, if you're already part of those that follow the saga of Westeros and anticipate the coming of winter, there is no reason not to purchase A Dance with Dragons. It's not only a worthy addition to this sprawling series of books, it's one of the best.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Programming Mission Statement

Programming Mission Statement — Blue Ink Alchemy

The creative mind is like a thoroughbred horse – it requires a firm but flexible grip, one that does not allow the beast to run wild, but also one that permits some leeway, lest the creature rail against its control and fight to be free. Just the right balance of control and detachment puts new ideas on the path to greatness. You know what you want, but permitting your trajectory to follow its own course allows for growth, stays agile in the face of inevitable setbacks and lends a sense of adventure to the overall process. They've called it "the information superhighway." If you want to travel on it, you'll need a good vehicle. 'Good' is a subjective term - maybe you want something you don't have to worry about, or perhaps you're looking for a high-precision machine stuffed with power and bursting with cool gizmos. Either way, you need someone who understands both the beating heart of an Internet vehicle and how the paint's going to look to visitors after everything is said and done. That's where I come in. I take the ideas that float around the subconscious mind and make them manifest. I find new ways to get things working. I get my hands dirty. It's messy and magical all at once. I turn dreams into gold - one jot & scribble, one line of code at a time.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Programming Mission Statement

Programming Mission Statement — Blue Ink Alchemy

The creative mind is like a thoroughbred horse – it requires a firm but flexible grip, one that does not allow the beast to run wild, but also one that permits some leeway, lest the creature rail against its control and fight to be free. Just the right balance of control and detachment puts new ideas on the path to greatness. You know what you want, but permitting your trajectory to follow its own course allows for growth, stays agile in the face of inevitable setbacks and lends a sense of adventure to the overall process. They've called it "the information superhighway." If you want to travel on it, you'll need a good vehicle. 'Good' is a subjective term - maybe you want something you don't have to worry about, or perhaps you're looking for a high-precision machine stuffed with power and bursting with cool gizmos. Either way, you need someone who understands both the beating heart of an Internet vehicle and how the paint's going to look to visitors after everything is said and done. That's where I come in. I take the ideas that float around the subconscious mind and make them manifest. I find new ways to get things working. I get my hands dirty. It's messy and magical all at once. I turn dreams into gold - one jot & scribble, one line of code at a time.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Programming Mission Statement

Programming Mission Statement — Blue Ink Alchemy

The creative mind is like a thoroughbred horse – it requires a firm but flexible grip, one that does not allow the beast to run wild, but also one that permits some leeway, lest the creature rail against its control and fight to be free. Just the right balance of control and detachment puts new ideas on the path to greatness. You know what you want, but permitting your trajectory to follow its own course allows for growth, stays agile in the face of inevitable setbacks and lends a sense of adventure to the overall process. They've called it "the information superhighway." If you want to travel on it, you'll need a good vehicle. 'Good' is a subjective term - maybe you want something you don't have to worry about, or perhaps you're looking for a high-precision machine stuffed with power and bursting with cool gizmos. Either way, you need someone who understands both the beating heart of an Internet vehicle and how the paint's going to look to visitors after everything is said and done. That's where I come in. I take the ideas that float around the subconscious mind and make them manifest. I find new ways to get things working. I get my hands dirty. It's messy and magical all at once. I turn dreams into gold - one jot & scribble, one line of code at a time.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Black Death

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Black Death — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/black_death.mp3] I made a promise, some time ago, that I would avoid discussing religion overmuch, if at all, on this blog. Yet when Black Death won the poll it was clear that I'd have to sprain that promise. Since it's in the context of a movie, I won't consider it entirely broken. There's also the fact that this film is unflinching, uncompromising and unbiased in its bleak view of religion... and how little it's changed since the time period in which it's set. The time is 1348 AD, and the place is England. The bubonic plague ravages the countryside and small villages are especially susceptible to the pestilence. There is rumor of one, however, where not only is the plague not present, but the dead are coming back thanks to a demon or a witch. While some believe that God sent the plague to punish mankind, others think that demons like this one are the cause, and an envoy of the bishop has come with several hard men to root out the demon. He conscripts a young monk to guide him, but the monk has plans of his own. True to the fire and brimstone of the period, a good descriptor for this movie is 'grim'. The heroes are not shining examples of honor or virtue, even when compared to the worst amongst their opposing number. While the men we follow are servants of the church, they're not paragons of Christianity, nor are the people of the village they finally arrive in kind and generous. Black Death calls into question the intelligence and decency of anyone who takes the world around them on faith alone without preamble or a moment's thought, and while the setting is in a dark age of human history, the question remains if people today are any different.
At least we have slightly more sanitary infrastructure these days. Thankfully, this isn't a movie interested in beating you over the head with its message. It simply presents its perspective and lets you dwell on it. While the writing isn't necessarily stellar material, the screenwriters have the decency to leave most of the heavier stuff as visuals and action rather than heavy-handed speeches. The direction clearly delights in the heavy mists, dour arms and armor and spattering gore of most medieval epics, and Black Death does a good job of conveying the dark atmosphere of the age. The best part of the film, though, is the extremely strong cast. Considering Sean Bean dominates most of the cover art you'll see, you might consider him to be the only actor of note in the piece, and that this flick tries to squeak by on his star power along. You'd be wrong. I was surprised to see David Warner turn up as the abbot in our starting location, while veteran actors like Eddie Redmayne, Tim McInnerny (of Black Adder fame) and a few guys from EastEnders join Sean's ragtag band. And that striking blonde wearing red working opposite Sean is none other than Carice van Houten of Black Book and Repo Men fame. Watching them together makes me wish they'd share a couple scenes in the Game of Thrones series, considering Miss van Houten landed the role of Melisandre.
Serving R'hllor since 1348. All in all, I'm glad I watched Black Death. It wasn't the best movie I've ever seen set in this time period or tackling the subject of religion, but it certainly wasn't as terrible as I was dreading it'd be. The mostly realistic bent of its production, the very solid acting and the way the whole thing slides in situation from bad to worse for the characters is actually somewhat gripping in a way I did not expect. I say, put this one on your Netflix Instant queue. You might be surprised. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Book Review: A Dance With Dragons

Book Review: A Dance With Dragons — Blue Ink Alchemy

Serials can be difficult things. You want to keep the fans you've acquired happy, regardless of whether you have five or five thousand or more, and you also want to keep your work from going stale as each old iteration gives rise to a new one. Many movies and games have fallen into the trap of doing 'more of the same' or removing the elements of the first title from the second in an effort to broaden the series' appeal. I hope that the makers of movies and games are paying attention, because George RR Martin is a creative mind who gets serial iteration right, as evidenced in his latest entry in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Dance With Dragons. The novel takes readers back to the fictional land of Westeros, where summers last years and winter can last decades. Winter not only promises cold winds, dead crops and snowfalls several feet deep, but horrible creatures beyond count and the dead rising from their graves. Such things seem beyond the concerns of some of the people in Westeros, however, as noble Houses feud to seize control of the Iron Throne. Banners snap in the breeze and swords shine in sunlight as forces clash across the land. The War of Five Kings is all but over, yet conflict continues to rule in Westeros. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, rumors of dragons and the liberation of slaves in the shadow of the ruined freehold of Valyria draws many to the Essos city of Meereen, as well as suitors for the hand of a queen quickly growing in legend as she struggles to maintain control over the change she's wrought. And in the North of Westeros, on the titanic Wall that sheilds the land from the places where winter never ends, an untested leader remembers the words of the House where he was raised: Winter Is Coming... There was some concern amongst fans before the release of A Dance With Dragons. It had been six years since the release of the previous book, A Feast For Crows. There's also the fact that in A Feast For Crows, many of the point of view characters fans had come to love were conspicuously absent. Considering the cliffhanger way in which Martin had ended the third volume, A Storm Of Swords, it's no wonder that many fans wondered what exactly Martin was up to. As it turns out, A Feast For Crows was merely the first half of a rather bold experiment in long-form storytelling.
One of the titular dragons. Originally, Martin had intended to relate much of the story in A Feast For Crows and the first half of A Dance With Dragons as flashbacks during "meatier" bits of his saga. However, when he realized how daunting a task that would be to relate so much story without things becoming dull, he opted to tell the stories that needed to be told more or less in real time from the perspective of the involved characters. There was apparently a lot of story to tell, as this transitionary portion of the story as told by more established characters dominates the first half of A Dance With Dragons. However, this move means that the events that have come before, first published six years ago, now have more depth and resonance. Narrative threads that may have felt as 'left hanging' are tied into greater portions of the overall story. In other words, Martin didn't just publish a new book. He produced a novel that some how makes his previous novel a better one and, rather than letting it remain attached like a vestigial growth, folds it neatly into his ongoing, sprawling epic. This is, in my humble opinion, nothing short of literary genius.
Guess who still knows nothing. Typically, this is about where I'd go over what I liked and didn't like about this book itself. However, I'd rather not betray any spoilers. I will, instead, say simply this. Martin continues to demonstrate that he is a superlative storyteller, creating characters that feel very human and deep in the midst of a fantasy world at once familiar and rather strange. His story turns are bold and his plans will keep you guessing. I have to say that fans new to the series or who got their introduction through the HBO series Game of Thrones should pick up at least a couple of the previous books. However, if you're already part of those that follow the saga of Westeros and anticipate the coming of winter, there is no reason not to purchase A Dance with Dragons. It's not only a worthy addition to this sprawling series of books, it's one of the best.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Future of the Art of Thor

The Future of the Art of Thor — Blue Ink Alchemy

Okay. I have no idea if this is actually going to work. I haven't played StarCraft 2 in weeks, mostly because I've been taking it too seriously. It' s one thing to want to improve one's performance and quite another when it overshadows having fun in a game or making time for other distractions. I simply don't have enough free time to devote to both improving StarCraft 2 and being a writer. What I would like to do, then, is compile The Art of Thor into one place and make it available for public consumption. Maybe a downloadable PDF, maybe a cheap e-book, something. I'm nowhere near an expert on the game, nor will I ever claim to be. But I'd like to think that the advice I've given has been helpful to some, if not entertaining. I could be wrong, of course. What do you think? Can The Art of Thor work as a standalone guide to the StarCraft 2 newbie, or is it best left in the past?

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, I: Victor

Honor & Blood, I: Victor — Blue Ink Alchemy

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon. The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon's Landing. Two minor Houses have come into contention: House Luxon, sworn to the Starks of Winterfell, and House Mortmund, sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. A savage turn of events and a tireless pursuit has revealed that Mortmund was, in fact, a Faceless Man, and the assassin had made a quiet career of slaying nobles from all the Houses of Westeros and keeping their blades for himself. Following his death, Cadmon Storm recovered the blades on behalf of House Luxon. Victor Luxon, son of Lord Goddard, went with the bastard and John Nurem, steward of the House, to King's Landing. At High Court they presented the blades of House Baratheon to Robert, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Following a decree that named Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower of Oldtown, the trio proceeded down the Rose Road to Highgarden, continuing to distribute the stolen blades to their rightful owners...

He hated the South. He hated the heat. He hated the moisture. He hated the way the greens and yellows and reds of the feilds assaulted his eyes. He hated the stinging of pollen in his eyes and the way it left dust on his arms and armor. Most of all he hated the false smiles, the courtesies, the bowing and taking of knees and "m'lord" this and "m'lady" that. He missed the North, the biting vibrant cold breezes, the heft of his weapons and the comforting weight of armor on his shoulders. He pushed John Nurem aside and set about adjusting his clothing himself. The steward bowed and muttered some sort of apology. Spineless toad. Victor appreciated all the merchant-turned-majordomo had done for House Luxon, but more often than not he just got in the way. He looked down at his sleeves, a dark blue fabric slashed to reveal the cloth-of-gold beneath, then tugged at the fine trousers of gray with their silver piping, tucked into polished black boots. The steward swept the ermine half-cloak around his shoulders, the cloth-of-gold lining catching the light from the hearth as Victor fastened the clasp, a golden acorn. Victor reached for his swordbelt and fastened it around his waist as the knock came at the door. "They're ready for us." "In a moment, Storm," Victor snapped. He checked the hang and fit of his clothes, thanked the gods that nobody was around to stick him with any more pins, and threw open the door. Cadmon Hightower stood just outside, dressed in his own finery, the hilt of Beaconflame visible behind his left hip as he tugged on the white leather gloves he wore. Royal decree or no, the stripling's Storm to me. "Which way's the solar?" Cadmon gestured with a smile. "This way, my lord." "Yes, your lord, and don't you forget it, bastard." Victor had starting itching already. It was going to be a long afternoon. Despite the powerful stride he adopted to move through Highgarden to Mace Tyrell's solar, Cadmon had no trouble keeping up. "My father did you a great boon by taking you in, considering you showed up at our gates with naught but a bastard's name and some pretty words." "I've proven everything that I've said, have I not?" The bastard didn't stop smiling. A Southron through and through. "We destroyed a potential enemy of not only your House, but the Lannisters as well, and Luxon's growing in respect with every stolen blade it returns." "Just remember it's Luxon doing it. Not you." "I doubt I could forget, considering how you constantly remind me." "And keep your distance. I won't have you interrupting me this time." Cadmon placed a gloved hand over his slashed doublet. "Why, Victor, you wound me. I thought you of all people would appreciate the need to cut to the quick." "Not in front of the bloody king!" The insult still burned him. He'd been telling the story of how they'd come across the blades, in detail, leaving nothing out. He wanted no secrets before the king. He learned afterward that one of the small council, the pointy-beared whisp of a man everybody called Littlefinger, had started yawning. Cadmon had interrupted, kneeled before the king and laid out the Baratheon blades taken from the serial killer that had lived under the guise of a Lannister bannerman. The delivery had won them reknown throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and a letter from Tywin Lannister himself had called upon Robert to decree Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower, but Victor wasn't about to let the slight go unremarked. "Just let me do the talking this time." "As long as you don't do too much of it." Victor growled. "You try my patience, bastard." Cadmon shrugged, his only reply as their quick pace had brought them to the solar. He opened the door for Victor and gestured grandly for him to enter. Cadmon fell into step behind him. Sitting in a comfortable chair with the remnants of his breakfast in front of him, Lord Mace Tyrell, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, wiped his hands on a napkin and gestured for them to approach. His daughter Margaery sat nearby, hands folded in her lap and smiling at Renly Baratheon, who sat nearby speaking with her quietly. Nearby, Mace's son Loras looked on, the embroidery in his fine cloak and worked into the leather of his scabbard unsurprisngly showing various types of flowers. A slender woman with long silver hair and a dignified look smiled as they entered, walking past Victor to place a hand on Cadmon's shoulder. "Oh, my brother will be jealous. I get to see how handsome his son is before he even reaches Oldtown." "You must be my aunt Alerie." Cadmon took her hand in his. "I'm so pleased to meet you." I'm going to be sick. "Lord Mace, I have no wish to overstay my welcome. May I present you with these blades of House Tyrell, taken from..." Mace held up a meaty hand. "I did hear tell of most of this tale from my son Loras, and from Renly, when they arrived. May I see the blades?" Victor knelt and laid out the bundle they'd made of the blades of Tyrell. Loras walked over to look down upon them as Mace leaned toward the opened canvas. He reached down and picked up the broadsword from the bunch, the central feature of its hilt being a golden rose. A matching dagger was beside it, which Ser Loras picked up. "These were my father's blades," Mace said. "They said he'd fallen from a cliff, looking up and not minding where he was going. There was always something odd about that story." Victor nodded. "Regardless of how they came to be parted from him, they are now yours once again, Lord Mace." "And well I thank you for that. You do good service for your house, Luxon, and for that of your liege lord. I shall not forget it." Victor stood, adjusting the leather belt around his waist. He was eager to wrap this up and get into more comfortable clothes. Lord Mace invited his guests to dine with him that evening, which Victor accepted before he left the solar, leaving the bastard to speak with the woman from Oldtown. "Victor, if I might have a word?" He turned, to find the well-groomed Renly Baratheon following him into the corridor. "I apologize for my brother's brusque nature in King's Landing. He's so unflatteringly impatient during high court. You understand." "I do." Victor shifted on his feet. "I took no offense." "It simply seemed unfair to extend the potential for knighthood to one such as Cadmon Hightower, and not do you the same courtesy." "What are you saying, my lord?" "If you wished to squire for me, or perhaps Ser Loras, all you have to do is ask. You fought alongside us in the Greyjoy Rebellions. Your quality as a warrior is known. Why not add the reknown, respect and rewards of knighthood? What say you?" Victor stared to Renly for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he answered. "I appreciate the offer, my lord, and I would be interested in squiring for a knight, but not for you, nor for Ser Loras." Renly blinked. "I beg your pardon? Why ever not?" "You know why." The king's brother narrowed his eyes. "I am attempting to extend you a courtey and opportunity, ser. You're letting prejudice blind you." "The truly blind are those who still profess to love you while being ignorant of what you really are." "And what, exactly, am I?" Renly hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. It was one of the swords Cadmon had brought back from Mortmund's ruin. Victor scowled and said no more, backing up a step and turning away. Victor strode back to his quarters with haste, fueled by hatred. Was Renly simply trying to expand his collection of admirers? Victor didn't think he was Renly's type. He was burly where Ser Loras was slight, direct in speech where Ser Loras was circumspect. He was of the North, and Ser Loras of the South. *Maybe the queer cock doesn't discriminate,* Victor thought bitterly. He slammed the door of the quarters behind him, which earned him a shriek from the bed chamber. "Did... did it go well?" The face of his wife poked out from the other room. Victor glared at her as he pulled the golden acorn open and yanked the ermine cloak from his shoulders. "Lord Mace has kind things to say about House Luxon, now, giving us one less overt enemy in the South." "Oh, that must please you!" She moved to help him undress, her fingers slightly clumsier than those of John the house steward. She might have been on the homely side and not terribly bright, but she as at least a woman, and her hands on him working with his clothes didn't make him so uncomfortable. "Tell me, was Lord Renly there? Or Ser Loras? Oh, he's so elegant, with his floral armor and his..." "Yes," Victor hissed, exasperated. "He was there." Jaine giggled. "Oh, forgive me, my lord, he's just so..." "I know what he is. You owe me no apology." She responded by giggling more, especially when she was helping him out of his breeches. He sighed. Once again, the ship has left the dock with no one on board. "Shall I help you relax, before we're feasted by Lord Mace?" "We have time, yes." At least it'll shut you up. Would that I could silence Renly or Ser Loras or that bloody bastard Storm as easily. He resolved not to think on those men any longer, however, as his wife began. Such thoughts would just be strange in this situation.

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Captain America: The First Avenger

Movie Review: Captain America: The First Avenger — Blue Ink Alchemy

I miss pulp adventure stories. I miss uncontrived, straight-forward yarns with two-fisted, dashing heroes working against megalomaniacs to rescue leggy dames. Yes, these stories were simple and could be campy or hammy or just plain boring at times, but their simplicity was a strength, their tales unfettered by an artifice of philosophy or an undercurrent of cynicism. Films like Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Rocketeer understood that broad, epic tales don't need a lot of inscrutable layers or nuances of postmodern construction to be interesting, exciting and fun. In their tradition comes Captain America: the First Avenger. The year is 1942. War is rampaging across Europe and, unbeknownst to the Allied powers, a particularly bent Nazi genius has decided he's been chosen by the gods to conquer the planet. Meanwhile, in Brooklyn, a skinny, asthmatic and somewhat nervous kid named Steve Rogers is trying - and failing - to join the Army. At his fifth attempt, a kindly if somewhat eccentric doctor asks why a kid with his conditions is so eager to kill Nazis. "I don't want to kill anyone," Steve replies. "I just don't like bullies." That doctor gives him the opportunity to become a super-soldier, and the results of the experiments cause Steve to be reborn as Captain America. So Steve is a nice guy. He's a scrawny, smart and brave young man who wants to do his part to take down the biggest bully the world has ever seen but his body isn't living up to the demands of his spirit. Who he is - the 98-pound weakling - is very different from who he wants to be. And every time he tries to face this disconnect, cross his Shadow as it were, he's slapped down by either the bureaucracy or the closest bully. And then, he gets his chance. He crosses his Shadow. The question is, does this transformation change him?
Not sure what I like more: wearing fatigues over the costume, or the aw-shucks grin. It doesn't, and that's what makes Captain America at once a failure and a success as a character. In terms of character growth and progression, once the procedure is complete, he's done. He has to get used to his new proportions, strength and agility of course, but he requires no other growth to be the man he's always wanted to be and his personality doesn't change at all. He's still sweet, still shy around girls, still willing to do his part and still intolerant of blind ignorance and hate. Removing his physical flaws in an artificial way, in lieu of a more gradual and familiar arc, has lead to anything interesting about the character also being removed. At least, that's how it should work. He should stand there as a big beefy wish fulfillment fantasy for fat Americans in the audience itching to punch out terrorists, or failing that, the nearest brown person. Yet, Captain America is actually not all that American, when you think about it. Many Americans now are belligerent, loud, violently opinionated and fervently religious folk who are primarily concerned with shouting down anybody who disagrees with the opinions fed to them by talking heads in soapbox programs that masquerade as news, and the world's perception of the country, for better or worse, has put this greasy face on the country. Captain America, on the other hand, stays soft-spoken, confident without being arrogant, more concerned about the well-being of others than himself and uses the power he's been given with wisdom and precision. In other words, he is what Americans could have been, and perhaps could still be if they're willing to look past their own selfishness and strive for something better.
Marvel's own Band of Brothers. That is how the character of Captain America succeeds, and Chris Evans does a fantastic job of conveying that to the audience from beginning to end. The best part is he's not setting out to be a paragon of decency, no more so than he's setting out to be the guy that punches out Hitler. We get a sense of gentleness about Steve due to Chris' performance and it's this feeling that sets him apart from the other Marvel heroes we've met. He's no less heroic, he's just heroic in a different way. The other characters turn in great performances, from Tommy Lee Jones' taciturn Army commander to Hugo Weaving's calculating and cruel turn as the Red Skull. And while Hayley Atwell does a phenomenal job ensuring her character rises above simply being 'the girl' in the picture, at least once most audience members (and characters!) will find themselves thinking only "Hommina, hommina, hommina." Director Joe Johnston is very much in his element with this sort of film, and the quality of it shows. Granted, these qualities may be considered by some as belonging to throwbacks, to less intellectual fare and stories that don't have the 'mature' sensibilities of the works by, say, Christopher Nolan. However, Captain America: The First Avenger doesn't seem any less intelligent than any of the other summer flicks out there, and in fact goes about telling its story in a clean and straightforward manner without dressing things up too much with effects or spectacles. It's not a terribly cerebral picture, sure, but it cares about a good story with good characters, and that's more than I can say for Green Lantern or Transformers 3.
"Superheroes are the disease... and I... am the cure!" Stuff I Liked: No modern music, and a fantastic score by Alan Silvestri. All cool gizmos and disposable goons you'd expect from a pulp adventure. Stuff I Didn't Like: Why are the German characters speaking in English all the time? I also felt Schmidt could have used a bit more in terms of motivation or development other than being the token crazy evil mastermind. Stuff I Loved: Marvel's subtlety in its tie-ins - a vast improvement over Iron Man 2. The earnest performances of the cast. The tightness of the screenplay. The clean shots of the action, the sweeping sense of scale and the emotion packed into a few key scenes, particularly the ending. Bottom Line: Definitely worth seeing and for more than just the lead-up to The Avengers. Speaking of which, stay through the credits. I probably don't have to tell you to do that anymore but I just did. It's worth it.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bugs

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bugs — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/bugs.mp3] We all need reminders from time to time. Soldiers visit war memorials to remember why we fight. You can turn on the television or look up a few political websites to remember why you vote the way you do. And when you're involved with entertainment, especially if you review movies for one reason or another, you need to remember that they're not all great cinematic storytelling experiences. Some of them are absolute stinking piles that not only smell on their own but give off a stench of a deeper, more intrinsic problem with the industry. To that end, I give you Bugs. The City (which goes unnamed out of a sense of shame) has built an ultra-modern subway sytem using ancient, as-yet-unexplored tunnels. Thanks to unscrupulous business practices, the construction crews unwittingly awakened the tunnels' former occupants: giant prehistoric insectoid predators. One of them skewers and partially devours a police officer who was in pursuit of a dangerous transient. An FBI agent is called in when the cops think it's the work of a serial killer, but evidence on the body prompts the agent to bring this to the attention of a smoking hot entymologist. Together with the supervisor of the tunnels' construction and a SWAT team of expendables, they head into the darkness to exterminate the bugs. Being an original TV movie for the Sci-Fi channel, back when it was spelled like the abbreviation for the science fiction it features, Bugs can't be expected to attract the kind of talent or produce the sort of narrative or visual appeal in larger works. Some corners had to be cut to fit a meager budget but the biggest problems with the movie have very little to do with money. While the CGI is laughable, the acting tends to be more wooden than a carpenter's assortment of cabinetry and the premise and plot points lifted bodily from other movies, Bugs suffers from three major issues. It's inconsistent, derivative and, at times, utterly boring.
Sorry, Hudson, it's a bug hunt. ...WHUPS! Wrong movie. The tone of Bugs, at first, seems to lean towards that of B-movie horror, going for a semi-creepy splatterfest as opposed to anything largely cerebral. After all, thinking is for squares, daddy-O, and sometimes a flick is just there so you can turn off your brain, right? But that's a discussion for another time. In the case of Bugs, if it maintained a bit of camp and tongue-in-cheek awareness it might have risen above the mire of other similar tripe. However more than once, Bugs tries to shift into areas that try to go for pure suspense, tension or emotion, and falls short every time. The tongue-in-cheek feeling would also help it feel more like an amateur homage to Aliens rather than a blatant rip-off. The chitinous enemies with acidic blood and horrible means of dispatch; a rag-tag cross-section of ethnicities and genders toting guns and acting badass right up until they meet the enemy; the slimy corporate douchebag only interested in the bottom line - heck, there's even a moment where our hero, Antonio Sabato Jr, climbs into some construction equipment to do battle with the queen. There are shout-outs to the likes of Predator as well, because why stop at ripping off one classic action flick when you can rip off several?
I can't find pictures from this movie anywhere, so here's a photo of Angie Everhart instead. You're welcome. These two problems coupled with bad direction and a laughable script tend to defang the action and pushes the characters into a mental area of "what the hell ever, just get it over with." What movies like Bugs and Saw's sequels and just about any other splatterfest flick fail to grasp is that it doesn't matter how many ways you can eviscerate a human body if we don't give a damn about the persons inhabiting said bodies. When the badly-written and worse-acted stock characters are thrown into a meat grinder, what I presume to believe is an action thriller is reduced to a rather dull and tedious lesson in how not to make a movie. You don't want to write, direct, act or produce in any way like what we see in Bugs. The only thing that can be said positively is that some of the actors aren't terrible. The foreman who heads into the tunnels he helped build is easily the best of the bunch, playing his character with reserve and aplomb in a manner clearly deserving of a better movie. Angie Everhart was never a fantastic actress, but she at least delivers her lines and manages some emotion a lot better than some of the other folks involved, and she's always nice to look at. Our leading man only leads with chiseled handsomeness and acting skills a notch or two below Ms. Everhart's. Everybody else is so stock they should be traded on Wall Street.
This might actually be our hero. He certainly out-acts every other member of the cast. The writers of Bugs, Patrick J. Doody & Chris Valenziano (a.k.a. thetwojerks.com), went on from this little turd to write Silent Hill: Homecoming. This is sad on several levels. First of all, it means that with a little effort the first American Silent Hill could have been a better experience that didn't completely miss the point of what makes Silent Hill great. In the same vein, it means that the producers of that game saw Pat & Chris's resume and presumably their work, and judged it worthy of a Silent Hill game. The worst part about Bugs isn't how boring it can get or the way it rips off Aliens the same way many sci-fi shooters do. The worst part is that it's evidence that so-called producers don't care about things like good storytelling or artistry or even decent production value. All they want to do is fleece easily-amused idiots with some shallow spectacle that deepens the pile of gold in their pockets. And if they can do it while tacking on extra cash for a 3-D experience and selling big plastic cups of barely-flavored corn syrup, so much the better, right? Bugs as a movie is bad enough. What it implies about the entertainment industry is absolutely repugnant. If you can, stay far away from both. At least when you rent or call up a movie via Netflix, you have some control over the experience, and your entertainment is in your own hands. Go to a cinema and it's in the hands of the executives, and they'll drop you on your face once you hand over your money. And they're not going anywhere. It's a thought far more frightening than any blob of CGI scuttling towards Angie Everhart could ever be. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Meet the Amaranthine

Meet the Amaranthine — Blue Ink Alchemy

Are we more than what we seem? We all walk around in similar skins, physical forms that are at once miracles of evolution and unremarkable slabs of gradually decaying meat. For ages man has posited that their existences reach beyond the ticking clock under which we all live. Man has sought gods, crafted timeless works, birthed and fathered the sciences, all in the name of creating something that lasts. Every individual knows on a basic level that our time in the world is fleeting, and at one point or another we wonder if there's more than what we have before us. Imagine, for a moment, that the answer is "yes". Amaranthine is an exploration of this answer.

The Game

Amaranthine is a tabletop role-playing game to be played with friends in a comfortable, conversational setting. It boasts no overt gimmickry, no miniatures or fancy dice. You just need a handful of six-siders. It's the premise, mood and execution of Amaranthine that set it apart. The premise is that the Amaranthine of the title are, in essence, immortal. Each is reincarnated over and over again throughout the ages, dying only to be born again with their knowledge intact, if tucked away in a mental steamer trunk for a few years. Contact with familiar places, lessons of the past and other Amaranthine draw out their true natures. By the time they reach young adulthood, an Amaranthine can already be operating with hundreds if not thousands of years of experience upon which to draw, yet they look no different from you or me. Amaranthine's mood is one of limitless potential, of destiny and the shadows. It's an atmosphere any afficionado of the World of Darkness (old or new) will find quite familiar. Yet the Amaranthine are not monsters, and the point of the game is not to rail against one's nature, but to embrace it. Being one of the Amaranthine means being excellent, living a life of epic proportions that mere mortals can only dream of. The true crux of the game comes in its execution as a group-based experience. The lives of the Amaranthine, present and past, are mercurial and somewhat unpredictible. Those you consider friends now may have been rivals in a previous life, and those now your enemies may have been allies or even lovers in years gone by. These relationships and the decisions players make regarding them build a sense of scale into the game as well as helping it feel deeply personal.

The Book

A word on the quality of the printed version of Amaranthine before I get into the meat of the text. This book is, without question, gorgeous. It ranks with the best offerings of White Wolf or Wizards of the Coast. It boasts bold colors, fascinating choices in type and a comprehensive indexing system that makes information easy to find. But all that is sound and fury; the significance of the book is in what the text says, not how it looks. The tales within the Amaranthine rulebook underscore the concepts and themes listed above. The early chapters draw players into this appealing world and give them the tools necessary to become a part of it. It concerns itself more with questions than with statistics, however: Who were you before? Who do you want to be now? Who mattered to you, and who still does? The stats systems, using the four humors as essential resources for the character, are at once familiar and unique. Deeper in the book those brave enough to become Directors find the depiction of our world through the immortal eyes of the Amaranthine. From the ways they organize themselves to the threats they face, the book ensures a Director is well-equipped to tell a tale as sprawling or intimate as they wish. Threats to the Amarthine are describedin detail, and are not limited to creatures such as vampires, dragons and the fair folk. The Void is an ever-present aspect of the Amaranthine, to which they all must return and from which all draw strength... for a price.

The Company

I knew when I first heard David of Machine Age pitch Amaranthine that he was on to something. He and his wife Filamena have never been ones to sit idle working on gaming materials for others. They're unafraid of the risks inherent in pursuing their own ideas and have the intestinal fortitude to see their dreams through in the face of adversity, mediocrity and doubt. They're a couple of those troublemakers I go on about sometimes. Their first game, Maschine Zeit, perfectly captured the dread and mystery of a quiet and horrible apocalypse of our own making. Guestbook makes playing a quick game with friends at a convention, train station or meeting so easy it seems almost shameful. Amaranthine encourages excellence, exalts in an epic scale and allows players to explore and answer questions about their own natures just as much as it pits them against creatures of the night and wonders from childhood myth. Amaranthine is a high-quality, deep-concept gaming experience that I Would recommend to anybody even remotely interested in a modern setting for a tabletop role-playing group, and if it doesn't put Machine Age firmly and permanently on the map of leading pen-and-paper game producers, it bloody well should. Buy Amaranthine: DriveThru RPG Pre-Order the Book

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Meet the Amaranthine

Meet the Amaranthine — Blue Ink Alchemy

Are we more than what we seem? We all walk around in similar skins, physical forms that are at once miracles of evolution and unremarkable slabs of gradually decaying meat. For ages man has posited that their existences reach beyond the ticking clock under which we all live. Man has sought gods, crafted timeless works, birthed and fathered the sciences, all in the name of creating something that lasts. Every individual knows on a basic level that our time in the world is fleeting, and at one point or another we wonder if there's more than what we have before us. Imagine, for a moment, that the answer is "yes". Amaranthine is an exploration of this answer.

The Game

Amaranthine is a tabletop role-playing game to be played with friends in a comfortable, conversational setting. It boasts no overt gimmickry, no miniatures or fancy dice. You just need a handful of six-siders. It's the premise, mood and execution of Amaranthine that set it apart. The premise is that the Amaranthine of the title are, in essence, immortal. Each is reincarnated over and over again throughout the ages, dying only to be born again with their knowledge intact, if tucked away in a mental steamer trunk for a few years. Contact with familiar places, lessons of the past and other Amaranthine draw out their true natures. By the time they reach young adulthood, an Amaranthine can already be operating with hundreds if not thousands of years of experience upon which to draw, yet they look no different from you or me. Amaranthine's mood is one of limitless potential, of destiny and the shadows. It's an atmosphere any afficionado of the World of Darkness (old or new) will find quite familiar. Yet the Amaranthine are not monsters, and the point of the game is not to rail against one's nature, but to embrace it. Being one of the Amaranthine means being excellent, living a life of epic proportions that mere mortals can only dream of. The true crux of the game comes in its execution as a group-based experience. The lives of the Amaranthine, present and past, are mercurial and somewhat unpredictible. Those you consider friends now may have been rivals in a previous life, and those now your enemies may have been allies or even lovers in years gone by. These relationships and the decisions players make regarding them build a sense of scale into the game as well as helping it feel deeply personal.

The Book

A word on the quality of the printed version of Amaranthine before I get into the meat of the text. This book is, without question, gorgeous. It ranks with the best offerings of White Wolf or Wizards of the Coast. It boasts bold colors, fascinating choices in type and a comprehensive indexing system that makes information easy to find. But all that is sound and fury; the significance of the book is in what the text says, not how it looks. The tales within the Amaranthine rulebook underscore the concepts and themes listed above. The early chapters draw players into this appealing world and give them the tools necessary to become a part of it. It concerns itself more with questions than with statistics, however: Who were you before? Who do you want to be now? Who mattered to you, and who still does? The stats systems, using the four humors as essential resources for the character, are at once familiar and unique. Deeper in the book those brave enough to become Directors find the depiction of our world through the immortal eyes of the Amaranthine. From the ways they organize themselves to the threats they face, the book ensures a Director is well-equipped to tell a tale as sprawling or intimate as they wish. Threats to the Amarthine are describedin detail, and are not limited to creatures such as vampires, dragons and the fair folk. The Void is an ever-present aspect of the Amaranthine, to which they all must return and from which all draw strength... for a price.

The Company

I knew when I first heard David of Machine Age pitch Amaranthine that he was on to something. He and his wife Filamena have never been ones to sit idle working on gaming materials for others. They're unafraid of the risks inherent in pursuing their own ideas and have the intestinal fortitude to see their dreams through in the face of adversity, mediocrity and doubt. They're a couple of those troublemakers I go on about sometimes. Their first game, Maschine Zeit, perfectly captured the dread and mystery of a quiet and horrible apocalypse of our own making. Guestbook makes playing a quick game with friends at a convention, train station or meeting so easy it seems almost shameful. Amaranthine encourages excellence, exalts in an epic scale and allows players to explore and answer questions about their own natures just as much as it pits them against creatures of the night and wonders from childhood myth. Amaranthine is a high-quality, deep-concept gaming experience that I Would recommend to anybody even remotely interested in a modern setting for a tabletop role-playing group, and if it doesn't put Machine Age firmly and permanently on the map of leading pen-and-paper game producers, it blood well should.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Guest Post: Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil

Guest Post: Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil — Blue Ink Alchemy

Me: Crap. I'm swamped again. Monica Flink: Can I help? Me: Hecks yeah. Can you write something? MF: What about? I know stuff about a lot of things. Me: Hmm... how about a cartoon? MF: I know just the one.

Since the beginning of recorded time, humanity has been enthralled with the idea of predicting the end of days. From prophecies that kept peasants hovering over their cook fires to laughable current predictions that bilked people out of millions of hard-earned dollars, leaving them nothing for the future, we have been obsessed with knowing exactly when Earth's number is up. Media is as guilty of this as crack-pot Armageddon theorists and powder blue suited tent revivalists certain that salvation was only a few days and an easy payment of $199.99 away. Whether you are looking at something as poorly made as End of Days or a little more well crafted like Alan Moore's Watchmen, humanity is a creature desperate to know when the planet is going to tell us all to bugger off, it's had enough. And we should remember to take our toothbrushes and copies of The Sex and the City Movie because Earth doesn't want to have mail that crap back to us later. Knowing how obsessed that we can all get with prophecies telling us all of our technicolor glory is over by next year, Loren Bouchard came up with his version of what is going to happen when the Antichrist comes to Earth and Jesus returns. Quite obviously, the Antichrist will be an art student and Jesus will be an escape artist cum disc jockey. This is all combined with the fact that Satan is going to run a kitschy family-friendly restaurant, and the Vatican knows all about it becomes the basis for the computer-animated masterpiece Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil.   Created in 2005, Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil originally ran on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim lineup in eleven episodes running approximately eleven minutes long per episode. The pilot episode ran occasionally on Adult Swim for two years before being picked up for the full season in 2007. Each episode opened with an unique theme song and opening sequence, and several episodes have unique songs for the end credits as well.   Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil stars Melissa Bardin Galsky as the voice of Lucy and Becky: The Devil's Advocate and H. Jon Benjamin as the voice of Satan, both of whom have worked together with Loren Bouchard previously on the critically acclaimed Home Movies. Other voice actors include Jon Glaser of Aqua Teen Hunger Force as DJ Jesús, and Sam Seder of the current Fox show Bob's Burgers as Senator Bob Whitehead, the man trying to become ruler of the free world after selling his soul to the Devil. Aside from boasting a brilliant cast of talented voice actors, the show is also written by Loren Bouchard, and produced by Bouchard, Seth Piezas and Josh Piezas. Bouchard has effectively told how the end of the world is not with huge rocks hurtling through space towards us, nor with the nuclear weapons our governments are so fond of waving at each other as if we didn't have enough phallic challenges in the world without world-ending dick measuring contests, but by an art student who works at Tequila Sally's, a restaurant chain not unlike Chili's.
Yeah, this seems pretty unwholesome to me too. The show opens by explaining that the Antichrist was born to an unnamed woman in exchange for a Datsun 280 ZX. We come to learn that Lucy, as she is named, is an art student with no particularly clear career path, very few ambitions or goals in life, and that she sports a pair of small horns from her red pixie bob that nobody seems to notice with her hipster glasses and demonic dog. Satan is more casual about bringing about the end of the world as some people might think would be prudent, and wears sweaters reminiscent of those made popular by The Cosby Show. His assistant, Becky, is far more involved in planning the end of humanity as we know it, and also happens to have a fleshless skull for a head. Each episode has a short plot that is usually based around some kind of scheme Satan has to take over the world, whether it is buying a dildo factory that he is horrified to find that his daughter patronizes, or buying a chain restaurant and making his own daughter work there. Thwarting the Devil and his plans are the three members of a team from the Vatican known as The Special Clergy. They are aware of who the Antichrist is, but is just barely capable of keeping themselves alive, let alone killing the future destroyer of the planet.   Lucy also happens to be dating DJ Jesús, who is frequently followed around by his sycophantic, ass kissing personal assistant Judas, much to her father's chagrin. Several of the episodes are centered around Satan trying to kill DJ Jesús and keep his daughter from dating him. But is this enough to make Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil stand out from the rest of the high cost box office drek that most of the world has accepted as good entertainment? Running won't change the fact that you made this movie instead of giving us more Martin Blank.   Of course it is. Why the hell would I take so much time writing about it if Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil was not up on the steps, out of the mire of disaster movies that save the dog and flicks where Gabriel Byrne chews the scenery for two hours? The best thing about Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil is that it is smart. Bouchard does not dumb down his humor for the masses, and expects us to laugh not because the Devil is a bumbling buffoon, but because he's really not all that bad of a guy and could probably get along with the son of God.   We laugh at the dark humor, but we also laugh at ourselves. We see ourselves as the business people who go to Tequila Sally's and order the diet-rita, and we see ourselves as the swooning crowds that buy DJ Jesús's book while watching him perform a "near-acle" (which is like a miracle, but not quite). We want the son of God to be a disc jockey and escape artist when he comes back from Heaven. We want the Antichrist to be an aimless art student. Mostly because it takes all the silly, hypersensitive, worrisome and insipid lunacy that encompass flawed human predictions of something so catastrophic that we probably will not be around to know it has happened anyway and shows us that it is okay to just laugh at it all, and feel better about it for five minutes. Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil is a gem in a sea of media hogwash, ready to sit there and be polished and enjoyed by those of us not quite ready to pay a stranger cash to take care of our pets once the Rapture happens. Besides, those of us that laugh at Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil probably are not going to get Raptured anyway, so we will take care of our own pets.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Cadmon's Journal: Fourth Entry

Cadmon's Journal: Fourth Entry — Blue Ink Alchemy

A new experiment has begun. In Reading, Pennsylvania, a friend is running a tabletop game set in the world of George RR Martin's Song of Ice and Fire. What follows are the recollections of my character, Cadmon Storm, in a journal he keeps on his person or ravens he sends to other characters. All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon. My time in the House of Black and White that sits in Braavos taught me patience and drew me deeply into an understanding of the Many-Faced God. I'd wondered as a child why neither the Seven nor the rumored old gods of the North had reached me in the ways the septons were always droning on about. It could be because, in that moment when I simultaneously delivered a soul onto death and nearly fell into its arms myself, I understood how precious every moment is, and how to live through each one without regret so one could stand before death with head held high. The man who taught me the water dance kept my dagger. It wasn't until I took the sword from his hand that he returned it. That same day, I thanked the priests in the House of Black and White and, wearing the clothes of a bravo, hired myself as a deckhand and sellsword to a trading ship. So it was for years, before wanderings and adventures brought me to Pentos. I was days from turning ten and seven, a man grown by Westrosi reckoning. I had taken scars and lives alike, and as I walked through the city to make my delivery I drew in the salty sea air and thought of how different it smelled from the spray of Storm's End and the cold loam of Dragonstone. I didn't miss them, precisely, but I knew they were the foundation upon which Cadmon Storm the bravo had been built. I handed the wineseller his cask and took his money. I was counting it for the third time - just to be certain - when I passed the estate of a Magister. He was a cheesemonger, if I remembered correctly, but it wasn't his wares or his legendary weight that made me stop on the road. It was the sight on his pavilion. I remember stepping closer, more to get a better look than to avoid the cart that rolled past, the driver muttering an obscenity in Valyrian - another skill I'd refined in the House of Black and White. She stood at the railing of the pavilion looking out over the city. Her hair, caught in the breeze and sunlight, looked as if spun from a metal more precious that silver, more rare than gold. She was wearing a fine if somewhat insubstantial dress that was very much in keeping with the fashions of the upper-crust ladies of Pentos. What captured me, though, were her eyes. Not their color, though you don't often see them the color of amethysts. No, it was the sadness. The longing. Though she was dressed in the manner of a guest, and the serving girls within that approached her confirmed that, she looked very much a prisoner. A little voice in the back of my mind told me I would embarass myself if she caught me gauping, and I tore my eyes away from the sight of her. Had I not, I would have missed the two bravos moving quickly and quietly before the docks. Now, bravos in Pentos are not an entirely uncommon sight. But these men wore grey and blue scarves around their necks that clashed with their fashionable tunics and vests. It was curious and, despite my desire to linger and gaze at the girl in the pavillion, I followed, my left hand on the hilt of my blade. They burst into a tavern not far from the docks. It was full of sailors and oarsmen from all over the Free Cities and quite a few from Westeros. One at the bar was smiling and laughing with a pair of other men, wearing a dark tunic with a strange device over his heart: an onion, embroidered in white. It was a device I knew well. "Maric Seaworth!" The bravo that called the name drew his blade. "You will come with us!" Maric looked at the bravos, then drank down the remnants of his wine. "Why would I do that?" "Your ship has raided and taken the property of our employer." It was the other bravo who spoke now, his Westrosi Common slightly more refined. "We've come on behalf of our lady, Betharios of Braavos, to demand recompense." "You mean you come on behalf of her husband, Symond Frey." Maric tilted his chin at them. "Which is why he put those collars on you." The first bravo spat. "We are no dogs!" "And at least we are not pirates and thieves. Not like you. Now will you come with us or shall we draw your blood now?" Maric got to his feet. People were quietly leaving the tavern or getting into a better position to watch. "I can't leave. My ship departs with the tide. I need to be on it, you see, as I am her captain, and we have goods to take back to Westeros. Goods, I might add, that were not taken from Symond's leaky boats." "We are two." The first bravo grinned, a smile missing a few teeth. "You are one. Odds are not good, pirate." "Then shall we even them?" I stepped out of the crowd, drawing my own blade. "We shall duel, bravo, you and I." The rough bravo blinked at me. "You will stand for this Westrosi seadog?" "Aye. Any seadog of Westeros nursed at the same bitch I did." Maric smiled. "The Narrow Sea's a cold, hard one." "Enough talk!" The first bravo roared as he attacked. I parried and gave ground. He was boisterous enough, but he lacked finesse. The other bravo went at Maric, but the captain was quick on his feet and had a Westrosi longsword in his hand before the bravo could get close enough to stick him. I kept mine busy, moving around the tavern and letting him grow tired and stupid... well, more stupid than usual. Sure enough, he over-extended his thrust and I took him in the chest, just below his heart. He slid back off of my blade and staggered, looking down at the wound in shock. I raised my blade to my face in salute, then turned to the other as he backed Maric into a corner. The dying bravo somehow managed a cry that belied the escaping air from his lungs. I kept my sword on the one attacking Maric and drew my dagger with my other hand. Valyrian steel whispered through the air, knocking his final thrust aside, and a good shove put him down on the floorboards. He didn't get back up. The other Frey bravo glanced to see me approaching him, and that's when Maric took him. He slapped the thin blade of his opponent aside with contempt and cleaved his neck down to the spine on the reverse stroke. The bravo bled all over his Frey-colored scarf as he sank to his knees, then fell to one side. Maric cleaned his blade and gave me a nod. "You made that a lot easier than it could have been, friend. Thank you." "Any family of Davos Seaworth is family of mine." "You know my father?" "Quite well. This dagger was a gift. But what would Symond Frey want with you?" "Ransom, maybe? Who knows, and more to the point, who cares?" He paused. "The dagger was a gift?" "Aye, when I was a lad. When he helped me leave Westeros, knowing my destiny didn't lay in the cold halls of Storm's End where bastards like me are seen he way a noble looks at a pile of horseshit he just stepped in." He studied me for a moment, and then smiled slowly. "Cadmon. I thought I recognized that smirk." I blinked. "When did we...?" "Once, on the Black Bertha. Father put into port and I came aboard to see him. I was... six at the time? Anyway, he made sure to remind me what you might look like when he sent my Fury on this trip." "I'm sorry, Maric, I don't understand." We had left the tavern at that point. While I had declared the duel, and won it outright, two dead bodies were not something either Maric or I were interested in explaining. We walked across the street towards the docks, and I caught a glimpse of Illyrio's palace out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but did not see the maiden. When I looked back, Maric was holding a ring out to me. He placed it in my hand. The ring was heavy. It had a thick band and fit over the long finger of my left hand. Its central accent was not a gem, but a signet of white. It depicted a tall tower with a flame at the top. I studied it for a long moment as Maric helped me aboard the Fury. "My father had a message for you, if I were to find you. He said to give you this ring, and relay the following. 'It's time for you to come home, Cadmon Storm. Your destiny is calling you there.'"

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Whimper

Flash Fiction: The Whimper — Blue Ink Alchemy

For Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge: An Uncharted Apocalypse: He fumbled with the little packet of cheese and crackers in the empty store. The whole place smelled like rotten meat. The few items that hadn't been cleared out in the final surge of panic had gone bad months ago. Now the only food worth taking were items so processed that they barely qualified as food, but were still edible and had at least some nutritional value. He tossed a box of Twinkies, a few unopened bottles of water and a couple cans of pork and beans into his backpack. He shouldered the burden as he headed out of the abandoned store, looking over his shoulder at the empty aisles and dead overhead lights. He walked out across the abandoned parking lot to the street he'd been walking since he'd woken up and realized he was all that was left. He was keeping his eyes open for some form of radio, but even if he found one he wasn't sure what good it would be. Transmitters needed power, and power wasn't something most people had anymore. When the oil reserves ran dry, people were told that other means of fuel would keep things going until a solution could be found. The eggheads rolled out better solar-powered cars and hydroelectric plants but it was too little too late. Folks had started knifing each other over a gallon of gas. Prices at the pump skyrocketed. Those that could took portable generators and a few belongings and headed for the hills. Scientists scrambled to find a solution but bureaucrats whined about government subsidies going to them while people went hungry, and special interests whispered in their ears about there being no profit in philanthropic science. One by one, the sources of power the world depended upon disappeared. Power went out all over the world. The food in the stores went bad, hospitals could no longer treat the sick and wounded, governments shut down and corporate stock was useless. He opened a bottle of water and drank as he walked. He wasn't sure why he was the only one left. He wasn't anyone special, just a contractor that didn't mind heights. He'd worked on a lot of the tall buildings around him. What would happen to them now that they were empty? The wind howled quietly through the streets and between those buildings, giving no answer. He figured he'd keep walking until he found someone, one of those families that had taken a camper and portable generator into the woods and hills. But he knew he wasn't the only one who'd had that idea. People followed the smart ones who'd skipped town at the first whiff of trouble, some with money that no longer had any meaning, some with weapons to simply take what they wanted. A bit of broken glass shattered under his boot as he passed a storefront. Its front window was smashed, a few of the TVs missing. He smirked. The looting had started when the newsreaders sagely told the public that there simply wasn't any more oil to be had. The scientists and hippies had been right, they said between the lines, and we've gotten ourselves good and screwed. People did what they always did: they panicked. In their panic they started taking what they wanted, things they'd never been able to get when the world made sense, and since it didn't make sense now, why should they? A Blu-Ray player might have been useless when the power finally died, but there'd have been some good movie marathons until then. Rummaging in his pack, he pulled out a Twinkie. He knew he had to pace himself, as this food needed to last him until he reached the next store. Still, the sweet cream in the middle of the sponge cake lifted his spirits a little. Maybe he wasn't the last man alive. Even if someone was willing to take a shot at him when he found their little cabin or trailer or whatever, at least it would mean he wasn't alone. The rows of silent, impotent cars and apartments all around holding the dead was beginning to unnerve him. He spent the night in an abandoned bookstore. He made a fire with some of the conservative periodicals and newspapers and sat by it to read. He read about aliens coming to earth, about mighty earthquakes and meteors smashing cities and giant bugs. He had to laugh. The end of the world hadn't been anywhere near that dramatic. Humanity had simply not planned far enough ahead. Every time they'd drilled for more oil, they'd cut their own throats just a little more. Sleep was fitful and short. He was up before dawn, cooking his pork and beans before putting his fire out and walking away. A few hours of hiking later he came to the river. It was small, only a few feet wide, but he still took the time to find a bridge. When he crossed, he noticed something. A few months before, the trees and undergrowth had been ten or so feet from the shore. Now, green growth and vines were spilling down towards the river, like thirsty men groping for water. Nature was taking back what was hers. He looked back over his shoulder. Soon the stone and brick buildings would be covered in vines. Trees would spring up in the streets. Birds would nest there and animals would make their homes in used game stores and fitness centers. He smiled and turned back to his path. A bear was standing in it. It was a big, black, shaggy thing, rising up on its hind legs and smelling the air. The man swallowed, standing still. He wondered when the bear had last eaten, then thought it'd been stupid not to look for a gun store or at least pick up a knife from the grocery store. The bear came down onto all fours and tensed to charge. The man closed his eyes. Nature's such a fucking bitch sometimes.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Lucky Number Slevin

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Lucky Number Slevin — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/slevin.mp3] The law of averages isn't something you can avoid as you produce or study a given set of data. This applies just as much to entertainment as it does to less interesting data. Be it a fiction franchise, the songs in a band's repertoire or a series of movies reviewed by a guy with a microphone, a Netflix subscription and a dream, some of the items are going to be above average, and some below. Not every movie you see is going to be an Inception, but thankfully that means the lows of Attack of the Clones are few and far between as well. As for where Lucky Number Slevin falls, I feel disinclined to give away the ending just yet. That's in keeping with the subject matter, though. It's one of those flicks that likes to keep you guessing, like M Night Shamylan did before he cast himself as a screenwriter destined to save the world. The character of the title, Slevin, is clad in a bath towel and staying at a friend's apartment when his friend's neighbor comes over to borrow a cup of sugar. She is followed by two far less amenable fellows who take him to see The Boss. Convinced that Slevin is the friend, Nick Fisher, and that he is owed $96,000, The Boss offers to stay the hand of his terminal means of debt collection if Slevin will kill the son of his rival, The Rabbi. This seems to be a setup, though, as a deadly assassin appears after Slevin leaves and confirms that Slevin is a patsy. At least, that's how things appear, but not all is as it seems in a Kansas City Shuffle. The best way for me to describe Lucky Number Slevin is for me to ask you to picture The Usual Suspects getting knocked up by Pulp Fiction. It's a quick and dirty metaphor, I know, with emphasis on the 'dirty'. But the influences are rather obvious. From Singer's opus are the cast of quirky, well-drawn characters and a tightly-woven story that uses every minute of its running time wisely. From Tarantino's breakthrough is dialogue laced with pop culture references and an unflinching method of displaying violence and death. These ingredients are mixed with a clean, steady directorial hand and an all-star cast to deliver a pretty effective narrative that's high on quality and low on contrivance. There's also the all-star cast. Morgan Freeman plays The Boss as a straightforward urban crime lord while Ben Kingsley's performance as the Rabbi shows a man who chose to seize control of a violent aspect of New York City rather than minister to troubled youths. There's something almost Shakespearean about these two former friends turned rivals living in luxurious penthouses directly across the street from one another. When the two veterans share a scene together the electricity is palpable. Stanley Tucci has a great bit as a police detective trying to figure Slevin out, Lucy Liu is endearing without being irritating as the Columbo-watching neighbor and Bruce Willis projects quiet menace as the legendary assassin Mister Goodkat. The standout, however, is Josh Hartnett. Playing Slevin himself, he is the linchpin upon which the entire endeavour turns. While at first he seems to be an innocent victim of mistaken identity, the way he acts with casual flippancy towards anyone in authority and the deft maneuvers he begins to undertake start to let the audience in on the fact that he's far more than he seems. In a story where two rivals seem bent on perpetuating if not escalating a decades-old cold war, the introduction of a third player seems likely to tip the scales into full-blown hostilities. The film, of course, is coy with the motivations behind this young man, but Hartnett's portrayal of him is nearly flawless. When Slevin drops the sheepish grins and clever dialogue for his true nature, it happens so quickly and suddenly that it can't help but shock and amaze, at least a little bit.
They call him the Rabbi because... well, guess. As much as I enjoy movies like this, I can see where some might not like Lucky Number Slevin. It's a clever and stylish work, but some might consider it too clever for its own good, or too stylish to merit much substance. Indeed, as much as it uses its run-time well it also doesn't linger past the finish too long, and while it weaves a story not unlike The Usual Suspects some jaded viewers may avoid watching it again with the argument that it's what the movie wants them to do, folding their arms and snobbishly refusing to give such over-written derivative tripe so much as another glance before they go off to watch some far more highbrow piece of cinema the popcorn-scarfing plebs have never heard of - or, failing that, 2001: A Space Odyssey. Okay, I'm exaggerating. I don't personally know anybody stuck that far up their pretentious ass that wouldn't appreciate Lucky Number Slevin on some level, and I highly recommend that it stylishly shuffle its way onto your Netflix queue. For critics of the cinema there's decent scene construction, clean shooting and canny direction. For fans of clever movies there's great dialogue, characters and more than enough tasty tidbits laced throughout the movie that do help it hold up to repeated viewings and the passage of time. And for those just interested in attractive people in a send-up of noir flicks that cribbed a couple notes from Tarantino, you have Josh Hartnett wearing only a towel for the first third or so of the movie, and Lucy Liu being far less like an ass-kicking ice queen and more like the sort of girl most of us wish would come by our place asking for a cup of sugar when we've just stepped out of the shower and are reaching for a bottle of wine. ...What? It could happen. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Troublemakers

Troublemakers — Blue Ink Alchemy

He's smiling because he just killed someone you love. Writers are essential to modern entertainment. Without them there are no movies, no TV shows, no plays and no novels. Just about anybody can tell you who their favorite writer is and why. Look up those writers and they can tell you what inspires them, how they got started and what's coming next. Some writers will even lay some ground rules for good writing, from creating good characters to avoiding contrivance in plotlines. What people don't tell you about being a writer is that it means bucking the system. I should clarify my meaning. To write fiction is to buck the system. A lot of writers who struggle their way to success - and it is a struggle, don't let anyone tell you different - are not what many in the common populace associate with 'successful' in their minds. They tend to think of CEOs in suits that cost more than some cars, movie stars with legendary good looks and politicians who decide the course our world takes. Large men that look like Santa Claus' evil twin brother? Housewives from Arizona? Unemployed British ladies? Naaaah. Writers are iconoclasts. They're troublemakers. They stir things up because they ignite people's imaginations. They encourage their audience to think, to interact, to take joy out of something that can become more than a mere distraction. Even the people who rise up in arms against a work or a franchise are engaged in an activity that excites them even if that excitement takes the form of indignant fury. This is a good thing. The CEO worries about the bottom line. The movie star worries about paparazzi. The world leaders worry about any one of the Four Horsemen riding up to his or her door. The writer of fiction should worry about doing something new that wakes somebody up from their miasma of daily living. Something worth noting about the writerly minds behind many of the thriving stories in our Kindles, TV screens, bookstores and theaters is that all of them are causing trouble in one form or another. They're setting their work apart. They're trying something new. They may not get it right and they might even piss some people off, but they're making the attempt. And even if they don't realize it, the people they're making angry are engaging them in the creative process. There's a lot of energy to be had in the debates, arguments, praise, criticism and fanatical gushing that comes in the wake of a new work that has the chops to make it through the slaughterhouse of rejection that stands between the new writer and the public eye. And the people that are talented, dedicated and lucky enough to make it through got there by not giving up on what they waned. They pushed back against the pressures of modern life. They crammed their passion into whatever cracks they could find. They made messes. They broke shit. And in the end it paid off. I want to be one of those troublemakers. Looking at the people who've made it, and how they've done it and what they've done it with, how could I not?

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Art of Thor: Close Air Support

The Art of Thor: Close Air Support — Blue Ink Alchemy

He who is skilled in attack flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.

StarCraft 2 encourages aggressive play. It's why we see so many infantry rushes. But your foot soldiers are not the only weapons at your disposal if you want to bring the battle to a swift end. Not every player will agree, but the mid to upper echelons of the tech tree hold some very powerful tools - air units. Air power quickly came to dominate the battlefield in the 20th century, and the battlefields of StarCraft 2 are not terribly different. Producing units that fly not only provides vital and rapid intelligence but often opens up options that might not normally be available with earlier technologies and forces. While every race has the means to carry out drop play, that is a subject for another post, as there are some general aspects of that tactic that apply to all races. In this article I wanted to discuss specific units from each race that can cause a major swing in momentum. Zerg - The Mutalisk One of the first mutations available to a Zerg player that spawns a Spire is that of the dreaded Mutalisk. It's a versatile and relatively inexpensive flyer with good range, splash damage and the capability to target both air and ground units. As in the first StarCraft, even a small flight of Mutalisks can form the spine of a fearsome airborne Zerg swarm. When accompianied by Zerglings or Banelings they are particularly resilient to return fire from the ground. They're effective at harrassment and assaults on the enemy mineral line. Also worth considering is the fact that every moment your opponent spends chasing your Mutalisks or building anti-air defenses is one less moment they're spending building units to attack you directly or counter a mixed ground assault. These are all uses for Mutalisk to consider as your Spire emerges from the creep. Protoss - The Void Ray Like all Protoss units the Void Ray is a lovely construct of sweeping curves and glimmering crystals. It is not, however, terribly fast and is somewhat fragile when it comes under focused enemy fire. This is balanced with its cost, its range of vision and the fact that the longer its beam is active, the more effective it becomes. At their apex they burn through buildings with frightening speed. Like the juggernaut, a well-managed flotilla of Void Rays may take a few moments to gather momentum, but once they do they are very hard to stop. It is important, then, to ensure the Void Rays get where they're going unmolested. Scouting routes, distracting the enemy's units and feinting at their base entrance all increase the longevity of your flying glass cannons. Ideally, your opponent should not know that a dozen Void Rays are reducing their buildings to slag until the moment they turn their beams on the base. I've heard of some players who turn their Void Rays on each other just before making their assault. They switch targets at the right moment, of course, before destroying their own units, but this is something of an advanced technique. I'll be the first to admit I don't know much about it - I play Terran. Terran - The Banshee Bashees, unlike Mutalisks and Void Rays, cannot attack air units. Like Void Rays, they're somewhat fragile. Like Mutalisks, they're relatively inexpensive. However, what sets them apart from the other racial air units we've discussed is a seperate technology that must be researched: the Cloaking Device. Invisible to all but detectors, Banshees with active cloaks are every bit as effective at harassment and mineral line assault as Mutalisks. They also shine in support of an infantry or tank advance, where they can surgically remove problematic units while the ground units soak up damage and push forward. As with Mutalisks, they can cause an opponent to scramble in building detectors or air defenses, allowing you to rapidly respond with a follow-up attack or a quick change in tactics. Of course, all three races are vulnerable to early attack if they go for air tech early in the game. Base defense and proper build execution are crucial. However, if you can hold off initial rushes and keep your economy flowing, the power and versatility of these relatively basic air units may surprise you.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

It's Shorts Season

It's Shorts Season — Blue Ink Alchemy

The goal since I was about 10 has been, to put it simply, getting published. Back in 80s, when this goal took shape fully in my embryonic little mind, getting published meant traditional print. Robert Heinlein, Tom Clancy, Stephen King, Clive Cussler and Diane Duane got themselves ink in hardcover and paperback books. The Internet was an infant. Reading fiction on a handheld device smaller than one's Trapper Keeper sounded like something out of Star Trek. Here we are, in 2011. We're still waiting for our jetpacks, but electronic word delivery is thriving while many traditional publication schemes are dying on the vine. It's still out there, to be sure. I'll be shelling out for the next Song of Ice and Fire and Dresden Files books. But I've gotten caught up (mostly) with Chicago's professional wizard thanks to the gift of books through the Kindle. And publishers like up-and-comer Angry Robot are on dual tracks of traditional dead tree formats and the shiny hotness of e-publishing. I think it's past time I shook myself free of the big-hair coke-sniffing Reaganite idea of only ever making it as an author if I get a book on the shelves in a Barnes & Noble. Sure, Starbucks is going to keep its live-in partner alive for a while but most traditional bookstores are really feeling the pinch. The Internet, on the other hand, isn't going anywhere. Neither are authors like Chuck Wendig. Yeah, he gave me another kick in the ass this morning. I've been wondering how exactly I'm going to juggle writing one novel and rewriting another and still have a shot of getting fiction into the hands of readers before I get much older. And then Chuck's post underscored something that's been staring me in the face: I'm sitting on a bunch of it. What's to say I can't write one novel, rewrite another AND put together a short story anthology? I know a few of these stories are available to you currently for free through the link above. Others have appeared before (or have been promised to - I'm looking at you, Polymancer). But the free fiction's pretty raw. Like a bunch of carrots in the store, you need to wash them off and maybe take a peeler to them before they're at their best. In other words, I need an editor. I'm also going to need a cover artist. Maybe a photographer, maybe a more traditional pen-and-tablet artist, but somebody with visual arts skills far exceeding my capacity to doodle is going to have to help me out. I'm not about to wrap up a couple stories in twine, dump them on Amazon and say "Here you go, suckers, buy buy buy!" I'd like to think I'm a bit more professional than that. I have no idea how I'm going to pay these intrepid and conjectural helpers, but hopefully something can be worked out. If you're reading this and want to help, let me know. Finally, in this anthology-to-be is going to be one story never before seen. Partially because it's going to be another of those odd hybrids of disparate genres, and partially because I haven't written it yet. It's my hope that this, coupled with revised & edited versions of previous tales bundled into an easy-to-read one-stop shop will give folks enough incentive to pick it up. And in doing so, they might become interested enough in my voice, style or sheer insanity to want to read more, which is where the novels and future shorts will come in. One can only hope. ABW, BTFO, etc.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy