On The Grim, Dark Far Future

On The Grim, Dark Far Future — Blue Ink Alchemy

Practical armour and sweet hats are in this season throughout the Imperium. I've gone through a few periods in my life where I've had more disposable income than I've known what to do with. Actually, I take that back, I knew EXACTLY what to do with it: buy more games! I used to play Warhammer 40,000 on actual tabletops and I was into Magic: the Gathering way back in high school. Since then I've lost most of my old cards and miniatures, the former because I was a blinking idiot who just gave away tons of valuable cards and the latter because minis can sell well. Nowadays my primary interest in Magic is the Commander casual variant, mostly because I no longer have those piles of cash, and as for 40k, I've discovered that I've enjoyed the lore and setting more than the painting and dice-rolling. Being a storyteller, I'm more interested in the motivations and personalities of the figures that march across tabletops around the world than I am in their ballistic skill and toughness. It's not just because character sheets, pencils and a bag of Doritos for a game of Dark Heresy is cheaper than a 1,000 point army. There are other reasons, grounded more in the setting itself.

The Far Future is Baroque

So many things about the galaxy 40,000 years in the future is so ostentatious I can't help but smile. Just look at the cover art for any of the Space Marine army books. There's ornate armor with ridiculous shoulder pads, guns the size of compact cars and gilded skulls everywhere. It's the sort of baroque sense of style that would make the architects of the Vatican blush. For some reason, the design mentality of the fashions and buildings of the 41st century is rooted deeply in the 17th or so. These structures, constructs and trappings have the feeling of a people desperately trying to impose some order and permanence to a galaxy in constant turmoil. "If we weigh these things down with heavy gold accents, seals of the Imperium and grim iconography, they won't just get swallowed up by the Warp or a tide of Orks or some other xenos invasion!" Whatever the motivation behind these design choices, it makes the worlds of the Imperium stand out, at least in my mind.

Corruption Done Right

There's a joke going around that every Blizzard plot is centered around corruption. Dragon X becomes corrupted and it's down to Spastic Group of Players Y or Knaak Author Avatar Z to sort it out. Swap "dragon" with "Queen of Blades" and you have StarCraft. Swap "Queen of Blades" with "everybody ever" and presto, a Diablo plot. Like more than a few things, Blizzard has been cribbing notes from Games Workshop on this, except that Games Workshop does it right. Instead of just "whoa, big bad voodoo whatsis over there is corrupt, let's go destroy/try to redeem it!", any 40k story worth its bolter ammunition steeps itself in paranoia and doubt. It's not just that someone or something has become corrupted by Chaos or psyker-induced madness or a heretical idea like unity of races or freedom of thought or the Eldar being pretty. You, yes you, may become corrupted in the course of the narrative, especially if you're in a tabletop game. Like proper Lovecraftian/psychological horror, the truly terrifying things aren't just what you can smack with a chainsword, they're what coil around inside of you, the fear and the doubt and the ambition and the rage. Things like this form the basis of good drama, character development and tension, and while a lot of Blizzard's stories gloss over this sort of thing, fiction and tabletoping in 40k thrusts you right into it.

Yes, The Grimdark

You've probably heard the Warhammer 40k tagline: "In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war." In addition to baroque trappings and ever-present dangers of becoming something twisted and despicable, you have obscenely high death counts any time armed engagements happen, horrifyingly devastating weapons, a massive empire that suspects everybody and everything of treason or heresy or both, and cybernetic augmentations that are the exact opposite of Deus Ex's "awesome and visually appealing" ones. In the new game, that is; everybody looks pretty bad in the original Deus Ex. All of this adds up to an undeniably oppressive atmosphere, the sort of dour doom and gloom present in many post-apocalyptic works. However, in the case of 40k, the galaxy-sweeping catastrophe either hasn't happened yet or is in fact in the process of happening. It gives the characters in the story something to struggle against other than the villain of the week or a pile of antagonist-shaped statistics. And 40k never goes the World of Darkness route by giving the inevitable end a face and a name. It could come out of the Eye of Terror or in the form of a titanic wave of Tyranids, sure; but it could also happen due to the actions of our protagonists, people with sympathize and root for. Some might decry the apparent absurdity of the ever-present 'grimdark' of the universe in question, but to me there's a great amount of depth and nuance to be had if you're willing to work for it. I may never paint another miniature or buy another army book for Warhammer 40,000 again. But I still find its setting and themes oddly compelling. Also, I'm more than willing to start a Dark Heresy campaign in and around Philadelphia if I can find players.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, VI: Viserys

Honor & Blood, VI: Viserys — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Jim Stanes

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. Word of the lost swords of high Westrosi houses by up-and-coming House Luxon has crossed the Narrow Sea...

He looked up from the meal in front of him to the bearer of the news. Under the wide-brimmed hat providing shadows for half of his face, there were not many in Pentos who would easily recognize the traveler. Still, Viserys could not shake a feeling of doubt. Were they being watched? Who else knew of this, of them? "You saw this thing?" "With my own eyes." The voice of the traveler was low, subtle, all but lost in the tavern's ruckus. "The blades of the Baratheons were laid at the feet of the king himself." "The king sitting on my throne." Scowling, Viserys snatched up a goblet of wine and drained it. "I can't wait to see the look on his fat face when I split him open." "In time, in time." The traveler spoke calmly, unruffled by the notion of waking the dragon. That didn't sit well. He should fear the dragon. All men should fear the dragon. "What was interesting to me, however, was not only what this man of the north carried, but what he did not." "The blades of my family. Where are they?" "I suspect they are locked away in Moat Cailin. Little birds tell me the new maester has taken residence in a tower built atop a vault. That would be the most likely place." Viserys took a bite of stew, trying to think. The spices in the Pentoshi food distracted him, equal parts curiosity and revulsion interfering with his ability to strategize. "My ancestors would storm the castle with their armies to take back what is theirs. I have no army. Aemon would have flown over the walls with his dragons. I have no dragons." "Astute, my prince." "I wasn't asking for your opinion." He waved his goblet in the air until it was refilled. "I need inspiration, not sycophancy." "Not all wars are won with armies and dragons. Some are won with deception and stealth, before they even begin." Viserys considered this. What glory would he win stealing into a castle like a thief? He wasn't stealing anything, he was reclaiming it. But what price would he pay to get those weapons? There were blades of Valyrian steel among them, perhaps even the sword of Aemon the Dragonknight, or that of his elder brother Rhaegar. He envisioned himself riding towards the Red Keep, a loyal army at his back, the smokey steel in hand and raised high as he returned to the place he truly belonged... "How do we begin?" "Well, for one thing, we cannot have you and your sister staying in places where you could be stumbled upon. It is no small miracle that you have remained relatively undiscovered until now. Fortunately for you, I have just the place for you to stay while plans are made. A trusted friend." "Inasmuch as I trust anyone." Viserys finished his wine and laid some coins on the table. He moved to stand, then paused. "Wait. You said a man from the North came to deliver the fat king's swords. But when you first told me of this, you spoke of two men." "Indeed I did." "The other was not from the North?" "No. He is not, but as our time is somewhat short before I am missed, I think that is a tale I shall have to tell another time." Viserys narrowed his eyes. "You're hiding something from me, eunuch." "I hide things from all men, my prince. It is how I stay alive." "That, too, is no small miracle." The traveler only smiled. He stood, gesturing for Viserys to lead the way. As it should be. I've been here long enough to know this city like the back of my hand. They wound their way through the streets until they came to the merchant ship owner's pavilion. The traveler tipped his hat down slightly. "I will wait here." "Is the place we're going better than this?" "Slightly larger, and infinitely more hospitable, I suspect." Viserys grunted. He walked through the gate and found his host sitting by one of the windows that faced the harbor. Half of the man's hair, both on his head and in his forked beard, was painted blue, the other half green. A girl from a pillowhouse knelt at his feet and was massaging his ankles while he enjoyed a pipe. "Ah! My guest returns. Did you have an enjoyable lunch?" "I did, but I'm afraid I must depart. My sister and I thank you for your hospitality." He dropped a few coins on the table and walked back towards the guest rooms. "I find it unfortunate that you still will not consider my offer." The merchant was standing. "Your sister would be well taken care of and greatly desired. Is that not what all women want?" Viserys looked over his shoulder, first at the man then at the girl who remained on the floor, barely clothed in the silk gown that fell from her shoulders. Shaking his head, the prince walked into the guest bedroom he shared with his sister. If anyone is going to whore out Daenerys, it's going to be me, not that old pirate, and not for any pittance of gold, but for my crown. "Daenerys. It's time to wake up." She murmured as she rolled over on the bed. Viserys crossed to it, reached around her and took hold of her breast, pinching her nipple until her eyes opened. "We have to leave. Now. If you delay, you will wake the dragon." Nodding as she looked at him, Daenerys quickly found her clothes and packed up her few meager belongings. Viserys was already packed. The message had made it clear that they would not linger here long, and so had prepared himself before dawn. They walked out to find the merchant with an old blade in his hand. "I think I'll be keeping your sister. She's worth far more than you are, boy." Viserys was armed only with a dagger. But the merchant was in his cups, despite the hour, a fact evident in the empty glass bottles near his chair and the stink on his breath. The young king gestured for his sister to stay behind him as he drew his short blade. "I'm sure you'd like a virgin to sell to whomever you got that whore on the floor from, but my sister stays with me. And we're leaving." The old pirate scowled, slamming the pommel of his blade on the table, causing bottles to fly. "Wretch! I keep you under my roof for months, feed you and clothe you in keeping with this station you claim, and this is how I'm repaid?" "No. That gold on the table is how you are repaid. More will come if you let us pass. You will have the thanks of a king." "I'd rather have the girl. And your head!" He roared and charged towards Viserys. The prince ducked to one side, still between his opponent and his sister but out of direct harm. The merchant slammed into the corner where his main room met the hall back to the bedrooms. Viserys smiled. "Has age slowed your pirate reflexes, old man?" "I'll show you how pirates fight!" The merchant reoriented himself with Viserys and charged again. Another sidestep put the man squarely into one of his cabinets. In spite of the deadly nature of the situation, Viserys laughed. "You should stop now while you still have a house to live in!" The pirate's reply was wordless, a restored grip on his sword and yet another charge. This time, when Viserys stepped aside, the man went through the large open doors and across his pavilion. It was easily seen on the streets when he launched into space and landed face down on the inside of his low garden wall. His dogs trotted over to see what had happened, and when he lifted his face, the passers-by laughed, as he now wore one of those dog's droppings in his beard. Viserys, sheathing his dagger, took hold of Daenerys' hand and walked out the door to where the traveler waited. Beside him was an extremely obese Pentoshi gentleman who bowed as they emerged. "Your Grace. My lady. I'm quite pleased to finally meet you both." The pirate staggered towards them, but at the sight of the large man he stopped short. "Ah. Numeris." There was something in the fat man's gaze that reminded Viserys of himself. Of waking the dragon. "I do hope your altercation with this young man will not keep you from seeing my shipment safely to Lys. I'd hate for you to lose your contract." "Um. Yes." The merchant took a step back. "I will see to it personally." He ran back into his house. Both the fat man and the traveler laughed. "Spineless as always," the traveler observed, then tipped his hat to the Targaryen siblings. "I must take my leave, my friends, but let me introduce you to Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos." "And your humble host, Your Grace." He bowed to Viserys again, and kissed Daenerys' hand. "My lady." "At last, some manners!" Viserys bowed in return. "We are in your debt, Magister. I look forward to seeing your home."

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

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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 wealthy merchant. He was a former pirate, if I remembered correctly, but it wasn't his past or his legendary temper 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.'"

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Haunting on Rue de Berri

Flash Fiction: The Haunting on Rue de Berri — Blue Ink Alchemy

Plucked from the pages of history indeed.

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"Thank you for coming, Mister Franklin." "It's nothing." The printing mogul and statesman leaned on his walking stick as he looked around the room. Like so many Parisian homes, it was as ostentatious as taste and budget allowed. A black cat looked up at him from the fainting couch as the gentleman who'd summoned him settled in an armchair near the window. It was nearly dusk, and soon the sun would disappear behind the horizon entirely. "I am simply hoping to sleep well tonight." The gentleman wrung his hands as he watched Franklin move around the sitting room. "The noises and broken glassware in the middle of the night are not helping my work ethic and mental well-being." Franklin nodded, narrowing his eyes. He set his satchel down on the side table and opened the clasp, extending his senses. "The request was somewhat unorthodox. Normally, members of the church undertake tasks such as this." There was definitely dissonance in the house, a cold feeling that lingered at the edges of his perception. He tipped his spectacles down and looked around the room without their interference. "I had heard you were an inventor and a man of letters, but not..." "A wizard?" Franklin had to smile. "That's the proper term. But I will thank you not to spread the fact around. His Majesty has enough headaches from our precocious colonies without witchcraft and wizardry becoming involved." He withdrew a small jar of salt from his satchel, along with a small clay pot. "Now, Monsieur LeBeouf, I must ask you to remain still." LeBeouf nodded, and Franklin walked over to the man's easychair. He handed his host the pot, unstoppered the jar and began sprinkling salt in a wide circle around the chair. "Should I be doing anything with this?" "Just hold on to it, for now." Franklin was careful to make sure the circle was even in its construction. He did not want it to break prematurely. Once it was complete, he replaced the stopper in the jar and knelt by the chair. He traded the jar for the pot, removed the pot's lid and spread a bit of its cool, creamy contents under his eyes, then under LeBeouf's. "What is this?" "An ungent based on a composition I discovered thanks to travelers from Mexico and Jamaica. Now, please remain quiet." Still kneeling, he touched the inner edge of the circle with his fingers, having laid the jar aside. He uttered a soft incantation, and immediately the timbre of the room changed. What had been pre-dusk light, coloring the cream walls and soft carpets with pink hues, darkened to deep, angry reds. The cat hissed and bolted from its spot to leave the room. LaBeouf shuddered, nearly dropping the jar of salt, as Franklin rose to look to the door the cat had not run through. "You can come out. I mean you no harm." Slowly, a flutter of white cloth emerged from around the corner. The figure took silent, shuffling steps, one at at time. Her nightgown seemed to be in tatters, her flesh more pale than the surface of a pearl. She had been beautiful before her eyes had sunken and her lips turned purple. Dark bruises could be seen all over her slender neck. She glared at LaBeouf for a long moment when he came into her vision. "Why do you linger, spirit?" She looked at Franklin, and when the men heard her voice, it wasn't from her mouth. It filled the room, an insistent and omnipresent whisper. "Ask my husband." Franklin glanced at LaBeouf, who has apparently shrunk into his armchair. The ghost bared her teeth at him, but Franklin stepped between them. "Tell me what happened, child." The ghost seemed to compose herself. "I could not give him children. The doctors said I'd never bear fruit. He was so angry. He waited until we were home and I was exhausted, ready for bed. Then he..." The voice felt silent. Her hands moved to her neck. Her eyes widened in fear. Franklin nodded slowly. "I understand. And I will make this right. You will be at peace." The ghost's hands fell to her side, and then she picked up the skirts of her ruined nightgown and curtsied to Fraklin. He bowed, then broke the circle. Immediately, she was gone from their sight and the color of the fading day returned to normal. LaBeouf shot to his feet. "She lies! It's slander!" "She is not capable of lying, Monsieur. Spirits of the departed only lie to themselves from time to time. Spirits of other worlds, now, there you have some skilled liars." He began cleaning up the circle with a small brush and pan from his satchel. LaBeouf struggled to find words. "What... what happens now?" "Now? Now, you go to the magistrate and confess to your crime. You show him where you disposed of your poor wife's body and you throw yourself on the mercy of the court." "That's preposterous! I'll be ruined!" "The alternative is that you live with this secret... and your wife's ghost... forever." FOREVER wafted through the room, a whisper from the spirit that was breathy sigh and deadly premonition. LaBeouf turned as pale as his wife had appeared. Without another word, he grabbed his hat and headed out the door. Franklin sighed, shaking his head. It was times like this he missed America. He turned to find the black cat looking at him. "I'm sorry, dear. Would you like a new home? Fresh cream every day and plenty of bookshelves on which to sit?" "Meow," the cat replied.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Haunting on Rue de Berri

Flash Fiction: The Haunting on Rue de Berri — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Thank you for coming, Mister Franklin." "It's nothing." The printing mogul and statesman leaned on his walking stick as he looked around the room. Like so many Parisian homes, it was as ostentatious as taste and budget allowed. A black cat looked up at him from the fainting couch as the gentleman who'd summoned him settled in an armchair near the window. It was nearly dusk, and soon the sun would disappear behind the horizon entirely. "I am simply hoping to sleep well tonight." The gentleman wrung his hands as he watched Franklin move around the sitting room. "The noises and broken glassware in the middle of the night are not helping my work ethic and mental well-being." Franklin nodded, narrowing his eyes. He set his satchel down on the side table and opened the clasp, extending his senses. "The request was somewhat unorthodox. Normally, members of the church undertake tasks such as this." There was definitely dissonance in the house, a cold feeling that lingered at the edges of his perception. He tipped his spectacles down and looked around the room without their interference. "I had heard you were an inventor and a man of letters, but not..." "A wizard?" Franklin had to smile. "That's the proper term. But I will thank you not to spread the fact around. His Majesty has enough headaches from our precocious colonies without witchcraft and wizardry becoming involved." He withdrew a small jar of salt from his satchel, along with a small clay pot. "Now, Monsieur LeBeouf, I must ask you to remain still." LeBeouf nodded, and Franklin walked over to the man's easychair. He handed his host the pot, unstoppered the jar and began sprinkling salt in a wide circle around the chair. "Should I be doing anything with this?" "Just hold on to it, for now." Franklin was careful to make sure the circle was even in its construction. He did not want it to break prematurely. Once it was complete, he replaced the stopper in the jar and knelt by the chair. He traded the jar for the pot, removed the pot's lid and spread a bit of its cool, creamy contents under his eyes, then under LeBeouf's. "What is this?" "An ungent based on a composition I discovered thanks to travelers from Mexico and Jamaica. Now, please remain quiet." Still kneeling, he touched the inner edge of the circle with his fingers, having laid the jar aside. He uttered a soft incantation, and immediately the timbre of the room changed. What had been pre-dusk light, coloring the cream walls and soft carpets with pink hues, darkened to deep, angry reds. The cat hissed and bolted from its spot to leave the room. LaBeouf shuddered, nearly dropping the jar of salt, as Franklin rose to look to the door the cat had not run through. "You can come out. I mean you no harm." Slowly, a flutter of white cloth emerged from around the corner. The figure took silent, shuffling steps, one at at time. Her nightgown seemed to be in tatters, her flesh more pale than the surface of a pearl. She had been beautiful before her eyes had sunken and her lips turned purple. Dark bruises could be seen all over her slender neck. She glared at LaBeouf for a long moment when he came into her vision. "Why do you linger, spirit?" She looked at Franklin, and when the men heard her voice, it wasn't from her mouth. It filled the room, an insistent and omnipresent whisper. "Ask my husband." Franklin glanced at LaBeouf, who has apparently shrunk into his armchair. The ghost bared her teeth at him, but Franklin stepped between them. "Tell me what happened, child." The ghost seemed to compose herself. "I could not give him children. The doctors said I'd never bear fruit. He was so angry. He waited until we were home and I was exhausted, ready for bed. Then he..." The voice felt silent. Her hands moved to her neck. Her eyes widened in fear. Franklin nodded slowly. "I understand. And I will make this right. You will be at peace." The ghost's hands fell to her side, and then she picked up the skirts of her ruined nightgown and curtsied to Fraklin. He bowed, then broke the circle. Immediately, she was gone from their sight and the color of the fading day returned to normal. LaBeouf shot to his feet. "She lies! It's slander!" "She is not capable of lying, Monsieur. Spirits of the departed only lie to themselves from time to time. Spirits of other worlds, now, there you have some skilled liars." He began cleaning up the circle with a small brush and pan from his satchel. LaBeouf struggled to find words. "What... what happens now?" "Now? Now, you go to the magistrate and confess to your crime. You show him where you disposed of your poor wife's body and you throw yourself on the mercy of the court." "That's preposterous! I'll be ruined!" "The alternative is that you live with this secret... and your wife's ghost... forever." FOREVER wafted through the room, a whisper from the spirit that was breathy sigh and deadly premonition. LaBeouf turned as pale as his wife had appeared. Without another word, he grabbed his hat and headed out the door. Franklin sighed, shaking his head. It was times like this he missed America. He turned to find the black cat looking at him. "I'm sorry, dear. Would you like a new home? Fresh cream every day and plenty of bookshelves on which to sit?" "Meow," the cat replied.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood — Blue Ink Alchemy

A little something different this week... thanks to Jonny at Non-Social Media. Original Text: [spoiler] You wouldn't think, at first glance, that the actors Errol Flynn, Kevin Costner, Cary Elwes and Russell Crowe have all that much in common other than their profession. We are, after all, talking about actors from different genres and even eras of film. However, they have now all portrayed versions of perhaps the most famous rogue of British folklore: Robin Hood. Flynn's Robin was a man of high adventure, Costner's was barely British and Elwes was in a spoof. As for Russell Crowe, his Robin was the central character in Ridley Scott's 2010 more 'historical' adaptation of the story, and by 'historical' I mean that very special kind of history that conflates years of people and events into something that fits a theatrical running time and the attention spans of your typical movie-going audience. While in the past Robin has always been at least peripherally attached to noble title and lands in Nottinghamshire, this time around our hero is plain Robin Longstride, an archer in Richard the Lionheart's army of the Third Crusade. Robin himself isn't much of a holy warrior, though, and when he makes his distaste for the slaughter of innocents over the name given to inscrutable omnipotent beings known to his sovereign, he's put in the stocks. Richard gets himself killed and Robin takes it upon himself to escape, but not before stumbling across a few plot-relevant items that give him a way back to England. Events unfold around him that will set him on the path of becoming an outlaw whose fame will live on hundreds if not thousands of years after he's dead. Historical fiction is a road both Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe have walked down before. Crowe has been a lifelong fan of the legendary archer, but was never quite satisfied with the way Hollywood portrayed him. Scott, on the other hand, found a spec script in 2007 that tried to take the legend in a new direction. However, he eventually became dissatisfied with the evolution of the story, and what had begun as a revisionist film of the legend called Nottingham became a film simply entitled Robin Hood, styling itself as a Crusades-era Batman Begins. For the most part, this actually works. We have a brilliantly talented cast, with nuanced and interesting characters delivering well-paced and balanced dialog in period settings that feel, for the most part, authentic. I get the feeling that this sort of thing has become something of a comfort zone for Ridley Scott, and all of the main selling points of Kingdom of Heaven are present here. From gorgeous shots of the English countryside to the inclusion of historical figures like Eleanor of Aquitaine, this film has a lot going for it. Of course, true history buffs are likely to be somewhat put off by Scott's interpretation of historical events. Things take place years before they actually happened, perpetuated by different people. Some figures meet ends differently than they did in life and liberties are taken with important documents and items. And like Kingdom of Heaven, at least in the theatrical release, some elements of the plot feel cobbled together with rubber cement and a staple gun. There's at least a couple bits missing that would have smoothed out rough patches in the story, and some elements feel like holdovers from the original Nottingham notion. That's not likely to be the case, however, as the writers of that original treatment were shouldered out of the production entirely. Now you'll need to poke around online to see what they originally had in mind. As much as it seems harsh that the original creative spark for the movie was removed from the hands of those writers, the end result could certainly have turned out worse. Prequels, by and large, have earned a stigma for being unnecessary works of fiction that fill in too many of the blanks audiences would probably prefer to populate themselves. While I can't help but agree with the spirit of this sentiment, if a work is aiming to present the origins of a character in an intelligent, relatable and at least somewhat unique (but not superfluous) manner, I'm inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. Like the aforementioned Batman Begins or X-Men: First Class, Robin Hood gives us a look at a character we think we knew in a way that we can understand, relate to and cheer for. Prequels may not always be necessary stories, but if the job is done well enough, the story will still feel worth telling. While the mileage of this film with the individual film-goer is likely to vary, I do feel that Robin Hood does its job with more than adequate aplomb. Some of the moments in the third act feel a bit over-the-top, most notably King John's declaration at the end, and I am curious as to how a Director's Cut of this movie would compare to its original release. However, in its theatrical version, the story is relatively free of overt contrivance, the characters are solid and the acting is poignant without being melodramatic. Some may feel there are too many echoes of Braveheart or Gladiator or other movies here, but Robin Hood manages to find its own place and I feel it's worth seeing since its merits do outweigh its flaws. There are some universal things present here, outside of the legend of Robin Hood: Don't get into a swordfight with Russell Crowe, don't make Kevin Durand (here playing Little John) angry, and most of all, do not mess with Cate Blanchett anywhere near a forest. You piss off Galadriel or perpetuate wickeness in her wood, you are entering a world of pain.[/spoiler]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood — Blue Ink Alchemy

A little something different this week... thanks to Jonny at Non-Social Media. Original Text: [spoiler] You wouldn't think, at first glance, that the actors Errol Flynn, Kevin Costner, Cary Elwes and Russell Crowe have all that much in common other than their profession. We are, after all, talking about actors from different genres and even eras of film. However, they have now all portrayed versions of perhaps the most famous rogue of British folklore: Robin Hood. Flynn's Robin was a man of high adventure, Costner's was barely British and Elwes was in a spoof. As for Russell Crowe, his Robin was the central character in Ridley Scott's 2010 more 'historical' adaptation of the story, and by 'historical' I mean that very special kind of history that conflates years of people and events into something that fits a theatrical running time and the attention spans of your typical movie-going audience. While in the past Robin has always been at least peripherally attached to noble title and lands in Nottinghamshire, this time around our hero is plain Robin Longstride, an archer in Richard the Lionheart's army of the Third Crusade. Robin himself isn't much of a holy warrior, though, and when he makes his distaste for the slaughter of innocents over the name given to inscrutable omnipotent beings known to his sovereign, he's put in the stocks. Richard gets himself killed and Robin takes it upon himself to escape, but not before stumbling across a few plot-relevant items that give him a way back to England. Events unfold around him that will set him on the path of becoming an outlaw whose fame will live on hundreds if not thousands of years after he's dead. Historical fiction is a road both Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe have walked down before. Crowe has been a lifelong fan of the legendary archer, but was never quite satisfied with the way Hollywood portrayed him. Scott, on the other hand, found a spec script in 2007 that tried to take the legend in a new direction. However, he eventually became dissatisfied with the evolution of the story, and what had begun as a revisionist film of the legend called Nottingham became a film simply entitled Robin Hood, styling itself as a Crusades-era Batman Begins. For the most part, this actually works. We have a brilliantly talented cast, with nuanced and interesting characters delivering well-paced and balanced dialog in period settings that feel, for the most part, authentic. I get the feeling that this sort of thing has become something of a comfort zone for Ridley Scott, and all of the main selling points of Kingdom of Heaven are present here. From gorgeous shots of the English countryside to the inclusion of historical figures like Eleanor of Aquitaine, this film has a lot going for it. Of course, true history buffs are likely to be somewhat put off by Scott's interpretation of historical events. Things take place years before they actually happened, perpetuated by different people. Some figures meet ends differently than they did in life and liberties are taken with important documents and items. And like Kingdom of Heaven, at least in the theatrical release, some elements of the plot feel cobbled together with rubber cement and a staple gun. There's at least a couple bits missing that would have smoothed out rough patches in the story, and some elements feel like holdovers from the original Nottingham notion. That's not likely to be the case, however, as the writers of that original treatment were shouldered out of the production entirely. Now you'll need to poke around online to see what they originally had in mind. As much as it seems harsh that the original creative spark for the movie was removed from the hands of those writers, the end result could certainly have turned out worse. Prequels, by and large, have earned a stigma for being unnecessary works of fiction that fill in too many of the blanks audiences would probably prefer to populate themselves. While I can't help but agree with the spirit of this sentiment, if a work is aiming to present the origins of a character in an intelligent, relatable and at least somewhat unique (but not superfluous) manner, I'm inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. Like the aforementioned Batman Begins or X-Men: First Class, Robin Hood gives us a look at a character we think we knew in a way that we can understand, relate to and cheer for. Prequels may not always be necessary stories, but if the job is done well enough, the story will still feel worth telling. While the mileage of this film with the individual film-goer is likely to vary, I do feel that Robin Hood does its job with more than adequate aplomb. Some of the moments in the third act feel a bit over-the-top, most notably King John's declaration at the end, and I am curious as to how a Director's Cut of this movie would compare to its original release. However, in its theatrical version, the story is relatively free of overt contrivance, the characters are solid and the acting is poignant without being melodramatic. Some may feel there are too many echoes of Braveheart or Gladiator or other movies here, but Robin Hood manages to find its own place and I feel it's worth seeing since its merits do outweigh its flaws. There are some universal things present here, outside of the legend of Robin Hood: Don't get into a swordfight with Russell Crowe, don't make Kevin Durand (here playing Little John) angry, and most of all, do not mess with Cate Blanchett anywhere near a forest. You piss off Galadriel or perpetuate wickeness in her wood, you are entering a world of pain.[/spoiler]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Robin Hood — Blue Ink Alchemy

A little something different this week... thanks to Jonny at Non-Social Media. Original Text: [spoiler]You wouldn't think, at first glance, that the actors Errol Flynn, Kevin Costner, Cary Elwes and Russell Crowe have all that much in common other than their profession. We are, after all, talking about actors from different genres and even eras of film. However, they have now all portrayed versions of perhaps the most famous rogue of British folklore: Robin Hood. Flynn's Robin was a man of high adventure, Costner's was barely British and Elwes was in a spoof. As for Russell Crowe, his Robin was the central character in Ridley Scott's 2010 more 'historical' adaptation of the story, and by 'historical' I mean that very special kind of history that conflates years of people and events into something that fits a theatrical running time and the attention spans of your typical movie-going audience. While in the past Robin has always been at least peripherally attached to noble title and lands in Nottinghamshire, this time around our hero is plain Robin Longstride, an archer in Richard the Lionheart's army of the Third Crusade. Robin himself isn't much of a holy warrior, though, and when he makes his distaste for the slaughter of innocents over the name given to inscrutable omnipotent beings known to his sovereign, he's put in the stocks. Richard gets himself killed and Robin takes it upon himself to escape, but not before stumbling across a few plot-relevant items that give him a way back to England. Events unfold around him that will set him on the path of becoming an outlaw whose fame will live on hundreds if not thousands of years after he's dead. Historical fiction is a road both Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe have walked down before. Crowe has been a lifelong fan of the legendary archer, but was never quite satisfied with the way Hollywood portrayed him. Scott, on the other hand, found a spec script in 2007 that tried to take the legend in a new direction. However, he eventually became dissatisfied with the evolution of the story, and what had begun as a revisionist film of the legend called Nottingham became a film simply entitled Robin Hood, styling itself as a Crusades-era Batman Begins. For the most part, this actually works. We have a brilliantly talented cast, with nuanced and interesting characters delivering well-paced and balanced dialog in period settings that feel, for the most part, authentic. I get the feeling that this sort of thing has become something of a comfort zone for Ridley Scott, and all of the main selling points of Kingdom of Heaven are present here. From gorgeous shots of the English countryside to the inclusion of historical figures like Eleanor of Aquitaine, this film has a lot going for it. Of course, true history buffs are likely to be somewhat put off by Scott's interpretation of historical events. Things take place years before they actually happened, perpetuated by different people. Some figures meet ends differently than they did in life and liberties are taken with important documents and items. And like Kingdom of Heaven, at least in the theatrical release, some elements of the plot feel cobbled together with rubber cement and a staple gun. There's at least a couple bits missing that would have smoothed out rough patches in the story, and some elements feel like holdovers from the original Nottingham notion. That's not likely to be the case, however, as the writers of that original treatment were shouldered out of the production entirely. Now you'll need to poke around online to see what they originally had in mind. As much as it seems harsh that the original creative spark for the movie was removed from the hands of those writers, the end result could certainly have turned out worse. Prequels, by and large, have earned a stigma for being unnecessary works of fiction that fill in too many of the blanks audiences would probably prefer to populate themselves. While I can't help but agree with the spirit of this sentiment, if a work is aiming to present the origins of a character in an intelligent, relatable and at least somewhat unique (but not superfluous) manner, I'm inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. Like the aforementioned Batman Begins or X-Men: First Class, Robin Hood gives us a look at a character we think we knew in a way that we can understand, relate to and cheer for. Prequels may not always be necessary stories, but if the job is done well enough, the story will still feel worth telling. While the mileage of this film with the individual film-goer is likely to vary, I do feel that Robin Hood does its job with more than adequate aplomb. Some of the moments in the third act feel a bit over-the-top, most notably King John's declaration at the end, and I am curious as to how a Director's Cut of this movie would compare to its original release. However, in its theatrical version, the story is relatively free of overt contrivance, the characters are solid and the acting is poignant without being melodramatic. Some may feel there are too many echoes of Braveheart or Gladiator or other movies here, but Robin Hood manages to find its own place and I feel it's worth seeing since its merits do outweigh its flaws. There are some universal things present here, outside of the legend of Robin Hood: Don't get into a swordfight with Russell Crowe, don't make Kevin Durand (here playing Little John) angry, and most of all, do not mess with Cate Blanchett anywhere near a forest. You piss off Galadriel or perpetuate wickeness in her wood, you are entering a world of pain.[/spoiler]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

First Impressions: Warhammer 40,000 Space Marine

First Impressions: Warhammer 40,000 Space Marine — Blue Ink Alchemy

The miniatures wargame Warhammer 40,000 and I have something of a history. There have been periods in my life where I've had enough disposable income and free time to seriously consider the hobby. While the atmosphere and lore of the universe created by Games Workshop still holds appeal, more often than not I've found myself needing to feed myself and invest in other pursuits rather than properly outfit and paint an army of Eldar, Dark Angels or Black Templars. The Dawn of War RTS games circumvented the need to buy units by allowing gamers like myself to create armies within the context of those games, but the distant viewpoint necessary to corral several units of elite troops meant that things might feel less than authentic. You haven't been able to properly experience first-hand the awesome size of a superhuman Space Marine, the visceral nature of close combat or the grim darkness of the far future... until now.
"Thank you, Captain Titus! But your Inquisitor is in another manifactorum!" Space Marine puts you in the power armour of Captain Titus of the Ultramarines. Since this is only a demo we don't get too much in the way of story, but it's enough to whet the appetite. Savage orks have overrun a forge world, where the weaponry and machinery of the Imperium is created, and they are threatening to seize some sort of powerful device. With the Imperial Guard's backs against the wall and Inquisitor Drogan missing, it's up to Titus and his compatriots to fight their way through the tide of greenskins. Unlike some other games set in the 40k universe, the voice acting is relatively subdued when it comes to the humans and appropriately boisterous for the orks. But enough talk of story, we're here to get our bolter & chainsword on.
Just another day at the office. The very first thing I noticed, which has been said elsewhere, is that the characters and objects in this game feel like they have weight. Space Marines are massive, and not the kind to go bounding from cover to cover like they're floating an inch above the ground. In fact, the Imperial Guard has a tendency to use the Space Marines as cover when the shooting starts. The ponderous pace of Titus as he tromps towards his foes, the barking sound of the bolter or bolt pistol and the way the rounds from each explode inside their targets leaves the game feeling authentic, as true to the mood and descriptions in the massive 40k tomes as possible. Outside of the exciting prospect for fanboys of a 'proper' 40k game, there's other aspects this shooter/spectacle fighter has going for it. You can carry more than a few weapons on your person, and there's a good deal of variety. The Stalker-pattern bolter allows you to do a little sniping, and the Vengeance launcher provides the means for tactical set-up of a coming battle. And don't think you can just duck out of the way and your health will magically come back to you. The force field that protects your armour will regenerate but your health does not. To get that back, you must channel the fury of the Emperor (which you can only do occasionally) or execute a foe. And these executions are brutal. Being reduced to a mere sliver of health only to manhandle an ork and pull off a wince-inducing kill in order to keep fighting is deeply satisfying in a way I should probably discuss with a professional.
So, sometime in the next dozen millenia we're going to get our damn jet packs. The demo provides two relatively short missions, one to give you the feel for a scenario start-to-finish and one to tease you with some jump pack action. Assault marines are some of the fastest and nastiest units in 40k and strapping a jump pack on has the same authenticity of the other aspects of the game. Hopping into the sky only to slam down onto an enemy placement intent on sniping your buddies with rockets (sorry, in ork speak that's 'rokkitz') is just as satisfying as hefting one into the air, body-slamming it and stomping on its face. It's very difficult not to enjoy the experience. On the PC, the controls are smooth and fully customizable. The game has a great look and feel to it, with excellent sound design and a full orchestral score. While this title will mostly appeal to fans of the universe and spectacle fighter veterans of God of War and Bayonetta, from what I've seen Relic is doing just enough differently from both it's own previous titles and current industry standards in both shooting games and action games to make Space Marine memorable and worth the time to play. The full game will be released in September. The Emperor Protects.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, V: Bran

Honor & Blood, V: Bran — 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. Jon Snow has left Winterfell for Moat Cailin, home of House Luxon. His brothers Robb and Bran have gone with him to wish him well. Lord Goddard invites the sons of his liege lord to stay for a feast and rest before returning home, and while Robb spars with his half-brother one last time, Bran explores the unfamiliar castle and its many towers...

He adored the feeling of the wind cutting through him. Summer kept pace on the ground, watchful, long ears alert. The direwolf pup could not climb after him, though. The craggy masonry and hidden handholds were Bran's province alone. Here, in a place he'd never seen, he still navigated walls and towers with speed and precision. In his mind he saw himself assaulting an enemy stronghold, a dagger clenched in his teeth, men at arms struggling to keep up as they moved to overwhelm the guards at the gate, or carry off a damsel in distress. One tower was different from the others. It was not the tallest one of Moat Cailin's many, but it was one of the few that seemed unmanned. A gregarious garron was the only creature keeping watch at its base, tied to a post and pawing at the ground. Summer gave it a sniff in introduction as Bran ascended the tower. He immediately caught a scent from above: freshly brewed tea, strong and exotic. Curiosity overwhelmed him as he moved, hand over hand, up the side of the tower. At last he came to the window that was the source of the scent. A small spiral staircase rose through the middle of the room. Several stout bookshelves were spaced around the room, scrolls and tomes stuffed into their spaces. Tapestries hung from the higher portions of the wall and rugs lay on the floor. A small firepit was near the window, with a kettle hanging over it. Across the way from Bran was a table featuring odd figurines and two men facing one another as they sat in thought. One was Lord Goddard Luxon. He reminded Bran of his lord father, a man of war tempered with patience and wisdom. The other was an older man, his head curiously devoid of hair, dressed in the robes of a maester. The stranger's eyes flicked towards Bran, then back to the table. "A moment while I tend to the tea." He moved one of the figurines and rose. He picked up a staff that had been leaning against a nearby shelf before hobbling over to the fire pit, slowly, his eyes on Bran. The boy didn't move. Carefully, the maester removed the pot from the firepit's rail, set it on a side table, and covered the firepit with a broad metal lid. "You best come inside, my lad. 'Twould be a shame to see you fall from this height." Nodding, Bran climbed into the room. The maester was pouring tea as Goddard regarded him. "As you are not one of Lord Goddard's children, I deduce you're one of our honored guests." "That would be Bran Stark." Goddard hadn't moved from the table, his gaze severe on the boy. "And he should know wandering a yard, any yard that is not his own, is inherently dangerous." "I'm sorry." Bran found his voice but did not meet the lord's eyes. "I like to climb." "Well, since you worked so hard in climbing up here, would you mind holding onto this tray for our lord?" The maester was holding a small tray with two steaming cups, and Bran took it. Smiling, the maester moved back to the table with the boy in tow. Goddard's look had softened for a moment before turning back to the figurines. "What is this?" "It is called cyvasse, young master, a game of strategy and cunning. It is a means of keeping the mind sharp and taking the measure of another without the need for swords." "And it's damned annoying at times." Goddard's voice was laced with mirth, however, and he rubbed his chin as he regarded the board before him. After a few quiet moments, during which the maester sampled his tea, the lord moved his trebuchet. "Why is it annoying?" "A skilled opponent knows not to move all of his powerful pieces to the front." Goddard took a sip of tea, then nodded to the maester with a raise of the cup. "I jest; facing a skilled opponent is only annoying in that more effort must be exerted in overcoming them." The maester smiled, then turned his attention to the board. Bran leaned closer and looked at the different tiles and pieces. "Why not simply fly your dragons over everything?" "Two reasons." The maester moved one of his spearmen to block his opponent's trebuchet. "One, this is a game of Old Valyria, and the object is to capture the king, which is stronger than a dragon. Two, moving your dragons aggressively can sometimes be effective, but canny players can deal with and extinguish early threats and leave their opponents at a disadvantage for the duration of the game." "Not every battle is won with strength alone, Bran." Goddard moved his heavy horse. "More often than not, you must use your eyes and your mind as much as your sword or fist to win the day." Bran nodded, watching as the game unfolded. Eventually, the maester was forced to move his king out of his fortress and after a merry chase, Goddard pinned it in the back corner with his horse and spy. The maester, unflustered, stood and bowed to his lord. "A well-played match, my lord. The board is yours." Goddard stood and offered the maester his hand. "A good game and good tea. We must do this again." As they shook, noise came from below. The bulky form of Brock Samson came up the spiral, followed by the quick and quiet Spectre. Bran smiled and walked over to the shadow cat, who rammed Bran's shoulder with her head to ensure she had the boy's full attention. "Some of the locals have arrived, my lord, wishing to speak with you about their crops and trade. I also was told to find Bran to inform him Robb is ready to leave." Bran looked up from petting Spectre. "I want to say good-bye to Jon." "So you will." Goddard laid his teacup down on the side table and made for the stairs, with Brock in tow. Spectre moved after her master, but Bran hesitated, looking back at the maester as he put the cyvasse pieces in a box on a shelf near the table. "Did you go bald when you became a maester?" The older man smiled. "In a way. I shave every morning. It's a ritual, a reminder of the commitment I've chosen to make to the realm." "What about your leg? Doesn't that remind you?" "My leg reminds me that I am more than the circumstances that left me with only one of flesh and blood." The maester leaned on his staff as he regarded the boy. "Men are more than they seem, young master. More than their handicaps, more than their prowess, more than their smiles. Do not be afraid to look deeper into their hearts, as well as your own." Bran nodded as Goddard called his name. He hurried down the stairs. Summer bounded after him as they searched for Jon. He wasn't leaving until he said good-bye.

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Red Planet

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Red Planet — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/red_planet.mp3] Believe it or else, our planet has finite space and resources. One of these days we're going to have to take measures to make the most of what we have left or, more ideally, look to the other planets in our solar system for expansion. Our moon is closest but doesn't have much in the way of atmosphere. Mars is comparable in size but presents other challenges. Red Planet is a film that addresses those challenges... kind of... while being a character-driven tale of the unknown in space... sort of. Heading to the crimson world of the title is a crew of six people: the no-nonsense female commander, the young and handsome co-pilot, a senior science officer who's also a philosopher, two civilian scientists who cover the 'agnostic' and 'naive' portions of the crew and the 'space janitor', a mechanical maintenance expert. Together, they board the experimental craft Mars One and head to the distant sanguine rock to determine of human experiments with algae and habitation enclosures have succeeded. They don't even get to the surface before things start going wrong. In a cinematic environment where the likes of Greengrass and Bay have risen to superstardom despite shakey cameras and bewildering choices in special effects, I can't help but praise a film like Red Planet for clean, sharp visuals. The construction of the vehicles and structures feels authentic, and it takes things into account like the time delay in communications and the low gravity on Mars. Little things like that endear me towards this movie, since there's some science in the science fiction. It's not like Pitch Black where the orientation of planets to stars makes no logical sense. So it earns points from me in that regard.
The wild space janitor in his natural habitat. However, where Red Planet suffers is in the area of characters. We get... two, maybe three. Carrie-Anne Moss does a good job with her commander character, even if it feels a bit like Trinity with more emotion and snark. Tom Sizemore is always good, and I couldn't help but like Val Kilmer's space janitor even if he did pull the dull surprise face more often than he should. The big problem with the characters, other than Benjamin Bratt and Simon Baker being stock cardboard cutouts and Terence Stamp delivering all of his lines with the same amount of stoic gravitas, is that none of them have a sense of wonder about Mars. I mean, yeah, they're in a bad situation there and they need to puzzle out what happened and why, but dammit, they're on Mars. It's pretty significant for them to be there. I mean, Bear Grylls can muster up wonder about the places he wanders around in Man vs. Wild, and that's stuff here on Earth. These guys are on a different planet and very few eyelashes are batted. This could be related to the other major problem with the movie, which is plotlines. There are simply too many of them. I'm all for complex stories built in layers with subplots tying into each other, but every plotline in Red Planet is given the full treatment. Every obstacle and mystery is given equal time which leads to too little character development and too much going on. Just one of the problems at hand - the damage to the ship, the destruction of the habitat module, the disappearance of the algae - could have dominated the plot with others being sub-plots. But Red Planet shoots itself in the foot in terms of pace and plotting by throwing all of this at us with a very minimal sense of timing and prudence. What begins as a plausible exploration of the first steps to colonizing Mars turns into a typical survival sci-fi/horror mix, and at points in the story when things look like they might become interesting, the writers go the lazy route every time.
The space suits and equipment feel mostly authentic, more Mass Effect than Star Trek. After all of the big ideas that are part of its setup, Red Planet feels like its playing it safe. Instead of being challenging in its execution, developing complex characters or shining a light on the eventual need for humanity to do something about the state of the planet, it blows right past those interesting ideas to get our characters to an obstacle course about as interesting as one from an episode of Ninja Warrior or Wipeout! but without the hilarious commentary and trappings. It's disheartening to start strong with an interesting premise and characters with potential only to see them dribble away one at a time as the movie lurches towards its false-tension climax and pat ending. Every time Red Planet should zig, it zags. It's just kind of sad. However, the good news is that while it disappoints in story and characters, the execution for the most part makes Red Planet relatively harmless. It's not as brainy and full of itself as some other science fiction exploration films like 2001 or Mission to Mars, the characters we do get are decent enough, and there are a handful of moments that speak to the potential this movie, this story and these characters might have had. There's a good time to be had with Red Planet, and you can probably develop a decent drinking game to go with it, so yeah, I'd put it in the recommendation column for at least one viewing if you're a fan of sci-fi or any of the aforementioned actors. Just be aware that, about the time we see three men take the first piss on Mars, this movie's also pissing away a lot of potential.
O HAI But hey, at least with the clean visuals and straightforward, non-obscure plot, we can understand what the hell is going on. I just wish the goings-on were more interesting. I mean, come on, people... it's Mars. I guess we'll have to wait for the screen adaptation of John Carter for things to really pick up on the red planet. 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.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

A Writer's To-Do List

A Writer's To-Do List — Blue Ink Alchemy

So last week's ICFN was delayed. It's still on hold. I'm waiting to hear back from third parties that were interested in conveying it to a different format. Awaiting correspondence always makes days or weekends feel longer, from responses to job postings to queries about Magic trades. But while I was waiting I took a look at the various projects I've lined up for myself. There are three things that go against me when I try to sit down and get my writing pants on: I'm always thinking of new ideas, I'm not terribly organized and I'm easily distracted. All it takes is a cat darting across the floor, a ringing phone or a stray thought on something awesome unrelated to the project at hand to force me to refocus my efforts. I do turn off HootSuite and other things when I'm actually writing, but that only addresses the distraction problem. You can take a look at my desk, my kitchen sink or either basement I have stuff in (here in Lansdale or at the ancestral place in Allentown) as silent testament to my lack of organization and pack-rat nature. This also ties in to my ideas. New ones creep into my brain all the time. An action sequence, a bit of dialog, a new character in an old setting... this stuff floats in and out from time to time. It takes conscious effort to nail it all down. And once I do, I need to get it into some sort of organized sequence. Obviously I want to finish things I've started before I begin anything new, so let's get some priorities straight here. This is pertaining mostly to my own publishable (eventually) writing, not other projects I've taken on (the Vietnam manuscript) and the weekday drivel in this blog. I feel I should finish Red Hood first. It's the shortest piece, and with it my collection of mixed-myth stories reaches a total of five. Akuma (Japanese oni in a period slasher story), The Jovian Flight (Greek myth IN SPACE!), The Drifter's Hand (Norse myth in the Old West) and Miss Weaver's Lo Mein (Chinese myth as a modern romance) round out the rest. That may be enough for an anthology, but I'm uncertain. I may want to do a sixth story. The rewrite of Citizen in the Wilds must come next. I've started outlining the new opening, and will track the appearances and growth of characters to ensure they're consistent and sympathetic, two problems pointed out by at least one review on Book Country. The problem with the way it opened before was I was cramming too much exposition into the first few pages and not giving the characters enough time to develop and establish connections with each other and the reader - in other words, I opened too late. So I'm starting a bit earlier. Giving these people more breathing room. You know, before I kill most of them. I have an idea for a Magic: the Gathering piece but as it may be nothing more than fan fiction and Wizards has better things to do than entertain the notions of a relatively unknown hack like myself (as opposed to known hacks like Robert Wintermute), I'll try not to devote too much time to it. Once I finish up with the other stuff I'll go back to Cold Iron. I plan on taking this lean, mean and well-intentioned supernatural noir thing I threw together during my commutes of the last few months and putting it through the prescribed Wendig cycle of editing my shit. The Wendig cycle, by the way, has little to do with Wagner's cycle. More whiskey and profanity, less large sopranos and Norse symbolism. Meantime, the blog will keep the writing-wheels greased. More Westeros fiction for the Honor & Blood crowd. More flash fiction challenges. Reviews of movies, games and books. Ruminations on trying not to suck as a writer. And Guild Wars 2 stuff, because that MMO looks pretty damn awesome, not to mention damn pretty. Stay tuned. I may be down, but I ain't licked yet.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

A Writer's To-Do List

A Writer's To-Do List — Blue Ink Alchemy

So last week ICFN was delayed. It's still on hold. I'm waiting to hear back from third parties that were interested in conveying it to a different format. Awaiting correspondence always makes days or weekends feel longer, from responses to job postings to queries about Magic trades. But while I was waiting I took a look at the various projects I've lined up for myself. There are three things that go against me when I try to sit down and get my writing pants on: I'm always thinking of new ideas, I'm not terribly organized and I'm easily distracted. All it takes is a cat darting across the floor, a ringing phone or a stray thought on something awesome unrelated to the project at hand to force me to refocus my efforts. I do turn off HootSuite and other things when I'm actually writing, but that only addresses the distraction problem. You can take a look at my desk, my kitchen sink or either basement I have stuff in (here in Lansdale or at the ancestral place in Allentown) as silent testament to my lack of organization and pack-rat nature. This also ties in to my ideas. New ones creep into my brain all the time. An action sequence, a bit of dialog, a new character in an old setting... this stuff floats in and out from time to time. It takes conscious effort to nail it all down. And once I do, I need to get it into some sort of organized sequence. Obviously I want to finish things I've started before I begin anything new, so let's get some priorities straight here. This is pertaining mostly to my own publishable (eventually) writing, not other projects I've taken on (the Vietnam manuscript) and the weekday drivel in this blog. I feel I should finish Red Hood first. It's the shortest piece, and with it my collection of mixed-myth stories reaches a total of five. Akuma (Japanese oni in a period slasher story), The Jovian Flight (Greek myth IN SPACE!), The Drifter's Hand (Norse myth in the Old West) and Miss Weaver's Lo Mein (Chinese myth as a modern romance) round out the rest. That may be enough for an anthology, but I'm uncertain. I may want to do a sixth story. The rewrite of Citizen in the Wilds must come next. I've started outlining the new opening, and will track the appearances and growth of characters to ensure they're consistent and sympathetic, two problems pointed out by at least one review on Book Country. The problem with the way it opened before was I was cramming too much exposition into the first few pages and not giving the characters enough time to develop and establish connections with each other and the reader - in other words, I opened too late. So I'm starting a bit earlier. Giving these people more breathing room. You know, before I kill most of them. I have an idea for a Magic: the Gathering piece but as it may be nothing more than fan fiction and Wizards has better things to do than entertain the notions of a relatively unknown hack like myself (as opposed to known hacks like Robert Wintermute), I'll try not to devote too much time to it. Once I finish up with the other stuff I'll go back to Cold Iron. I plan on taking this lean, mean and well-intentioned supernatural noir thing I threw together during my commutes of the last few months and putting it through the prescribed Wendig cycle of editing my shit. The Wendig cycle, by the way, has little to do with Wagner's cycle. More whiskey and profanity, less large sopranos and Norse symbolism. Meantime, the blog will keep the writing-wheels greased. More Westeros fiction for the Honor & Blood crowd. More flash fiction challenges. Reviews of movies, games and books. Ruminations on trying not to suck as a writer. And Guild Wars 2 stuff, because that MMO looks pretty damn awesome, not to mention damn pretty. Stay tuned. I may be down, but I ain't licked yet.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Walking After Midnight

Flash Fiction: Walking After Midnight — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge Sub-Genre Tango Part II, here's a mix of cyberpunk and sword & sorcery.

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"Man, I don't know about this. We're static if we get caught." Van looked over his shoulder at Anton. The shorter youth's outburst had been no louder than a hiss, but it sounded a bullhorn at this hour. It was after curfew and the Street Sweepers would be on patrol, ready to stasis-bolt anybody wandering the city. If you were really lucky, you'd awaken in a cozy cell with no lights and a bucket in the corner. Anton had been there before, one of the reasons he was so nervous. "We won't." Van grabbed Anton to yank him close. "Not if you keep your taco-hole shut." Anton nodded, nearly dislodging the rig attached to his temples. He'd been locked up before due to his propensity for jacking into civil government relays through innocent public kiosks. He was brilliant, but about as calm as a ferret high on sugar and amphetamines. Van brushed dark hair out of his vision and held a finger to his lips. Anton obeyed, stepping closer to Van in the shadows of the alley. A Street Sweeper hummed softly as it floated by, held aloft on its hover-fans, the men manning the cannons inscrutable behind their dark helmets. To serve and protect was emblazoned on the vehicle. Van waited until it turned the corner to pull Anton back into the street with him. "Look. I know those bastards scare you. They give me bad tingles, too. But you want to get Sarah out, right?" "More than anything. I know I was in a bad place, but hers is even worse." Anton blinked. "Are you sure this is going to work?" Van shook his head. "Nope. But we've already tried remote unlocks and direct runs on their bulwark servers. We gotta go seriously old-school to get in there." Anton and Van resumed their quiet walk down the street, on the lookout for Street Sweepers or night cops on foot. Every time he looked south, Van saw the Grand Citadel. It had started life as just another skyscraper. Now the glass gave way around the 50th floor to bright white marble, reaching up to spires and wind-snapped banners. The whole thing had a glow around it, making it even harder to see the stars. The media pundits loved to talk about its warmth and promise of peace, but Van knew the glow was as cold as the corridors in its sub-basements. "We gotta get her out of there, man." "We will." Anton managed a smile. Van put an arm around Anton's shoulders and kept him closer as they walked. Finally, after another couple close calls with Sweepers, they came to the address Van had written down. Anton wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Don't look like much." The row of brownstones were all run down. The one they'd stopped at had boarded-up windows, the first floor featuring bars on top of the boards. The box next to the front door looked like it hadn't been touched in about a century. There was only one name on it, barely legible: Crystal. Van exchanged a look with Anton and pushed the button. A burst of static made both youths cringe. "It's after curfew, you fool! What in the Hells do you want?" The voice sounded shrill, at war with the static. Van cleared his throat. "We've come to see Crystal." "Oh! Come to point and laugh at the witch, have you? Piss off. Readings happen during normal business hours. And no, I don't care that my reading lead you to ruin, you're the one who interpreted the cards." Anton glanced around the street in wide-eyed terror. Van took a deep breath. "We're not here about a reading. We're here about a rescue." "I beg your pardon, young man?" "My sister is held by the Citadel as one of their workers. We need to get her out." "Van..." Anton tugged Van's jacket. Feeling the pull on the leather, Van looked over his shoulder. A Street Sweeper swung into view. "Oh, frak." The door clicked open. Van pushed Anton inside, reaching under his jacket for his gun. It was an old autoloader, a crime in and of itself since all non-Citadel arms were heavily regulated. Van aimed at the door. "She's on the third floor. Keep moving." Anton scrambled up the steps, Van close behind, as the door came open. The night cops were carrying man-portable stasis rifles, shouting for them to stop. Van fired a couple rounds to keep the cops' heads down and turned to follow Anton. They made it to the stairs outside the door to the third floor space before the cops opened fire. Van's hand went numb and the gun fell from his fingers. It was a glancing shot but it'd deprived them of their defense. Anton was putting his hands up when the third floor door came open. Standing in it was a woman as tall as Van, but full-bodied where he was gangly. Ringlets of red hair fell around her face and blue eyes blazed with fury. A silver sword was in her hand and she pointed it at the boys. "Get down." They did. Lightning snapped through the air over their heads and caught the lead cop in the chest, knocking him and his friends down the stairs. Anton scrambled inside, and the woman grabbed Van to pull him past the threshold. The door closed. "Van, is it?" Her voice was far less shrill in person, more like dark velvet. She lifted his chin to get a look at his face. "Not bad for growing up hard on the streets. Is it your sister in there?" "And my girlfriend." She lifted an eyebrow at Anton. "Good for you, then." She straightened, resting her hands on the pommel of the sword as it rested point-down against the floorboards. "We're safe for now, boys, but if you want to head back out after the girl, we'll have to make a deal."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

One Of Those 'Casuals'

One Of Those 'Casuals' — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've been called a lot of things in my time when it comes to gaming. "Blithering idiot." "Total bastard." "Keyboard-turning skill-clicker." And perhaps the most caustic of all: "mouth-breathing casual." Most of these terms come from my wife. Ours is a happy marriage. Anyway, the last one is sticking with me because to some gamers, 'casual' is an extremely dirty word. It's why the role-playing servers in World of Warcraft are looked down upon (well, that and the atrocious characters running around... here, feast your eyes). Folks who play Magic: the Gathering professionally are more keenly following the buzz on the upcoming Innistrad expansion than the news of a new duel deck featuring Venser and Koth. Sticking with 4th edition D&D rather than using Pathfinder or the old AD&D ruleset probably also marks me as one of those 'casuals'. Thinking about it, I'm pretty okay with that. Gaming is a close runner-up behind writing in terms of favorite ways to spend my time. While I don't burn a lot of lean tissue in a round or two of Team Fortress 2, I do engage my brain when coming up with refinements to a Commander deck, developing plotlines for a tabletop campaign or working on my macro skills in StarCraft 2. I get a lot of enjoyment out of these things, and I don't want to lose sight of that by taking the hobby too seriously. I'd like to think I can get good enough at StarCraft 2 or the upcoming Guild Wars 2 to break into the e-sports scene, but it's going to take a lot of practice before I get myself beyond the level of 'casual'. The thing about moving beyond being a casual gamer is that gaming, for the most part, is a rather expensive pastime. Take Magic, for example. To become competitive you need playsets of the most powerful cards available, and that requires a rather large monetary investment. Oh, and the cards you just dropped hundreds of dollars on? They won't be useful in the very near future. Either the expansions they're from will pass out of Standard's ruleset or the card itself may get banned or restricted. You can trade a bit, sure; in fact I've started to do some myself since I can't afford to keep buying singles. But the fact of the matter is that the competitive Magic scene will always be dominated by people who have more disposable income than you. No, thank you. StarCraft 2 is more accessible in that you don't need to buy anything other than the box the game comes in, and maybe an authenticator. The hurdle here is dedication and brain power, not cash. You can build your muscle memory and multitasking ability through practice alone, making it more a time investment than anything else. The occasional break for StarJeweled or Aiur Chef with a friend is fine, though, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. You can't take this stuff too seriously. I think that's why some people look down their noses at casuals like myself. I understand the mindset. Gaming is serious business. I used to look at it that way. I would get livid when wiping in a dungeon or getting the facial treatment from an Alliance rogue. It got to the point that my wife stopped playing with me. I was taking it too seriously. I started to fall into that trap again with StarCraft 2, so I took a break. Now that I'm back to it, I'm taking it more easily. I'm using multiplayer (2v2, 3v3) matches to practice and also replaying the single-player campaign on the highest difficulty, and while it gets me angry when things are difficult, I'm not destroying my keyboard or terrifying the cats. Because I know it's just a game, I should be enjoying it instead of loathing it, and I don't want to be the next Idra, doing things like ragequitting out of frustrating games I'm about to win. I think, in the end, it's more healthy for me to be a casual gamer making my way slowly towards pro-level skills than the kind of gamer who wishes so hard to be pro that they lose sight of all the fun they should be having. If that means I get made fun of on occasion because I like Commander so much or I don't have the APM of a Korean demigod, so be it. My blood pressure will stay low, my wife will actually want to play with me and, most important of all, I'll be enjoying the experience. To me, casual seems like a pretty damn good thing to be.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Take A Walk

Take A Walk — Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers: when was the last time you went for a walk? Some of you may do it every day. Some of you might go to a gym so what do you need a walk for? Others? Pfft, that's what I bought a car for, son. Pedestrians are bonus points to me. I decorate the grille of my Audi with the finger bones of hippies too stupid to get a vehicle themselves. Probably not that last one so much, but the point is walking is something we all do and are all capable of. Also? It's one way to meander right past so-called "writer's block." This is especially true if you live near a major city. There's some saying about there being a thousand stories in it. Feeling stuck in your current narrative or unsure of how to start one? Go find one of those stories. It could be anything. A gaggle of tourists. A toothless hobo. Some trendy gal in jogging shorts pulling a small yappy dog along at the end of a leash signed by every cast member of the Jersey Shore. A bunch of guys at a halal food truck. The old church on the corner unruffled by the ultra-modern apartments next to it. A street that suddenly changes from macadam to cobblestones. Inspiration can come from any of these things. Or all of them. Maybe the tourists get jumped by a werewolf. Maybe that hobo is the werewolf. Or maybe it's Miss Trendy, and she dreams of going furry on The Situation next time he pops a girl in the mouth. The church on the corner my house a weathered by deadly monster hunter and those cobblestones stay there because it's holy ground. That's just an example. But none of these ideas would have come to fruition if it hadn't been for the stroll you'd taken. So what are you waiting for? Grab some tunes, some water, an umbrella if it's raining. Walk a few blocks, or just around yours. As the body moves of its own accord, the mind's free to do whatever it wants. Let it. You're only as fettered to your limitations as you choose to be, and if being in your chair feels limiting, get the hell out of it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor and Blood, IV: Jon

Honor and Blood, IV: Jon — 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. After a caustic argument in the wake of House Luxon's return of stolen blades and his training of his little sister in swordplay, Jon Snow left Winterfell for the Wall on his own. It was Goddard Luxon and his captain, Brock, who brought him back, but not before Ser Allister Thorne insulted the visitors and fought Brock in the yard. They have returned to Winterfell, and while Brock recovers from his wounds, Jon and his direwolf pup Ghost prowl the godswood...

"Only those worthy of the name of Stark carry these. And you are neither worthy, nor a Stark." Ghost could sense his mood. The direwolf pup was only as tall as his shin but he still brushed up against Jon Snow's boot as he made his way around the godswood. It was a quiet evening, the air cool as it always was in Winterfell, and Jon half-expected to see his little brother hanging from one of the pale white branches above their heads. It would have been a welcome distraction from his thoughts. The words of his mother rang in his head. Step-mother. He reminded himself of that. Catelyn may have been the only mother he'd ever known, but she'd made it clear on several occasions that she did not see him as her son. No; Robb, Bran and Rickon were her sons, not Jon Snow. He was another woman's issue. Yet Jon tried to please her, to live up to the name of his father and all the Starks before him. Was it impossible, as she seemed to think it was? He hadn't been looking at the swords for himself, in truth. Yes, some of the blades that came back to Winterfell with the Luxons of Moat Cailin were very fine, but none suited for his purposes. He wanted to spar with Arya on even terms, her with Needle and himself with a similar blade, not just with harmless sticks. She needed to know how dangerous it could be. She wouldn't shrink from it, of course, and he loved her for that. But Catelyn had other ideas. "Arya will study with her sister to be a proper lady of a noble House. I will not have you putting ideas in her head that she's suited for anything else. It's hard enough on Septa Mordane as it is without your interference." Jon kicked a small stone. Ghost loped after it. Sighing, the dark-haired young man looked up at the twilight sky. The stars were beginning to emerge through the branches of the weirwood, but they did not seem as clear here as they had at the Wall. He'd talked of joining the Night's Watch, to remove himself from Cat and the drama of his House rather than cause more strife, but that too had been a disaster. He hadn't been able to get past the master of arms' prejudice and scorn, and when Goddard Luxon and Brock Samson arrived it'd been even worse. I could have chosen to stay. I could have tried harder. But I picked the easy route. I ran away. Because of his choice, Brock had a broken arm and more than a few bruises and scrapes. It'd taken Lord Goddard and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to convince Thorne and Samson to use practice blades. Had they not, Brock might now be dead, only because Jon had leaped at the chance to escape from the Wall. He was on his third or fourth circuit of the godswood when he heard the soft sound of stone on metal. He turned around the trunk of a tree to see his father sitting beneath the heart tree, a sword in his lap. Jon assumed it was Ice. He moves quietly to get closer, Ghost his inspiration as the pup stayed beside him. "I know why you're out here." Jon rolled his eyes. Of course his father knew. "Father... am I a coward?" The stone stopped. Eddard Stark raised his eyes to look at his son in disbelief. "...What?" "I ran away from here. And then I ran from the Wall. I thought I'd have a place there but all I got was more scorn. I have enough of that here." Ned sighed. "Jon. Come and sit down." He obeyed. "You can't tolerate being thought of as less than what you are. I know men who'd lash out in anger when their self-image is challenged. And you've yet to prove yourself in the eyes of those that need it. The Wall may have been a place to do it, but your uncle sent a raven telling me not to let you stay. He doesn't want you near that's happening there. He worries about you." "I can take care of myself!" Ned lay a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I know you can. That's why you're going to Moat Cailin. They are drawing attention from people in the South, and if trouble comes from there, that castle is where it will begin. Benjen's on one border of our charge, and now you'll be on the other. I'll feel better having a Stark both on the Wall and on our gate to the South." "I know, and I think I can do better there than on the Wall, but... I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll run away again." "I'm not. I know you won't." The moon emerged from behind the clouds. Jon's eye was drawn to the sword in Ned's lap. It was shorter than it had seemed at first, it's grip suited for only one hand, the leather embroidered with wolves chasing each other. The pommel was large, like a plumb weight slightly smaller than Jon's fist, to balance the blade and provide a place for the off-hand in the instances of a two-handed swing. The moonlight played on the smokey waves that seemed to deepen the steel. "That isn't Ice." But it could be Ice's little brother. Ned followed his gaze and smiled. "No, it's not. This is Snowfang. My father gave it to Brandon the same day he gave me Ice. That was before they left for King's Landing." Ned paused, the smile fading. "It was the last day I saw either of them alive." Jon swallowed. He didn't like seeing his father dwell on the past. Yet his next question would have him doing exactly that. "Was that before you met my mother?" Ned said nothing. Instead, he got to his feet. He seemed to tower over Jon in the darkness, a giant come down from beyond the Wall. For a moment, he loomed there in silence. Then, he picked up the scabbard for Snowfang, sheathed the blade, and handed it to Jon. "I give you this sword, Jon Snow, so that you may carry the honor and courage of the House of Stark with you everywhere you go." Jon blinked, taking the sword with numb, disbelieving fingers. "Mother will..." "She'll disapprove. I know. You let me deal with that. You have other tasks ahead of you." Eddard knelt in front of his bastard son, looking him in the eye. "Listen to Lord Goddard and follow his example. Be ever at his side as much as possible. Observe. Learn. Have their maester send ravens to me when you can. You are my eyes in Moat Cailin and aimed at the South. I will not be blind to what comes from there no matter how dire things become at the Wall. You remember our words." "Winter Is Coming." "And it comes from more directions that just the land beyond the Wall. Things are changing, Jon. I can feel it in my bones. If we do not change with them, this House will fall." Jon's grip tightened on Snowfang. "I won't let that happen, Father. I give you my word."

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

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Blue Ink Alchemy