Friday, March 29, 2013

Flash Fiction: The Deep And Dark Waters

Flash Fiction: The Deep And Dark Waters — Blue Ink Alchemy

In the pitch darkness of the stormy waters, he swam. Only the occasional burst of lightning far away illuminated the blackness. He was so deep, he could barely hear the thunder. Somewhere his mind was insisting that this was wrong. Waters this dark and deep should have felt unnatural in their pressure and the demands on his lungs, but he felt comfortable here. Warm and lovely, the waters gave him an ethereal feeling, like he could float in their invisible currents with no effort and be perfectly safe. He had no idea how long he'd been down here; time lost all meaning in the depths. Phantasms weaved in and out of his vision, gliding silently through the waters. He thought he could make out the shapes of dolphins, or perhaps sharks, but nothing was attacking him. He heard soft clicks, so his mind told him it was dolphins. He moved slowly, not wanting to spook them, and as his arms turned his body, he found his eye drawn to his wrist. A small circle of plastic wrapped around it, and even in the dark, he could make out his name printed upon it. The feeling of wrongness in his mind grew as he stared at the bracelet. Beyond the thunder he began to hear another recurring sound. High-pitched, electronic, plaintive - his mind told him what it was, and he struggled to believe it. Everything felt slow and dark, smothered by the water. His arms barely moved when he commanded them to push, simply floating beside him like two lumps of lead. The overwhelming feeling of containment enveloped him, and he struggled past it towards the flashes of light and the soft, repeating beeps. He closed his eyes, telling himself that his mind was right, that something was keeping him here, that this was nothing but a dream. He pushed that envelope that threatened to consume him, fighting ever upward, and even as the pain increased throughout his body, he pushed water away and kicked and strained as if his life depended on it. His eyes slowly opened. The lights beating down on him blinded him for a moment. As the world came into focus, he looked around him. He was in the hospital, a doctor with the look of an undertaker near his life monitors - the high-pitched, plaintive beeps that had summoned him from the waters. His wife, holding his hand, sat nearby, her chin dipped downwards as she snoozed. Another doctor entered, much brighter than the first, and was saying something about the accident and the surgeries and the drugs. He didn't care. He looked down at his wrist, remembered the sounds of the dolphins, and gave his wife's hand a squeeze. She opened her eyes, focused on him, and rose slowly, lips trembling as she squeezed his hand back and whispered his name.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Moderation in Geekdom

Moderation in Geekdom — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy CCP
If this is the most important thing in the world to you, it's time to have a talk.
I've said in the last couple days that I am either in love with or obsessed with Enforcing. I don't take that sentiment lightly. As rewarding as the experience was, as wonderful as making so many new friends makes me feel, as affirming as it might have been to be helpful, useful, and enduring throughout the weekend, it would be unhealthy of me to make it the entire focus of my life. Geeks have a tendency to obsess, something I know through some experiences I am loath to repeat. Don't misunderstand me, enthusiasm is a good thing. I'm quite enthusiastic about Enforcing, as well as writing, gaming and game design, movies, music, and so on. Enthusiasm is what keeps people interested in their passions and their arts, that helps them endure the drudgery of the day so they can experience what they enjoy later. Enthusiasm is not the enemy, and should even be encouraged, as being dispassionate is just as unhealthy as being obsessed. In fact, obsession with one thing can lead to a lack of passion or interest in other things, which are arguably more important. As much as you might think your World of Warcraft guild's raid schedule might be, you do still have to do your homework, laundry, or other household chores. You can't flit all over the country for conventions and hangouts when that money should be used for medical procedures, care of your family, or paying the bills. You might think that being in a teleconference with your corporate cohorts in EVE Online is the most important thing, but that couldn't be further from the truth if your wife and kids are feeling neglected and marginalized while that's going on. I'm not saying don't have fun. I'm not saying gaming is the enemy. That's the sort of knee-jerk reactionary rhetoric you'll get from some supposed news outlets and sensationalist narrow-minded pundits masquerading as journalists. I am not a journalist. I'm just another geek, and I know from experience that geekdom that becomes obsession leads to broken homes, shattered dreams, fractured hearts, and even damaged minds. I've spent the better part of ten years coming back from one of the worst blows dealt to me in my entire life, and it came from my own brainpan, my own neglect, my own obsessions. I'm saying, my friends, that we must be mindful of what draws us in and lights our fires. It's good to be warmed and illuminated by those flames, but if you don't manage that fire, it will consume you. Take the time to get your life right. Sort things out and make sure you're not losing anything crucial by pouring yourself into something insignificant. That purple loot, those enemy ships, your favorite star or the latest episode or the next event or release - none of it matters, in the end, if it costs you friends, family, or sanity. And even if you think you're fine, take a moment to look at those around you, at your spouse or children or co-workers or close friends. It only takes a moment, but it can change, or save, your entire life.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Game Preview: Transistor

Game Preview: Transistor — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Supergiant Games
It's been almost a year since I did my writeup for Bastion. It's proof positive that game developers with fresh ideas and stories to tell don't need to hitch themselves to the wagon of any particular publisher. If I recall correctly from TotalBiscuit's interview with Supergiant Games' creative director Greg Kasavin, that little game sold 1.7 million copies. I, along with many others, have been wondering what would come next from this charming studio. That question was answered at PAX East 2013: Transistor.
Courtesy Cynicalbrit
There it is.
They teased us before the event with a trailer, which you can see here. Their booth was set up with images both familiar and new: Rucks, Zulf, and Zia from Bastion on banners that partially concealed the images of the flame-haired woman with the odd weapon that apparently gives the new title its name. The line was long, but the wait is worth it. Even though the demo only ran about 15 minutes, it highlighted the crux of the gameplay, introduced a fascinating new world, and whets the player's whistle for more; in other words, it's a demo that kicks ass for a game that looks to be every bit as good as Bastion if not better. While the game does introduce us to an isometric view of a silent protagonist smashing things with what appears to be a rather nasty blunt weapon, the world is not the empty post-Calamity landscape of Caelondia, but the lively city of Cloudbank that might actually be in the process of a Calamity of some kind. Mechanical menaces that vaguely resemble refugees from Aperture Science (white hulls, red camera eyes, etc) appear to be reformatting the city and removing people that can stop them. On their list was our heroine, Red, and while they stole her voice, they didn't quite finish the job, and she's left with the Transistor, a unique and powerful weapon that speaks with a voice from beyond the grave.
Courtesy Cynicalbrit
Execute Turn()
The Transistor also seems to interrupt the processes of things around Red, including time itself. It changes what appears at first to be an isometric bash-em-up to a thought-provoking tactical game that rewards careful planning and mixing strategies. The thinking behind the construction of the UI and skill set is that the Transistor is already the most powerful weapon available; rather than entice us to play more with new weapons to unlock, different abilities look to allow the player to vary their playstyle to their liking rather than being stuck with bashing away. The enemies, as well, vary in how they approach Red, from duplicating teleporters to big burly jerks that destroy what little cover you can find. All of this is conveyed in the high-quality art style of Supergiant Games, and Logan Cunningham lends his voice to Red's unique weapon. Instead of simply a sequel or retread of Bastion, however, Transistor is already carving out its own niche. It feels decidedly more science fiction than Bastion's fantasy adventure. The music has a more electronic bent to it, as well as being more feminine in its voice, while every bit as haunting and memorable as the soundtrack of the previous game. Red seems to have a bit more agency than the Kid, and the voice of the Transistor is very different from the voice of Rucks: less seasoned, more nervous and desperate, an immediate in-the-moment character rather than a reflective old man. Put it all together, and you have a game that, while familiar in many ways, promises a new story with which to fall in love coupled with gameplay that will challenge you, spark your imagination, and make the points of said story all the more rewarding. And I, for one, can't wait to play it. You can see Transistor's early build in action over at CynicalBrit, both with and without commentary.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

PAX East 2013 Report

PAX East 2013 Report — Blue Ink Alchemy

PAX East 2013 Expo Floor
I think it's safe to say I haven't had an experience like this year's PAX East in a very long time, if ever. I've been to conventions before. I've been part of their staff for an event or two. I've joined communities and made friends, but... none of these previous experiences held a candle to being an Enforcer at PAX. Before I get to that, let's talk about the Expo floor. I didn't get to spend much time there last year, and I made a concerted effort to change that. I visited all sorts of booths, from RiotGames' League of Legends locus to checking out the next iteration of Magic the Gathering's Duels of the Planeswalkers. I gave the beta of WildStar a try, and saw some interesting things going on with Ubisoft and Square Enix. But by far the highlight was the Supergiant booth and the preview of their next game, Transistor. I'm going to see if I can throw together a preview post with my thoughts. I became an Enforcer for a few reasons. It had little to nothing to do with free admission or swag, though those are both nice. The point of PAX, to me, is that it's an expo that's by gamers for gamers, focused far more on the community and fostering good & healthy interactions rather than on marketing hype and sales figures. I'm 110% behind this concept, and it's my belief that as many people as possible should enjoy as much of their experience as possible, even if it's just waiting in line or walking down a hallway. Being an Enforcer empowers me to make that happen for people. And when I "took the black" (even though the shirts for East are red), I discovered so much more about it. Enforcers are helpful, generous, and overall fantastic people. I'm sure there are exceptions, but every one I had the pleasure of meeting and working with fits that bill. I was assigned to work outside of one of the satellite theaters in the hall, but I also ran things for other Enforcers, embarked on secret missions, and helped break down several booths down on the Expo floor. It was surprisingly intense. I ended every day somewhat sore and quite tired. My joints continue to ache and I am seriously lacking in sleep. And I can't wait to do it again. I've been asked by several Enforcers if I will be out for PAX Prime in August. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't giving it some serious thought.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, March 25, 2013

Return Trip

Return Trip — Blue Ink Alchemy

Train
I wish I was taking a train this morning.
PAX East 2013 is officially in the can, and I would honestly love to stay in Boston another day to see a bit more of the city and spend more time with the friends I've made among the glorious and delightful Enforcer corps. Circumstances demand I leave this morning, however, so I will drive down into the teeth of what is apparently Jack Frost playing some kind of cruel joke on Pennsylvania. I look forward to sleeping in my own bed, getting back on track with writing and exercise, and forging ahead towards the next paycheck. It will behoove me to begin saving now for my next PAX, which may require a slight adjustment of the budget and re-arranging of priorities. There were bad moments, certainly, from constant soreness to getting overcharged in a couple places, but I feel I accomplished a great deal when all was said and done last night. So. Flash Fiction tomorrow, then back to our regularly scheduled posts.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, March 22, 2013

Writer Report: The Writer Is Out

Writer Report: The Writer Is Out — Blue Ink Alchemy

Ausgang!
So this week has been a bit of a wash. I've spent most of it preparing for PAX, getting finances in order for PAX, ensuring my workout regimen is maintained during PAX, etc etc, you get the idea. I will hammer out flash fiction in response to whatever Chuck prompts us with tomorrow, and be back on track for both making headway on Cold Streets and blogging effectively. Travelling up the seaboard tends to muck up my plans more than I anticipated. But hey, at least the hotel has wi-fi.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Return of the Art of Thor?

Return of the Art of Thor? — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Blizzard Entertainment
With Heart of the Swarm out, I'd love to bring back The Art of Thor. StarCraft gameplay remains a high-level technical skill, believe it or not, especially if one wants to play against other people with any sort of competency. That sort of mental calisthenics has all sorts of ancillary benefits, moreso than what's provided by most shooters or RPGs or adventure games. The problems include time for watching replays & dailies, developing strategies, practicing against the AI, and getting back onto the ladder. I'm not sure if my schedule can support that right now. But at least I can go through the campaign once I shell out for this newest expansion.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Movie Review: The Boondock Saints

Movie Review: The Boondock Saints — Blue Ink Alchemy

In the past, before the likes of Schwarzenegger and Stallone changed the action hero scene with big muscles and borderline incoherence, there were men like Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood, men who were neither bodybuilders nor loud, boisterous speakers, who carried action movies. Rather than undertaking their murderous rampages for something like patriotic duty or survival against alien beings, their quests tended to be more personal, and while the aforementioned beefcakes did occasionally embark on a journey towards revenge, by the time they did Bronson and his ilk had entrenched themselves in the hearts and minds of young men, like Troy Duffy, writer/director of The Boondock Saints.
Courtesy Miramax
Our heroes are fraternal twins Connor and Murphy McManus, seemingly your typical pair of Irish Catholic young men living and working in South Boston. When Russian mobsters show up to close their favorite bar on Saint Patrick's Day, however, things go awry. The next morning, the Russians are dead in the alley behind some illegal loft housing, the brothers are wounded, and FBI special agent Paul Smecker is interviewing them. While clearly a case of self-defense, the items on the mobsters collected by the brothers and an odd experience in the night convince them that they've been put on a path of righteous vengeance, seeking justice for the victims of those who believe themselves above the law. It only gets worse when their friend, a low-level package boy for the local Mafia don, finds himself caught up in their quest. The Boondock Saints was, at the time of its release, not terribly popular. Troy Duffy had a great deal of trouble getting along with Miramax, and word around many a Hollywood campfire was that the former bartender and bouncer was a pain to work with. The film was only in theatres for five weeks, with most established critics panning it. It was compared unfavorably to Tarantino's work, and some claimed that Duffy was trying too hard to ape the auteur. It was accused of being all style and no substance, strung together with a threadbare plot, so on and so forth. And yet, the film has a strong cult following today, and its popularity has spawned a theatrical sequel, comic books, and many a young person of the 21st century reciting Catholic prayers. Why is this?
Courtesy Miramax
Part of the appeal that keeps the movie fresh in the minds of its fans is the chemistry between the brothers. Sean Patrick Flannery and Norman Reedus have a very natural cadence and rhythm with one another, moving easily between sibling rivalry and deadly penitence and back again. It's very difficult to not find their relationship and antics endearing, in a way. While their characters never delve into deep philosophical issues or much existential angst, they do exhibit emotional complexity and intelligence, as well as being more than capable of dispatching armed goons of organized crime. Their characters may be somewhat stripped down (especially in one of the deleted scenes), but their straight-forward nature works given the context of the film. There's also the character of Smecker, played excellently by Willem Dafoe. A complex and brilliant man, he is also tortured by his own nature and questioning the rightness and wrongness of what he wants, be it a relationship with a man or to support the McManus brothers. David Della Rocco balances the competence and intelligence of the brothers with his well-intentioned bumbling, and the rest of the supporting cast fleshes out the city of Boston extremely well, from the imaginative but somewhat oblivious detective Greenley to Doc, the Irish bartender with Tourette syndrome. Duffy puts all of these elements together rather well, and while the end result has some weaknesses, it's clear that it's worthy of the cult status it's gained, and remains a favorite St. Patrick's Day tradition for many, including myself.
Courtesy Miramax
Say it if you know the words...
Stuff I Liked: Connor's tendency to think in action movie terms, and Murphy's frustration with this idiotic thinking. Rocco's antics. The build-up and reveal regarding Il Duce. The trio of Boston detectives. Doc. Stuff I Didn't Like: A few scenes feel overly long. Duffy does the occasional camera trick that doesn't quite fit. And that poor cat. Stuff I Loved: The brothers. The endlessly quotable lines. The creativity of the kills. The way the action scenes are cut together with Smecker reconstructing the scene. Smecker in general. The family prayer. Bottom Line: The Boondock Saints is proof that box office success does not always coincide with the quality of the film. Other more successful action movies are less interesting, funny, and intelligent than this. It may not be the best action flick ever made, but it's definitely up there, and if you find appeal in normal men moved to vigilante justice, you'll find this one right up your alley.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

PAX Prep

PAX Prep — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Penny Arcade
I'd love to have something insightful or meaningful to say about writing or storytelling this morning. The truth is, I'm all but tapped out. I'm gearing up for PAX East 2013, where I will be working as an Enforcer. Unfortunately I am more stressed than I am excited; there's a snag with the scheduling and things could end up inconvenient for a friend of ours travelling with us. I'm trying to get that untangled so the maximum number of people can have the best PAX experience possible. We shall see what happens! Between this and my workout regimen I'm pretty beat. Carving out time for writing has been somewhat difficult, but last week I knocked it out of the park. This week, I suspect, will be a little less productive on that score. Tonight I hope to prepare at least a couple of posts to keep us on our schedule here, though I'm unsure what I'll be reviewing for tomorrow's post. Thursday I'll probably blather a bit about dipping back into System Shock 2 and how PC mods make old games just as playable today, and Friday I may talk about the wonders of Boston. In any event, this is a week I shall not soon forget, for better or for worse.
Blue Ink Alchemy

PAX Prep

PAX Prep — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Penny Arcade
I'd love to have something insightful or meaningful to say about writing or storytelling this morning. The truth is, I'm all but tapped out. I'm gearing up for PAX East 2013, where I will be working as an Enforcer. Unfortunately I am more stressed than I am excited; there's a snag with the scheduling and things could end up inconvenient for a friend of ours travelling with us. I'm trying to get that untangled so the maximum number of people can have the best PAX experience possible. We shall see what happens! Between this and my workout regimen I'm pretty beat. Carving out time for writing has been somewhat difficult, but last week I knocked it out of the park. This week, I suspect, will be a little less productive on that score. Tonight I hope to prepare at least a couple of posts to keep us on our schedule here, though I'm unsure what I'll be reviewing for tomorrow's post. Thursday I'll probably blather a bit about dipping back into System Shock 2 and how PC mods make old games just as playable today, and Friday I may talk about the wonders of Boston. In any event, this is a week I shall not soon forget, for better or for worse.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, March 18, 2013

Flash Fiction: Minerva and Hawkeye

Flash Fiction: Minerva and Hawkeye — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Ipernity
For this week's flash fiction challenge, They Fight Crime
You take all sorts of jobs when you want to break into film. As odd jobs went, this wasn't a bad one. Lawrence Whitefield leaned back a bit and smiled as he strummed his guitar to the beat of the many drums behind him. The rhythms and passionate hand-strikes behind him permeated the room, matching the undulations of Minerva's hips as her arms spread and her fingers touched cymbal to cymbal. He was smiling partially because they were firing on all cylinders tonight, but also due to his knowledge of the girl entrancing the audience. She was a great deal more than her gauzy skirts and the glistening scales of her outfit. When her dance came to an end, the audience exploded into applause. Minerva blew a kiss to them, and turned to head backstage. He played just as well for the last dancer as he had for Minerva, noting that the tall, dark gentleman towards the back was there in the shadows near the door, as he had been for previous weeks. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the music during the final set. As the band finally broke up, he brushed off invitations for an after party and made his way through the venue to the back lot. Sure enough, under one of the lot's lights, the dancer called Minerva was now in jeans and a t-shirt, bent over the engine of her GTO, a variety of tools at her feet, an old Sarah Brightman tune coming from the radio. "How's it look?" She didn't even look up to respond. "I'm still not sure what's causing the knocking in first gear. I may need to get her up and look at her transmission." "Sounds like a plan. I mean, I don't know cars that well. Wouldn't know a torque wrench from a socket wrench, honestly." "You don't need a socket wrench for a camera?" "Not most of them. Maybe an older one, you know, one of the ones you work with a hand crank? I don't use those, though. I'm more of a digital artist." He paused. "That sounds pretentious as hell." "What can I do for you, Larry?" She straightened and turned, wiping her hands off on a cloth. She had a small smear of oil on her face, now divested of makeup, and Lawrence thought she was just as lovely. Not that he'd ever put it in those terms. "Well, I know you don't like being filmed or even photographed, but I was looking to put together a film on the next show you all do, and I wanted to talk about it with you first before I got anybody else's permission. You know, see if I can make it exciting for folks unfamiliar with belly dancing, dispel some misconceptions..." He glanced past her, noticing some movement in the shadows. She took a deep breath and that brought his attention back to her. "Look, I'm flattered. And I think it's a good undertaking. Just don't film anything I do, okay? I'm not... comfortable with that." The shadows moved again, and this time he couldn't look away. Minerva followed his gaze, and her grip on the wrench in her hand tightened. "Get down." Lawrence didn't need to be told twice. Instinct catapulted him forward, putting the bulk of the large car between him and whatever was out there. As he moved, the unmistakable sound of gunfire tore through the quiet night. Another sound joined the semi-automatic fire, one familiar to anyone who had ever been inside of an APC heading into a warzone. Moments later, Minerva was beside him, rubbing her wrist. "Damn. I liked that wrench." "Are you okay? What happened?" "One of Uriel's laughing boys, I'd wager. He's been stalking me for a while." "You have a stalker? Why didn't you call the cops?" "Unhinged angelic spec ops are a bit outside of their jurisdiction." Minerva dug into one of her pockets, and began drawing on the pavement with chalk. "I just need a minute." More bullets slammed into the GTO. "I'm not sure we have that long!" "When I say so, I want you to run out of here. That way." She nodded towards the tail end of the GTO, away from the lot. "This isn't something you can handle." Before Lawrence could protest, Minerva finished drawing the pentagram in the circle. She laid her left hand on top of it, placing her right against the car. There was a soft crackling noise, like popping popcorn, and her eyes closed as soft light came from under her hands. "Go!" He began to move as Minerva turned and stood. She thrust her arms forward, lightning streaking through the night to strike her assailant in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, the gun flying from his grip. Instead of running away, Lawrence turned and scooped up the gun. To his surprise, the assailant was back up, drawing a long sword from under his coat. Lawrence didn't hesitate. As he fired, he saw odd script etched into the slide of the automatic glowing with pale gold. Every bullet caused the inscription to flare. Each shot opened a ragged, luminescent hole in the man's chest. After the fourth shot, the form of the man seemed to explode, and a murder of crows suddenly swarmed around him as they flew away. Minerva emerged from behind her car. "You didn't run." Lawrence looked down at the gun. "You were in trouble. I couldn't leave you behind." "You seem pretty good with a gun, too." "Did a tour to pay for film school. I guess you never really lose the instincts. Squadmates called me 'Hawkeye', you know, like in the comic book?" Minerva smiled a little. "Well, I'll tell you what, Hawkeye. I think you're about to get the biggest story of your life. The best part is, if you live long enough to get it on screen, nobody will believe it's real." He's a fast talking guitar-strumming filmmaker looking for 'the Big One.' She's a disco-crazy belly-dancing mechanic descended from a line of powerful witches. They fight crime!
Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Minerva and Hawkeye

Flash Fiction: Minerva and Hawkeye — Blue Ink Alchemy

They Fight Crime You take all sorts of jobs when you want to break into film. As odd jobs went, this wasn't a bad one. Lawrence Whitefield leaned back a bit and smiled as he strummed his guitar to the beat of the many drums behind him. The rhythms and passionate hand-strikes behind him permeated the room, matching the undulations of Minerva's hips as her arms spread and her fingers touched cymbal to cymbal. He was smiling partially because they were firing on all cylinders tonight, but also due to his knowledge of the girl entrancing the audience. She was a great deal more than her gauzy skirts and the glistening scales of her outfit. When her dance came to an end, the audience exploded into applause. Minerva blew a kiss to them, and turned to head backstage. He played just as well for the last dancer as he had for Minerva, noting that the tall, dark gentleman towards the back was there in the shadows near the door, as he had been for previous weeks. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the music during the final set. As the band finally broke up, he brushed off invitations for an after party and made his way through the venue to the back lot. Sure enough, under one of the lot's lights, the dancer called Minerva was now in jeans and a t-shirt, bent over the engine of her GTO, a variety of tools at her feet, an old Sarah Brightman tune coming from the radio. "How's it look?" She didn't even look up to respond. "I'm still not sure what's causing the knocking in first gear. I may need to get her up and look at her transmission." "Sounds like a plan. I mean, I don't know cars that well. Wouldn't know a torque wrench from a socket wrench, honestly." "You don't need a socket wrench for a camera?" "Not most of them. Maybe an older one, you know, one of the ones you work with a hand crank? I don't use those, though. I'm more of a digital artist." He paused. "That sounds pretentious as hell." "What can I do for you, Larry?" She straightened and turned, wiping her hands off on a cloth. She had a small smear of oil on her face, now divested of makeup, and Lawrence thought she was just as lovely. Not that he'd ever put it in those terms. "Well, I know you don't like being filmed or even photographed, but I was looking to put together a film on the next show you all do, and I wanted to talk about it with you first before I got anybody else's permission. You know, see if I can make it exciting for folks unfamiliar with belly dancing, dispel some misconceptions..." He glanced past her, noticing some movement in the shadows. She took a deep breath and that brought his attention back to her. "Look, I'm flattered. And I think it's a good undertaking. Just don't film anything I do, okay? I'm not... comfortable with that." The shadows moved again, and this time he couldn't look away. Minerva followed his gaze, and her grip on the wrench in her hand tightened. "Get down." Lawrence didn't need to be told twice. Instinct catapulted him forward, putting the bulk of the large car between him and whatever was out there. As he moved, the unmistakable sound of gunfire tore through the quiet night. Another sound joined the semi-automatic fire, one familiar to anyone who had ever been inside of an APC heading into a warzone. Moments later, Minerva was beside him, rubbing her wrist. "Damn. I liked that wrench." "Are you okay? What happened?" "One of Uriel's laughing boys, I'd wager. He's been stalking me for a while." "You have a stalker? Why didn't you call the cops?" "Unhinged angelic spec ops are a bit outside of their jurisdiction." Minerva dug into one of her pockets, and began drawing on the pavement with chalk. "I just need a minute." More bullets slammed into the GTO. "I'm not sure we have that long!" "When I say so, I want you to run out of here. That way." She nodded towards the tail end of the GTO, away from the lot. "This isn't something you can handle." Before Lawrence could protest, Minerva finished drawing the pentagram in the circle. She laid her left hand on top of it, placing her right against the car. There was a soft crackling noise, like popping popcorn, and her eyes closed as soft light came from under her hands. "Go!" He began to move as Minerva turned and stood. She thrust her arms forward, lightning streaking through the night to strike her assailant in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, the gun flying from his grip. Instead of running away, Lawrence turned and scooped up the gun. To his surprise, the assailant was back up, drawing a long sword from under his coat. Lawrence didn't hesitate. As he fired, he saw odd script etched into the slide of the automatic glowing with pale gold. Every bullet caused the inscription to flare. Each shot opened a ragged, luminescent hole in the man's chest. After the fourth shot, the form of the man seemed to explode, and a murder of crows suddenly swarmed around him as they flew away. Minerva emerged from behind her car. "You didn't run." Lawrence looked down at the gun. "You were in trouble. I couldn't leave you behind." "You seem pretty good with a gun, too." "Did a tour to pay for film school. I guess you never really lose the instincts. Squadmates called me 'Hawkeye', you know, like in the comic book?" Minerva smiled a little. "Well, I'll tell you what, Hawkeye. I think you're about to get the biggest story of your life. The best part is, if you live long enough to get it on screen, nobody will believe it's real." He's a fast talking guitar-strumming filmmaker looking for 'the Big One.' She's a disco-crazy belly-dancing mechanic descended from a line of powerful witches. They fight crime!
Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, March 15, 2013

Writer Report: Ongoing Change

Writer Report: Ongoing Change — Blue Ink Alchemy

Bard by BlueInkAlchemist, on Flickr
Things continue to change around here, mostly for the better. The workout regimen is causing some pain, but I expected that. My gym membership entitles me to a free training session, which I will use to ensure I'm executing my lifts correctly, and also that I'm using the right apparatus for attempts at chin-ups. Some of the stuff in that gym is pretty weird, man. I've also nailed or exceeded my 350-words-a-day-in-at-least-one-novel goal every day this week. Today will be no different! I may need to do it after FNM, but we shall see how the day progresses. The best thing about writing with the barest of outlines is that things can develop you did not expect. In Cold Streets, Morgan is not only reconnecting with her estranged father, we're also getting a bit more of her backstory, which I feel is incredibly important. With everything supernatural and odd that happens around her, I don't want Morgan to get lost. I like that there's nothing unusual about her in terms of powers or abilities; her normal everyday nature is a good counterpoint to everything else running around Philadelphia in 2020. Change is never easy, tends to be painful, and can even be destructive. But without it, we die. To survive, to thrive, and to succeed, it takes more than just having a dream. It takes working towards that dream, every day, with as much effort as one can muster. Be aware of what you do and who it might effect, but never stop making that effort. History isn't just made by great men and women with innovative technology or fancy hats. History is made by the people who show up, day in and day out, looking to make a change, even if that change is not what one expects. Next week is PAX East. I believe the hotel has WiFi so I will do my utmost to keep you fine folks up to date with the latest from Boston. Thanks for sticking with me.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Gameplay As A Reward

Gameplay As A Reward — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Ubisoft & Michael Mando
I feel I need more Vaas in my life to keep me on my toes.
Partially because of this week's Extra Credits episode, I am compelled to contemplate the following. Recently I started playing two video games, Assassin's Creed III and FarCry 3. They're very different games, to be sure, but I find myself playing more of the latter than the former. It's not because I have any major problems so far with the story of Connor Kenway or his more charismatic dad, and there hasn't been a major change in the franchise's gameplay to alienate me. FarCry 3, on the other hand, is a first-person shooter with sandbox and RP elements that is likewise uncomplicated in its gameplay. So why am I preferring to hunt pirates and tigers with a flamethrower while bobbing my head to Damian Marley's collaboration with Skrillex over hanging out with Benjamin Franklin and getting Connor's ass to Boston? It's because the gameplay in FarCry 3 is its own reward, while playing Assassin's Creed III feels more like an experience from an MMO: you play the game to reach rewards later. I don't mind delayed gratification, mind you. I enjoyed Burning Crusade and have given serious thought to returning to GuildWars 2. Rewards such as items or new skills unlocking as one progresses is all but ubiquitous in gaming; most games would not be as fun or rewarding if we started the game with all of the best equipment. However, in some games, getting to those rewards can be a chore. And I find FarCry 3 to be anything but. Without going into full-on review territory, I think the reason I find FarCry 3 so rewarding to play in and of itself comes down to two things: presentation and freedom. The game's constant first-person perspective, in-engine cutscenes, and occasional commentary from its own protagonist makes the game feel more organic. Connor may simply animate to pop a medicine and hop back up to full sync, but Jason Brody could be resetting a broken hand, pulling a shark's tooth out of his arm, or stabbing himself with a medical syringe at any given moment to restore health. He reacts to his environment more naturally than most stoic shooter protagonists, his guns and other weapons each have a unique feel and lend themselves to different combat styles, and the crafting system encourages him to explore Rook Island and rewards that exploration. On top of that, there is a freedom implied in the open-world nature of the game. Be it hunting down a tiger or shark for a necessary skin or clearing out an enemy position, the game does not tell you exactly how to go about it. You can do the entire thing with as much stealth as possible, dive in screaming at the top of your lungs with a machine gun cackling away, or throw a rock to get your target to look the other way as you get your flamethrower out. None of these approaches is incorrect, and while some may yield more XP, if you're playing an open-world game and sacrificing the fun of what you want to do for fear of your 'build' being 'sub-optimal', I think you might be missing the point. Tying it back into Extra Credits, the gameplay of FarCry 3 carries intrinsic rewards, even before you get to the point of having enough skins to craft something or enough cash to purchase silencers or extended magazines. By contrast, thus far, Assassin's Creed III's gameplay, while as smooth as it's ever been, feels more restrained and linear than that of the other game. This may change when I finally get Connor to Boston, but I'm having so much fun on Rook Island, evading Vaas's pirates and going on extremely immersive drug trips to make myself do that right now. I'm enjoying those rewards, perhaps a bit too much, but I am more than willing to give the 18th century world presented via Animus another whack. Maybe after I pick up that silenced .45 pistol. That thing looks sweet.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Who Review: The Tomb of the Cybermen

Who Review: The Tomb of the Cybermen — Blue Ink Alchemy

Okay, this one may be a bit odd. It happens on account of me running out of time to fit in a selection from Netflix or finish any of the games I have going on at the moment. However, a few weeks ago I made the decision to check out some of the earlier incarnations of Doctor Who. I grew up with Tom Baker as my Doctor, but never really looked that hard at the others. I definitely have an interest in seeing more of Sylvester McCoy (because Radagast!) and more of Jon Pertwee's run, but perhaps the most challenging Doctor to see in action is the 2nd, Patrick Troughton. Many of his stories are incomplete or missing. But one is complete, and available on the Internet to watch, and that's "Tomb of the Cybermen."
Courtesy BBC
In this black and white adventure, the Doctor and his companions, Jamie and Victoria, arrive on the planet Telos and come across a human expedition trying to excavate one of the last known locations of the Cybermen, who apparently had died out many years before. They do find the tomb, but it's covered in traps and pitfalls. Thankfully, the Doctor is willing to help the humans overcome these obstacles, seemingly out of curiosity but also dreading what they will find. His fears are not unfounded; deep within the structure, the Cybermen are anything but dead. They slumber, and at least one of the humans along for this ride is probably going to get it in their head that waking up the slumbering vestiges of an utterly single-minded precursor to Star Trek's Borg is a great idea. "Tomb of the Cybermen" was filmed back in 1967, so to call some aspects of the production "kitsch" would be stating the obvious. More than a couple of the extras go for a bit of camp or bombast in their delivery, and the captain of the rocket ultimately fails in delivering his lines with a passable American accent. The sets feel more like stage pieces than anything, but I have to appreciate the use of practical effects like the electrocution trap on the front door of the tomb and the various "ray guns" used during the production. It feels delightfully retro to watch an earnest sci-fi production of 60s British television in the 21st century, which is a horrifically hipster way of saying I didn't mind the kitsch.
Courtesy BBC
Also, the Cybermats are adorable. I just can't find them menacing. Look at it!
There's also the fact that the Cybermen, in this form, are creepy as hell. Restrained by time and budget, these Cybermen do not have the glistening, full metal bodies of the Cybus models seen in modern Doctor Who, nor even the battle-ready chassis seen in later stories like "Earthshock" or "The Invasion." One could even extrapolate that, to conserve resources, outer armor and implants were stripped from these slumbering Cybermen before they were put into hibernation. Metal bits are secured to men appearing to be covered in gauze, and while at first this might seem comical, one realizes that our intrepid Time Lord and a handful of squishy humans are quickly surrounded by individuals each ten times the equal of several of the intruders put together. And when the Cyber Controller speaks, you see his jaw move, once, to open his mouth, from which comes a very effective monotone that makes him sound like a diabolical Stephen Hawking. Put it all together, and you have villains that, 40 years or more after the fact, still work. To top it all off, we have the Second Doctor. I find it very difficult to believe that people wouldn't find him endearing or at least hilarious. A counterpoint to the First Doctor's somewhat cranky persona of an old professor of physics, the Second Doctor seems more carefree and flippant, but his odd affectations and penchant for playing the recorder (which sadly does not appear in this story) conceal a master of manipulation and the same staggering intellect Who fans expect. He plays with expectations, verbally lures foes into revealing their true natures, is unafraid to admonish other so-called geniuses, and all but laughs in the face of danger. What more could you ask from the Doctor?
Courtesy BBC
Not pictured: Jamie and his amazing kilt
"Tomb of the Cybermen" may not be the best Doctor Who tale I've ever seen - that prize still goes to "Genesis of the Daleks" from the classic run and "Blink" from the new run - but it's still good. While its effects and set dressings have not exactly aged well, its story and characters have, and I found myself wanting to spend more time with the Doctor, his Scottish friend Jamie, and what feels like a more innocent and experimental time for sci-fi storytelling. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, many of his tales remain lost or incomplete. However, I would like to start building up a collection of classic Who tales, because if you want to understand why this character remains so pertinent and endearing despite long hiatuses and changing actors, you need to know Who he is.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Strategic Writing

Strategic Writing — Blue Ink Alchemy

Found on hoopthoughts.blogspot.com, will credit artist if I can find them
Writing is an odd profession. Writing fiction, even moreso. Most other professions have to start at one place and end at another. Linear progression of a product, from conception to design to implementation and delivery, is the baseline for most items consumed by the public. And while you certainly never pitch an unfinished or unpolished novel to an agent, the creation of what you eventually present does not necessarily need to unfold in a linear fashion. You may think your novel's outline is a guideline to how to write it. And, in a sense, it's true. An outline is a powerful tool. It helps you lay out your plot, determine when and how to develop your characters, when things take a turn for the worse, who lives and who dies and who is left to pick up the pieces. It's one of the organizational linchpins of the novel, and I for one would be lost without mine. Just like a general would be lost without a map of the battlefield. And make no mistake, when you write a novel, you go to war. I don't mean writing is a horrible, traumatic experience (although it can be); what I mean is, writing is a struggle, day after day, to achieve a goal that will be fighting back against you. It may feel at times that mundane matters of the world are actually conspiring against you, from chores to dayjobs to distractions and things like needing to eat and sleep. We must choose our battles, carve our time out of the enemy lines with sweeping advances of determination, and when we finally cross no-man's-land into that place where we can write, we have to make the most of the precious ground we've gained. I hope you don't think this means you have to follow the outline to the letter. How often do you assault a castle by its heavily defended front gate? Canny generals find a way across the moat to a back door or sluice gate. Some lay siege. Some sow sedition into the enemy ranks. Many positions that seem unassailable do have vulnerabilities, even if it means digging a tunnel or using aircraft. So it is with writing. If you feel like the writing time you've gained is going nowhere, and something you're trying to work through is resisting your efforts, don't give up. Try writing at another section. Write the inner monologue of a character. Write gibberish. Just keep writing. The words will come if you keep making them appear on the paper or screen. Not every day is going to go well, and not every pocket of resistance will expose its vulnerabilities to you. That's okay. You're not a failure. Write around it and come back to it later. You have plenty of time, you have the words you need in your head, and you just need to clear some others out of the way so the right ones can come pouring out. If you're struggling, come at your writing more strategically. Like a conscript in a foxhole at the base of the hill, you may not be able to see to goal, but trust me, it's there. Buck up, soldier. It's an uphill slog from here.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, March 11, 2013

Flash Fiction: The Farmer's Child

Flash Fiction: The Farmer's Child — Blue Ink Alchemy

Typical Medieval Farm House, Courtesy UNCP
In response to being asked to generate a random sentence.
This child farms. She knows that it is work mostly done by boys. It is hard, long, muscle-snapping, back-breaking work, from sun-up until sun-down. Tools large and small are used to till the fields, harvest the grain, milk some animals, slaughter others. This child does all of those things. It would not be this way if the farmer's wife had had a son. This child knows this. She does want a brother. It would stop the other children from laughing at her, calling her a boy when she's a girl, pulling down her pants when she's walking with her arms full and laughing because she lacks what boys have. It's not my fault, she often thinks. Why are they so mean? They never drew blood, but on days like today, they would blacken her eye or leave parts of her sore. This child's father is not one for comfort. He is a hard man of a hard land. Years of living under the realm's protectors have made him so. They come and take his grain, sometimes a pig or even a cow, and give nothing in return save promises that his fields will remain unburned, his wife and daughter unraped. He calls them 'thugs' and 'brigands' and worse when they cannot hear. But this child hears, and the acidic and unpleasant feeling of hatred boils in her guts. When the distant bells in the village begin to toll, it is towards the end of the day. Too late for worship. And the tolling is rapid, panicked. Then the voices can be heard: something has men and women screaming, calling for the guard, begging for mercy. The farmer gathers up his child to get her inside. She can peek out around his shoulder. The village is already ablaze, and she hears the deep-throated roar somewhere beyond the thick, black smoke, which is buffeted by the power of mighty wings. A dragon! Out from the village ride several figures on fearsome chargers. They do not wear the white of the realm's protectors, and their chain armor is black as pitch. Helms in the shapes of skulls and screaming demons adorn their heads, and they wield flails and axes and short bows. One laughs as he raises his bow, pulling the string taut and letting fly into a fleeing woman. She falls dead at the edge of the farm. The farmer seems, for a moment, unwilling or unable to let go of his child, the child he didn't want, the child he has not even named yet, claiming she would earn her name if she survived the decade. One year away, and now her world was burning. The farmer sets her down near the house, telling her to climb under it, reaching for his scythe. He is telling her to protect her mother when the arrow finds his back. He cannot keep himself upright, and collapses on top of his child. She is unable to move him, screaming his name, pushing against his shoulders, horrified by the sound of his rattling breath in her ear. She pushes with all of her might, but his body will not budge. A soft, pained sound comes from his lips, and then he is still. She squeezes her eyes shut against the tears and the smoke, struggling and moving as much as possible, doing anything she can to escape. Flames wash over the farmyard. Screaming, her body twists and turns, desperate to escape the prison her father's corpse has created. The heat climbs quickly, and she coughs, breathing smoke. She gives her body one final pull to try and free it, and feels something tear. She doesn't know if it's her clothing or her skin, and she doesn't care. She screams in pain as she slowly pushes herself free from the burning body on top of her, staggering to her feet and losing her balance almost immediately. She stares at her hand. Flames race up her sleeve, and while her skin grows hot, she feels no pain from it. As she watches, a cut received during her struggle to escape her father's grasp cracks and boils, slowly peeling the skin back. But the tissue beneath is neither red nor raw. She holds her hand up to the fire's flickering light as she stands, flames reflected in tiny dark scales. She hears the roar of the dragon over the din of slaughter and the cries of the dying, and something in her yearns to roar back. On sheer impulse, she begins to walk, then to run. She runs through the fire towards the smoke. She feels her human clothing, her human skin, her human disguise, falling away into the heat. Pain washes through her as her shoulders push against her back, growth and change giving her both a surge of strength and an overwhelming appetite. She leans on the wall of a burning house for a moment, and looks at her hand again. It is no longer the pink, squishy appendage of a little girl, but a strong hand ending in vicious talons and covered in black scales. She flexes her hands, looks down at the rest of her scaly body, and then back up. The other children of the village, fleeing the fires, have stopped to stare at her. She looks up. Wheeling overhead is the dragon, wings wider than the breadth of her father's field, looking down at the scene with eyes like molten pools. They fix on the girl, and she is struck by what she sees in them. It is a gaze she has seen before, a quiet love and a resolute desire to see her rise above all that opposes her... the look of a mother proud of her child. This child looks back at her bullies. Her talons shine in the fire light. Her mother's riders rampage through the village. For the first time in a long time, this child smiles. Her mother roars, and as she runs forward, she roars back.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, March 8, 2013

Writer Report: Winning Is Losing

Writer Report: Winning Is Losing — Blue Ink Alchemy

RetroFitness of East Norriton
I really didn't expect to throw myself into this change the way I have. Change is always difficult, and it can be more sweeping than we realize. I'm going to make myself more mindful of what I eat (yes, moreso than before). I need to adjust my sleeping schedule. And I have to get serious about blogging before the day a post should go up. I was hoping to complete Chuck's Super Ultra Mega Game of Aspects this week, but I ran out of time. As much as I've nailed down how and when to run, as well as where and how to lift, there's still some scheduling changes that need to happen to I can accomplish other non-fitness goals. As much as I feel like I'm slowly but surely winning this fight against weight gain and sloth, I don't want to lose out on my writing, or any of my hobbies. If this means I have to start getting up earlier in the morning, so be it.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Can Gamers Change The World?

Can Gamers Change The World? — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Sega & Obsidian Entertainment
I find myself asking a question that should be at the core of game design: what do gamers want? I don't want the answer given by market demographics and sales figures. Sure, games make money, and the companies that publish them have profit as their end goal, but why should that also be the end goal for the audience? People don't buy movie tickets because they like MGM or New Line Cinema; they buy them because they enjoy the adventures of James Bond or Bilbo Baggins. Likewise, most gamers are not going to putting down cash to save Bungie or Ubisoft or EA; they'll pay their money to slip into the role of Master Chief or Ezio Auditore or Commander Shepard. But outside of established franchises, what is it that gamers want out of their games? Simply to feel empowered? To live out some fantasy? To save the world? All you have to do is look at charities like Child's Play and Extra Life to see that gamers do, in fact, want to save the world. Or at least part of it. They back Kickstarters for new titles that break away from the iterative sequels of the industry. Looking at some of the top games of the past year - Dishonored, FarCry 3, Spec Ops: The Line, The Walking Dead, Journey - I see a trend that has nothing to do with marketing or sales emerging. Gamers don't want to just save the world, they want to change it. Specifically, they want their choices within a game to matter. As much as I've enjoyed playing Skyrim in the past (and still need to check out its DLC), it was difficult at times to feel my character was having much of an impact on the world. Sure, you can take down dragons and rescue people, but there's little sense of those actions having significance. No matter how many battles you win or spells you learn, there will be some guard you encounter who will tell you about a certain leg injury. Likewise, Ezio can rebuild Rome or Constantinople in the later Assassin's Creed games of his time, but the townsfolk or guards never treat him more favorably for his hard work and service. Maybe that's part of being an anonymous assassin? By contrast, look at Alpha Protocol. While not the best shooter/RPG ever made, it is way up on my list of favorites, mostly because the choices you make have consequences. Your conversations and attitudes are remembered. You make an impact in the cities you visit. You, in short, change the world. I am of the opinion that more games should aim to allow for this. Let's say, for example, that you're playing a game based in a city. During the course of the game, an action is undertaken that results in a building catching fire. In my mind, the game would be doing its job right if, after the mission or whatever is concluded, that building stays burnt. Every time the character walks by it, he or she sees the blackened walls, the shattered windows, the marred signage. The building is a husk of its former self, and passers by on the street may even comment on it. And if the player caused the blaze, their character should at least get some dirty looks. I don't think we see enough of that in gaming. We don't see real consequences for the choices a player makes. We don't give players enough opportunities to break away from some of gaming's more blatant linearity. Gaming is a medium in which the audience of the story being told is also a participant in that story. Few games truly embrace this, and instead lean towards exposition dumps and flavor text to fill in any story gaps a curious player may feel are missing. I hope we see more games in the future that make the effort to involve the player in their story, rather than treat said player as a source for cash to fuel microtransactions. Because as much as persistent environmental alterations within the game world may not suit every game, bringing the experience to a halt to remind us that our hero's special hat is available for a mere 520 Microsoft Points doesn't either.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus — Blue Ink Alchemy

I will admit to a certain degree of professional jealousy when it comes to the writings of others. Most of the time it's when I read something good, which encourages me to push myself, to write more, to craft better stories. I'll watch John Green spiel into a camera or read Chuck Wendig's writing advice or see a particularly amusing or thought-provoking tweet from the likes of Susan Arendt or Amanda Palmer and think, "Man, I can get there, if I just get off my ass and work more at it." But there's a darker jealousy I also contend with. It's the jealousy that comes from reading a published work that is irredeemably, completely, and blatantly awful. This happened with Quest for Karn, it happened with the Warcraft manga, and now it's happened with the Word Bearers Omnibus, a trio of Warhammer 40,000 novels collected into one bulky volume for easy shot-putting through the nearest window.
Courtesy Black Library
The Word Bearers are a legion of the infamous Chaos Space Marines, genetically enhanced super-soldiers who betrayed their Emperor in favor of the gods of Chaos for reasons I'm not going to get into. The ranks of the traitors are many and varied, from the foaming-at-the-mouth World Eaters to the stoic and eerie Thousand Sons. The Word Bearers are a middle-of-the-road bunch of incredibly powerful killers, favoring a unified approach to the Chaos god foursome over following a single deity. While twisted and warped, theirs is a doctrine based on faith, and the potential is there to examine and explore what motivates and perpetuates the hearts and minds of those bound to such a doctrine. I spent most of Dark Apostle, the first book in the omnibus, waiting for these ideas to arise, then I waited for the story to get going. For a long time, Anthony Reynolds introduces us to characters and begins fleshing them out just before killing them, often in a rather grotesque fashion befitting the grim darkness of Warhammer 40,000's dark future. If a character doesn't die and isn't a Chaos Space Marine, than something even more horrible is going to happen to them the next time we see them. It does something that is the death knell of just about any work: it makes things dull. The repetition not only defangs the entire enterprise right from the start, it kills the story's momentum and throws the pace way off. On top of this inherent flaw, the main characters, the Word Bearers of the title, are also dull and uninteresting. Their rivalries are flat and boring, and their battles are unexciting. A lot of bolters get fired into a lot of chests and a lot of faceless humans are killed instantly by this. Reynolds just really likes to talk about it. Dark Disciple began, and to be honest, I was waiting for a twist. If the first novel was just so much 'bolter porn' to draw in some of the target audience of the miniatures game, perhaps the author was setting things up to become more interesting later on. Perhaps this is part of my disappointment, expecting this sort of development, as it never showed up. More bolter fire, more pointless characters, more dull and uninteresting ranting on how weak the false Emperor is and how his followers need to suffer as gloriously as possible. The story has no momentum, the characters have little motivation, and stakes never escalate, meaning the ultimate end of this tedious tale is a tedious ending. Considering all the things that could be done with warrior-priests of Warhammer's interesting pantheon of Chaos gods, the disappointment merely deepens. I must confess I only read the first few pages of Dark Creed. I was not invested in any of the characters. I was not interested in how the plot was developing. Reynolds had had two whole novels to engage me, and had failed utterly in doing so. I actually started to feel anger at the book in my hands, which somehow had stumbled into publication likely due to its licensed tie-in nature, and its author, who really should have known better than to waste so much time with this absolutely interminable dreck. For a cadre of warriors chosen by both the Emperor and the Chaos gods for their faith and their skill in battle, there's no real conflict to be had in any of this story, not in any of the three novels. There's no scheming by or on behalf of the Chaos gods, no interesting rivalry or betrayal within the ranks as they vie for position, nothing. Everything plays out in the most flat and boring ways possible, any potentially engaging plotting or characterization is smacked down almost the moment it's raised, and even possessed chainswords and face-violating tentacle masks can't save this entire omnibus from being a complete waste of time. With all of the potential tension and rivalries between the Chaos gods, the inherent dichotomy of the nature of faith with the nature of perpetual warfare, and the colorful history of the Warhammer 40,000 universe, the Word Bearers Omnibus could have been an interesting work of licensed fiction. It could have cast the villains of many a tale in this setting as complex, diverse characters instead of just heretics to be gunned down. Instead, we get over 700 pages of pointless gore and meandering plot that goes nowhere and adds nothing to either the overall fabric of the universe or our lives. Save yourself the time and money this omnibus would waste, and skip it. I hear there are better novels on the Word Bearers in the Horus Heresy series, and I may check those out. This, however, shames the followers of Chaos, and the devotees of the dark gods should likely destroy it on sight. I could see followers of Khorne, especially, getting so pissed at its go-nowhere story and flat, dull characters that they start eating it.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus — Blue Ink Alchemy

I will admit to a certain degree of professional jealousy when it comes to the writings of others. Most of the time it's when I read something good, which encourages me to push myself, to write more, to craft better stories. I'll watch John Green spiel into a camera or read Chuck Wendig's writing advice or see a particularly amusing or thought-provoking tweet from the likes of Susan Arendt or Amanda Palmer and think, "Man, I can get there, if I just get off my ass and work more at it." But there's a darker jealousy I also contend with. It's the jealousy that comes from reading a published work that is irredeemably, completely, and blatantly awful. This happened with Quest for Karn, it happened with the Warcraft manga, and now it's happened with the Word Bearers Omnibus, a trio of Warhammer 40,000 novels collected into one bulky volume for easy shot-putting through the nearest window.
Courtesy Black Library
The Word Bearers are a legion of the infamous Chaos Space Marines, genetically enhanced super-soldiers who betrayed their Emperor in favor of the gods of Chaos for reasons I'm not going to get into. The ranks of the traitors are many and varied, from the foaming-at-the-mouth World Eaters to the stoic and eerie Thousand Sons. The Word Bearers are a middle-of-the-road bunch of incredibly powerful killers, favoring a unified approach to the Chaos god foursome over following a single deity. While twisted and warped, theirs is a doctrine based on faith, and the potential is there to examine and explore what motivates and perpetuates the hearts and minds of those bound to such a doctrine. I spent most of Dark Apostle, the first book in the omnibus, waiting for these ideas to arise, then I waited for the story to get going. For a long time, Anthony Reynolds introduces us to characters and begins fleshing them out just before killing them, often in a rather grotesque fashion befitting the grim darkness of Warhammer 40,000's dark future. If a character doesn't die and isn't a Chaos Space Marine, than something even more horrible is going to happen to them the next time we see them. It does something that is the death knell of just about any work: it makes things dull. The repetition not only defangs the entire enterprise right from the start, it kills the story's momentum and throws the pace way off. On top of this inherent flaw, the main characters, the Word Bearers of the title, are also dull and uninteresting. Their rivalries are flat and boring, and their battles are unexciting. A lot of bolters get fired into a lot of chests and a lot of faceless humans are killed instantly by this. Reynolds just really likes to talk about it. Dark Disciple began, and to be honest, I was waiting for a twist. If the first novel was just so much 'bolter porn' to draw in some of the target audience of the miniatures game, perhaps the author was setting things up to become more interesting later on. Perhaps this is part of my disappointment, expecting this sort of development, as it never showed up. More bolter fire, more pointless characters, more dull and uninteresting ranting on how weak the false Emperor is and how his followers need to suffer as gloriously as possible. The story has no momentum, the characters have little motivation, and stakes never escalate, meaning the ultimate end of this tedious tale is a tedious ending. Considering all the things that could be done with warrior-priests of Warhammer's interesting pantheon of Chaos gods, the disappointment merely deepens. I must confess I only read the first few pages of Dark Creed. I was not invested in any of the characters. I was not interested in how the plot was developing. Reynolds had had two whole novels to engage me, and had failed utterly in doing so. I actually started to feel anger at the book in my hands, which somehow had stumbled into publication likely due to its licensed tie-in nature, and its author, who really should have known better than to waste so much time with this absolutely interminable dreck. For a cadre of warriors chosen by both the Emperor and the Chaos gods for their faith and their skill in battle, there's no real conflict to be had in any of this story, not in any of the three novels. There's no scheming by or on behalf of the Chaos gods, no interesting rivalry or betrayal within the ranks as they vie for position, nothing. Everything plays out in the most flat and boring ways possible, any potentially engaging plotting or characterization is smacked down almost the moment it's raised, and even possessed chainswords and face-violating tentacle masks can't save this entire omnibus from being a complete waste of time. With all of the potential tension and rivalries between the Chaos gods, the inherent dichotomy of the nature of faith with the nature of perpetual warfare, and the colorful history of the Warhammer 40,000 universe, the Word Bearers Omnibus could have been an interesting work of licensed fiction. It could have cast the villains of many a tale in this setting as complex, diverse characters instead of just heretics to be gunned down. Instead, we get over 700 pages of pointless gore and meandering plot that goes nowhere and adds nothing to either the overall fabric of the universe nor our lives. Save yourself the time and money this omnibus would waste, and skip it. I hear there are better novels on the Word Bearers in the Horus Heresy series, and I may check those out. This, however, shames the followers of Chaos, and the devotees of the dark gods should likely destroy it on sight. I could see followers of Khorne, especially, getting so pissed at its go-nowhere story and flat, dull characters that they start eating it.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus

Book Review: Word Bearers Omnibus — Blue Ink Alchemy

I will admit to a certain degree of professional jealousy when it comes to the writings of others. Most of the time it's when I read something good, which encourages me to push myself, to write more, to craft better stories. I'll watch John Green spiel into a camera or read Chuck Wendig's writing advice or see a particularly amusing or thought-provoking tweet from the likes of Susan Arendt or Amanda Palmer and think, "Man, I can get there, if I just get off my ass and work more at it." But there's a darker jealousy I also contend with. It's the jealousy that comes from reading a published work that is irredeemably, completely, and blatantly awful. This happened with Quest for Karn, it happened with the Warcraft manga, and now it's happened with the Word Bearers Omnibus, a trio of Warhammer 40,000 novels collected into one bulky volume for easy shot-putting through the nearest window.
Courtesy Black Library
The Word Bearers are a legion of the infamous Chaos Space Marines, genetically enhanced super-soldiers who betrayed their Emperor in favor of the gods of Chaos for reasons I'm not going to get into. The ranks of the traitors are many and varied, from the foaming-at-the-mouth World Eaters to the stoic and eerie Thousand Sons. The Word Bearers are a middle-of-the-road bunch of incredibly powerful killers, favoring a unified approach to the Chaos god foursome over following a single deity. While twisted and warped, theirs is a doctrine based on faith, and the potential is there to examine and explore what motivates and perpetuates the hearts and minds of those bound to such a doctrine. I spent most of Dark Apostle, the first book in the omnibus, waiting for these ideas to arise, then I waited for the story to get going. For a long time, Anthony Reynolds introduces us to characters and begins fleshing them out just before killing them, often in a rather grotesque fashion befitting the grim darkness of Warhammer 40,000's dark future. If a character doesn't die and isn't a Chaos Space Marine, than something even more horrible is going to happen to them the next time we see them. It does something that is the death knell of just about any work: it makes things dull. The repetition not only defangs the entire enterprise right from the start, it kills the story's momentum and throws the pace way off. On top of this inherent flaw, the main characters, the Word Bearers of the title, are also dull and uninteresting. Their rivalries are flat and boring, and their battles are unexciting. A lot of bolters get fired into a lot of chests and a lot of faceless humans are killed instantly by this. Reynolds just really likes to talk about it. Dark Disciple began, and to be honest, I was waiting for a twist. If the first novel was just so much 'bolter porn' to draw in some of the target audience of the miniatures game, perhaps the author was setting things up to become more interesting later on. Perhaps this is part of my disappointment, expecting this sort of development, as it never showed up. More bolter fire, more pointless characters, more dull and uninteresting ranting on how weak the false Emperor is and how his followers need to suffer as gloriously as possible. The story has no momentum, the characters have little motivation, and stakes never escalate, meaning the ultimate end of this tedious tale is a tedious ending. Considering all the things that could be done with warrior-priests of Warhammer's interesting pantheon of Chaos gods, the disappointment merely deepens. I must confess I only read the first few pages of Dark Creed. I was not invested in any of the characters. I was not interested in how the plot was developing. Reynolds had had two whole novels to engage me, and had failed utterly in doing so. I actually started to feel anger at the book in my hands, which somehow had stumbled into publication likely due to its licensed tie-in nature, and its author, who really should have known better than to waste so much time with this absolutely interminable dreck. For a cadre of warriors chosen by both the Emperor and the Chaos gods for their faith and their skill in battle, there's no real conflict to be had in any of this story, not in any of the three novels. There's no scheming by or on behalf of the Chaos gods, no interesting rivalry or betrayal within the ranks as they vie for position, nothing. Everything plays out in the most flat and boring ways possible, any potentially engaging plotting or characterization is smacked down almost the moment it's raised, and even possessed chainswords and face-violating tentacle masks can't save this entire omnibus from being a complete waste of time. With all of the potential tension and rivalries between the Chaos gods, the inherent dichotomy of the nature of faith with the nature of perpetual warfare, and the colorful history of the Warhammer 40,000 universe, the Word Bearers Omnibus could have been an interesting work of licensed fiction. It could have cast the villains of many a tale in this setting as complex, diverse characters instead of just heretics to be gunned down. Instead, we get over 700 pages of pointless gore and meandering plot that goes nowhere and adds nothing to either the overall fabric of the universe nor our lives. Save yourself the time and money this omnibus would waste, and skip it. I hear there are better novels on the Word Bearers in the Horus Heresy series, and I may check those out. This, however, shames the followers of Chaos, and the devotees of the dark gods should likely destroy it on sight. I could see followers of Khorne, especially, getting so pissed at its go-nowhere story and flat, dull characters that they start eating it.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Flash Fiction: The Knotted Tree

Flash Fiction: The Knotted Tree — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Flickr
Having missed the posting of the Super Ultra Mega Game of Aspects like a champ, I fired up the Brainstormer app to get this week's story going. The wheels gave me: Sacrifice for love, imperialist, forest animals. I may do the aforementioned Game of Aspects Thursday instead! We shall see.
Engelmore considered himself no more or less heroic than any other squirrel in the wood. He was an excellent climber, a fair hand at foraging, and loyal above all. Yet small and stealthy as he was, he had never passed the border of the wood marked by the Knotty Tree, which marked the end of King Stag's territory and the beginning of that conquered by the expansionist Wild Cat clans. Not until that day. He moved from branch to branch with practiced ease, swinging out from the Knotty Tree to the next one over. Already he could smell the change in the air. As he clambored down the tree into the undergrowth, decay and neglect crept into his small nostrils, threatening to strangle the memory of brighter, better smells not far behind his bushy tail. His paw twitched, too eager by half to unsheathe the sword he'd stol... er, borrowed from one of the hedgehogs who'd fallen asleep guarding one of the food stores the wood kept on behalf of King Stag for the winter. Engelmore was certain the hedgehog's name was Serverus, and he made a mental note to treat his 'victim' to an extra drink of ale when he returned. But the task was ahead, and home and ale would have to wait. Engelmore moved through the bushes and grass to the next tree, and the one after that. Under the less than pleasant smells, the marked territory and the other scents he didn't want to consider, he caught it - a hint of rosewater, a touch of jasmine on the wind. He was getting closer, and he prayed he was not too late as he picked up his pace. There was no telling how quickly the cats would get around to killing and eating what they caught. Sure enough, several of his fellow forest denizens were hanging by their hind legs from one of the trees he happened across. Two raccoons, a possum, and another squirrel. He crept up the trunk of the tree, wary for any signs of captors, and called down to the squirrel. "Gwendolyn! Gwendolyn!" The squirrel beneath him twisted against her bonds. "Engelmore? Is that you?" "It is! Are the other prisoners well?" "I think Ser Edmond is dead." She gestured towards the possum. "He has not moved in hours." "I live." The possum's voice was a soft croak. "Though only just." "I'm going to cut the lot of you free. It's not far to the ground. The Knotted Tree is to the west. You can make a break for it!" "But what about you?" Gwendolyn tried to get a better angle to look at Engelmore. "You are no knight, and these are Wild Cats." "No one else was close enough." Engelmore hated the taste of the lie as he set about cutting their ropes, but he would not presume to voice his true feelings, at least not with danger so close. "And what is this?" Silently, a pair of cats appeared from the boughs of the tree, one tabby and one calico, yellow eyes fixed on the intrepid squirrel before them. "Some fool come to join our feast of his own free will?" His tail back and rigid, Engelmore raised his sword. "Back, devils! Or taste the good and free steel of the Stag King!" "Oooh, sounds like the meal's talking back, Stelios." "That it does, Acheron." "We don't like meals that talk back, do we, Stelios?" "No, we don't, Acheron." Before he could think the better of it, Engelmore sliced the ropes holding the other creatures aloft, rather than carefully cutting them loose and lowering them. He heard soft thumps as they hit the undergrowth, and Stelios, the calico, pounced at the squirrel. For a moment, Engelmore saw only flashing claws and murderous eyes, and he raised his blade to defend himself. The steel bit fur and flesh, even as a claw opened his shoulder to the bone, and with a cry that was part fear, part pain, and part righteous anger, Engelmore shoved into the cat with all of his might. He was much smaller and weaker than the cat, but the interruption his sword had made in the predator's smooth landing had left it off-balance, and it toppled from the tree. Engelmore scrambled down himself, finding Gwendolyn, Ser Edmond and the others untying themselves. He pointed towards the west, holding his shoulder closed with his other paw. Together, they made for the Knotted Tree, even as the yowls of cats calling for reinforcements echoed behind them. Engelmore chanced a look behind them, and saw Acheron bounding out of the bushes towards them. Within sight of the Knotted Tree, he turned to face the oncoming tabby. "Engelmore!" The voice was Gwendolyn's, clear and sweet even in this dangerous time. "Go! Get to the Stag King! I will hold them off!" "Very brave, for a squirrel." Acheron's body was low to the ground, his movements cautious, patient. "But you know no squirrel achieves knighthood. You are not warriors." "Test me and find out." Engelmore kept both paws on his sword's hilt, as much as his shoulder pained him. "So be it. I will enjoy eating your innards." They circled each other for long moments, neither willing to give ground to the other. Their turning brought the Knotted Tree into Engelmore's vision, and he chanced a look in that direction. He saw Gwendolyn in the twisty boughs, with Ser Edmond, the raccoons, a skunk with a general's collar and one of the Stag King's buck princes, all watching him. Acheron chose that moment to pounce. "For the Stag King!!" Engelmore met his foe in mid-air, steel flashing in the sunlight. Gwendolyn would later tell of the sound of Engelmore's neck snapping, the war the Stag King declared, and the letters of confession left that spoke of Engelmore's love for her. The story is a favorite of young lovers throughout the Stag King's wood. It is the story of the first squirrel knight in history.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, March 4, 2013

Turn And Face The Fit

Turn And Face The Fit — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy allthingshealing.com
Some serious changes are continuing to happen on my end of things. I'm looking down the aperture of a legitimate workout regimen with the intent of finally losing a decent amount of weight. It's my hope that doing so will also yield higher levels of energy and motivation throughout the days and weeks. The life of a writer, gamer, and dayjob computer jockey are all sedentary, and to be blunt, it's past time I got off my fat ass. Flash Fiction tomorrow. I'll definitely be back on my normal blogging schedule next week.
Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, March 1, 2013

Writer Report: A Writer's Numbers

Writer Report: A Writer's Numbers — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy terribleminds
Courtesy terribleminds
So last week I talked about having goals, which in the case of the stories I'm writing means finishing Cold Streets and at least one other novel by the end of the year. The best way to get there, I would say, is one word at a time, but thanks to Chuck, I can move at a bit faster pace than that. Writing a novel in less than a year can seem daunting, even to experienced authors and especially to mostly untested wordsmiths like myself. We're talking tens if not hundreds of thousands of words, all within an ultimately limited timeframe. Like a pizza or a cake, however, you can manage things better if you divide it into smaller pieces. Hence this handy guide from Master Wendig. I highly suggest you check it out. Other than last night, I've managed to stick to this, even working on multiple stories in one night. It definitely is easier to grok what needs to be accomplished when you're worrying only about the next 350 words, not the next 3500. Weekends off is a neat idea, but I might squeeze in a few words here and there. I'll also be checking out a local gym or two and building myself up to start running. This year already feels different...
Blue Ink Alchemy