Moving On from 2017

Moving On from 2017 — Blue Ink Alchemy

So, 2017 is finally behind us. Or, at time of writing, it's about to be. What a relief, right? The year seemed incredibly long. News and events that occurred around Halloween or Thanksgiving feel like they happened years ago. It was exhausting, seeing the world get yanked unwillingly into a downward spiral perpetuated by a resurgent nationalist would-be oligarchy. Aspiring autocrats vied for power, and thankfully, the world fought back. Make no mistake, we are at war, with the stakes being the very future of our species. We have concerns that need addressing such as poverty, hunger, and climate change, but the unfortunate truth is that we can't fully tackle those until we get rid of the power-hungry ignorant obstructionists. 2018, thankfully, holds the promise of us being able to do so. 2017 was a wake-up call, a year-long trial by fire in which common folk were called upon to rise up in the face of a new form of subversive, diabolical ambition. This may be less true for the world outside of the United States, but given the world-wide influence of the nation in which I live, it's been difficult for me to see the rest of the world outside of the impact our current lackluster leadership is having. We're in trouble, over here; we've tried to balance the bluster from our so-called representatives with a clarion call for help. I spent a lot of 2017 wishing I could do more. I spent the first few months of the year focused tightly on self-examination: what I could change, what I needed to cultivate within myself, which parts of myself I needed to discard. As the year progressed, my attention grew more and more outward, being active in lending my voice to the resistance, and keeping my heart and mind open. It was hard at times, exhausting at others. I finally concluded that the start-up life was not for me, and in another instance of re-inventing myself, dedicated my time while unemployed to changing the focus of my dayjob career and trying to finish a manuscript that I'm eager to share with the world. It wasn't all trials and tribulations, to be sure. I rediscovered my deep love for Dungeons & Dragons. I made some new friends, and learned to appreciated quality over quantity for people in my life. I returned to therapy and balanced medication with meditation and writing. I took more measured, thoughtful chances, and was rewarded in wonderful ways. And I never, ever, ever gave up. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I do not believe in the no-win scenario. It can be difficult to see, clouded by the tumult of the world and rampaging egos of others, but there is always a way forward. Where there is life, there is hope, a chance for a better tomorrow. Leaving one's heart open to possibilities isn't easy in this world. People will exploit such sentiment, leverage feelings, manipulate one's mind and perceptions. But without an open heart, one cannot find some of the greatest things this life has to offer — progress, reconciliation, self-discovery, courage, and love. I'm still percolating my thoughts on The Last Jedi, but among many other things, the film illustrates not only many ways in which people can fail (at times spectacularly), but how we can learn from our mistakes, and turn the outcome of our flaws into steps towards a better tomorrow. It's a lesson we all need to learn sooner or later; for me, I could have learned it sooner, but now that I have it in mind, tomorrow cannot help but be better than all of my yesterdays. I had allies in my journey forward, friends and family and loved ones. To them I say: thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I did all of this for myself, as much under my own power as possible, but it would be uncharitable to say that I could have done so much without your love and support. They say the best revenge is living well, and to be entirely honest, I'm going to keep living as well as I can, if only to spite my demons and failures and head weasels. And, of course, I'm going to write as much and as often as I can. I have unfinished work that it worth writing, worth reading, worth sharing. Everything from unsent letters to that manuscript. I want to see what I can do when I really buckle down and make the words happen. Thanks for sticking around; if nothing else, thanks for reading all of this. See you in 2018. [tube]j1qQuSuQaHY[/tube]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Moving On from 2017

Moving On from 2017 — Blue Ink Alchemy

So, 2017 is finally behind us. Or, at time of writing, it's about to be. What a relief, right? The year seemed incredibly long. News and events that occurred around Halloween or Thanksgiving feel like they happened years ago. It was exhausting, seeing the world get yanked unwillingly into a downward spiral perpetuated by a resurgent nationalist would-be oligarchy. Aspiring autocrats vied for power, and thankfully, the world fought back. Make no mistake, we are at war, with the stakes being the very future of our species. We have concerns that need addressing such as poverty, hunger, and climate change, but the unfortunate truth is that we can't fully tackle those until we get rid of the power-hungry ignorant obstructionists. 2018, thankfully, holds the promise of us being able to do so. 2017 was a wake-up call, a year-long trial by fire in which common folk were called upon to rise up in the face of a new form of subversive, diabolical ambition. This may be less true for the world outside of the United States, but given the world-wide influence of the nation in which I live, it's been difficult for me to see the rest of the world outside of the impact our current lackluster leadership is having. We're in trouble, over here; we've tried to balance the bluster from our so-called representatives with a clarion call for help. I spent a lot of 2017 wishing I could do more. I spent the first few months of the year focused tightly on self-examination: what I could change, what I needed to cultivate within myself, which parts of myself I needed to discard. As the year progressed, my attention grew more and more outward, being active in lending my voice to the resistance, and keeping my heart and mind open. It was hard at times, exhausting at others. I finally concluded that the start-up life was not for me, and in another instance of re-inventing myself, dedicated my time while unemployed to changing the focus of my dayjob career and trying to finish a manuscript that I'm eager to share with the world. It wasn't all trials and tribulations, to be sure. I rediscovered my deep love for Dungeons & Dragons. I made some new friends, and learned to appreciated quality over quantity for people in my life. I returned to therapy and balanced medication with meditation and writing. I took more measured, thoughtful chances, and was rewarded in wonderful ways. And I never, ever, ever gave up. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I do not believe in the no-win scenario. It can be difficult to see, clouded by the tumult of the world and rampaging egos of others, but there is always a way forward. Where there is life, there is hope, a chance for a better tomorrow. Leaving one's heart open to possibilities isn't easy in this world. People will exploit such sentiment, leverage feelings, manipulate one's mind and perceptions. But without an open heart, one cannot find some of the greatest things this life has to offer — progress, reconciliation, self-discovery, courage, and love. I'm still percolating my thoughts on The Last Jedi, but among many other things, the film illustrates not only many ways in which people can fail (at times spectacularly), but how we can learn from our mistakes, and turn the outcome of our flaws into steps towards a better tomorrow. It's a lesson we all need to learn sooner or later; for me, I could have learned it sooner, but now that I have it in mind, tomorrow cannot help but be better than all of my yesterdays. I had allies in my journey forward, friends and family and loved ones. To them I say: thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I did all of this for myself, as much under my own power as possible, but it would be uncharitable to say that I could have done so much without your love and support. They say the best revenge is living well, and to be entirely honest, I'm going to keep living as well as I can, if only to spite my demons and failures and head weasels. And, of course, I'm going to write as much and as often as I can. I have unfinished work that it worth writing, worth reading, worth sharing. Everything from unsent letters to that manuscript. I want to see what I can do when I really buckle down and make the words happen. Thanks for sticking around; if nothing else, thanks for reading all of this. See you in 2018. [tube]j1qQuSuQaHY[/tube]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Thirty-Nine

Thirty-Nine — Blue Ink Alchemy

I took some time to overhaul the look of this blog so that it was more centered on Dungeons & Dragons. I had intended, for the most part, on producing only content related to that game here. In the weeks since I made that change, I've struggled to generate said content. The explanation may be related to any number of things — the imbalance of chemicals in which my brain swims, the emotions that climb over one another for my attention daily, the tension that exists between my journey forward into the future as aspects of my past try to exert overwhelming influence on my present... I think I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm thirty-nine years of age today. I think it's normal for people to be reflective on their birthday, but given the last couple of years, there's a lot for me to work over. Hell, I've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to puzzle out what it is I want to say here. And a bit part of the challenge is that I keep coming back around to the idea that other people will be reading this. But the thing is, I can't write this for anybody else. This sort of thing is something I have to write for myself. So why put it on the blog at all? Let me try and articulate this. People fight battles you can't see every day. There are folks out there with diseases wracking their bodies with pain, without a single outward visible symptom. I don't want to be reductive in my writing or over-simplify these very complex conditions, but when you break it down, at the end of the day, they're alone in the war they wage with their physical forms. It may be a false equivalence, but I feel the same goes for mental conditions and disorders. While there are behaviors that inform others of what is going on inside — a literal request for help in completing a task or mitigating symptoms, or a figurative "cry for help" in one form or another — the reality is that we can never truly know what is happening on the battlefields we all have within ourselves. My hope is that me rambling into a keyboard will help others in finding ways to come to terms with those battles. That, in turn, gives me more fuel to wrestle my own demons to the ground. And wrestle them I must, or they will strangle the very life from my soul. That may sound overly dramatic. I'll plead guilty to perhaps engaging in a bit of hyperbole. I am, by nature, a storyteller. Stories tend to be dramatic in one form or another as a way to draw in the audience into the narrative and the characters affected by it. Be it as a novelist with my "rough and unable pen," or as a Dungeon Master behind a screen armed with dice and terrain tiles, I want the people who read or hear my words when I'm telling a story to find escape, catharsis, or a deeper understanding about themselves or the world around them. A lofty ambition, maybe, and possibly a little pretentious. But more than anything else, I want my readers to read because they give a damn. That's why I'm such a fan of authors like Chuck Wendig and Seanan McGuire and Delilah Dawson — I care about what happens to the people in their stories. By telling us stories about people like Nora Wexley or October Day or Cardinal, these authors inhabit fictional characters with life and say to us through their actions, losses, and emotions, "these are people worth caring about." Maybe it's just me, but that's why I read stories. That's also why I show up to D&D every Monday night. It's not about rolling the biggest numbers or pulling off the most inventive moves in a combat scene. I show up because I care — about the characters at the table, about the people who play them, about our hapless Dungeon Master, whose narrative skills and voices are the skeleton upon which the players hang the meat of the story. And everyone at that table cares about each other, and the characters represented by dice and sheets of paper. I'm waxing poetic here, but I swear, this all has a point. Why put this stuff on the blog, instead of keeping it to myself? Because I am worth caring about, too. And by making that a public declaration, I am putting my foot down as far as my feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness are concerned. I can fill pages upon pages of journals with pontifications on the meaning of my life and how I need to find that for myself rather than looking for it in the affection and approval of others. (For the record, I have.) Added to that is the fact that I am aware of my status as a ghost piloting a meat suit on a rock hurtling through the unfeeling void of space at speeds I can barely comprehend. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, I'm one of around seven billion human beings on this planet, and there may be an exponentially larger number of sentient beings in our universe. The question of whether I or anybody else cares about me is ultimately insignificant. But because I am sentient, because I think and feel, it's anything but insignificant to me. That is worth remembering. And it has to start with how I feel about me. After almost forty years of life, it's long past time to stop treating those feelings like they don't matter. I can never fully understand the battles others fight. I will never know what it is to be female bodied, have a different skin color, suffer from a chronic illness, or come from an abusive childhood. My context for relating to those around me is limited by my own experiences and whatever knowledge I have as imparted by other individuals and the world at large. But the feelings of those individuals do matter to me. This is especially true in the people I personally know and care about. Even if there is a world between me and an individual who's touched my life or found an indelible place inside my heart, even if we rarely if ever speak to one another, your feelings matter to me. You matter to me. I'd like to think I matter to you, but in the end, I have to matter to me. At the most basic level of things, I have to fight this battle on my own. Nobody else can fight it for me. Others can fight it with me, certainly. And it's good to have allies. But I am the only resource upon which I can absolutely undoubtedly rely. I have to treat myself as such. I have to value myself. I must matter to myself. I need to care about myself. It's the only way I can truly be my best self, and in turn, care about and fight alongside you. To that end, I am taking this opportunity, at the dawn of my thirty-ninth year, to try and pull myself away from the memories and imprecations of my past selves, to strain my eyes towards the horizon, to stare into the howling and uncaring void that in the end consumes all of us, and scream the words: I choose to be.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Thirty-Nine

Thirty-Nine — Blue Ink Alchemy

I took some time to overhaul the look of this blog so that it was more centered on Dungeons & Dragons. I had intended, for the most part, on producing only content related to that game here. In the weeks since I made that change, I've struggled to generate said content. The explanation may be related to any number of things — the imbalance of chemicals in which my brain swims, the emotions that climb over one another for my attention daily, the tension that exists between my journey forward into the future as aspects of my past try to exert overwhelming influence on my present... I think I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm thirty-nine years of age today. I think it's normal for people to be reflective on their birthday, but given the last couple of years, there's a lot for me to work over. Hell, I've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to puzzle out what it is I want to say here. And a bit part of the challenge is that I keep coming back around to the idea that other people will be reading this. But the thing is, I can't write this for anybody else. This sort of thing is something I have to write for myself. So why put it on the blog at all? Let me try and articulate this. People fight battles you can't see every day. There are folks out there with diseases wracking their bodies with pain, without a single outward visible symptom. I don't want to be reductive in my writing or over-simplify these very complex conditions, but when you break it down, at the end of the day, they're alone in the war they wage with their physical forms. It may be a false equivelance, but the same goes for mental conditions and disorders. While there are behaviors that inform others of what is going on inside — a literal request for help in completing a task or mitigating symptoms, or a figurative "cry for help" in one form or another — the reality is that we can never truly know what is happening on the battlefields we all have within ourselves. My hope is that me rambling into a keyboard will help others in finding ways to come to terms with those battles. That, in turn, gives me more fuel to wrestle my own demons to the ground. And wrestle them I must, or they will strangle the very life from my soul. That may sound overly dramatic. I'll plead guilty to perhaps engaging in a bit of hyperbole. I am, by nature, a storyteller. Stories tend to be dramatic in one form or another as a way to draw in the audience into the narrative and the characters affected by it. Be it as a novelist with my "rough and unable pen," or as a Dungeon Master behind a screen armed with dice and terrain tiles, I want the people who read or hear my words when I'm telling a story to find escape, catharsis, or a deeper understanding about themselves or the world around them. A lofty ambition, maybe, and possibly a little pretentious. But more than anything else, I want my readers to read because they give a damn. That's why I'm such a fan of authors like Chuck Wendig and Seanan McGuire and Delilah Dawson — I care about what happens to the people in their stories. By telling us stories about people like Nora Wexley or October Day or Cardinal, these authors inhabit fictional characters with life and say to us through their actions, losses, and emotions, "these are people worth caring about." Maybe it's just me, but that's why I read stories. That's also why I show up to D&D every Monday night. It's not about rolling the biggest numbers or pulling off the most inventive moves in a combat scene. I show up because I care — about the characters at the table, about the people who play them, about our hapless Dungeon Master, whose narrative skills and voices are the skeleton upon which the players hang the meat of the story. And everyone at that table cares about each other, and the characters represented by dice and sheets of paper. I'm waxing poetic here, but I swear, this all has a point. Why put this stuff on the blog, instead of keeping it to myself? Because I am worth caring about, too. And by making that a public declaration, I am putting my foot down as far as my feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness are concerned. I can fill pages upon pages of journals with pontifications on the meaning of my life and how I need to find that for myself rather than looking for it in the affection and approval of others. (For the record, I have.) Added to that is the fact that I am aware of my status as a ghost piloting a meat suit on a rock hurtling through the unfeeling void of space at speeds I can barely comprehend. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, I'm one of around seven billion human beings on this planet, and there may be an exponentially larger number of sentient beings in our universe. The question of whether I or anybody else cares about me is ultimately insignificant. But because I am sentient, because I think and feel, it's anything but insignificant to me. That is worth remembering. And it has to start with how I feel about me. After almost forty years of life, it's long past time to stop treating those feelings like they don't matter. I can never fully understand the battles others fight. I will never know what it is to be female bodied, have a different skin color, suffer from a chronic illness, or come from an abusive childhood. My context for relating to those around me is limited by my own experiences and whatever knowledge I have as imparted by other individuals and the world at large. But the feelings of those individuals do matter to me. This is especially true in the people I personally know and care about. Even if there is a world between me and an individual who's touched my life or found an indelible place inside my heart, even if we rarely if ever speak to one another, your feelings matter to me. You matter to me. I'd like to think I matter to you, but in the end, I have to matter to me. At the most basic level of things, I have to fight this battle on my own. Nobody else can fight it for me. Others can fight it with me, certainly. And it's good to have allies. But I am the only resource upon which I can absolutely undoubtedly rely. I have to treat myself as such. I have to value myself. I must matter to myself. I need to care about myself. It's the only way I can truly be my best self, and in turn, care about and fight alongside you. To that end, I am taking this opportunity, at the dawn of my thirty-ninth year, to try and pull myself away from the memories and imprecations of my past selves, to strain my eyes towards the horizon, to stare into the howling and uncaring void that in the end consumes all of us, and scream the words: I choose to be.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on the Adventurer's League

500 Words on the Adventurer's League — Blue Ink Alchemy

Of late, (almost) every Friday night, I take a long trip from my flat to West Seattle so I can join in the occasionally madcap shenanigans known as the Adventurer's League. For the uninitiated, the Adventurer's League is the 'official' organization for players and DMs of Dungeons & Dragons, sanctioned by Wizards of the Coast. Participants log their adventures, XP gains, and magical items to maintain a relative power level. There are three tiers of play, based on player character levels. New players start with characters at level 1 and work their way up the tiers, trying a smattering of different adventures every week as they progress. To what end, you might ask? The advantage of the Adventurer's League is that you can take an official, logged character to any League venue and game, and fit right in. No need to explain any odd stats or homebrewed items to your new DM. You can review a logsheet at any time, make sure things are on the level, and start rolling dice from there. It could be a friend's house, a coffee shop, or a huge gaming convention. It doesn't matter. Got that +1 breastplate and your holy avenger logged and approved by another DM? You're in. Speaking of DMs, being a Dungeon Master for the Adventurer's League has perks all its own. When you run an adventure, you don't just get the satisfaction of helping your players have a good time, even if you kill their characters. You also get rewards to apply to characters of your own. Dungeon Masters can be hard to come by — the DM experience is ultimately rewarding in and of itself, but it can be incredibly intimidating. There are incentives given just to get someone behind a screen at the table. After all, you can't have a Dungeons & Dragons adventure without someone to populate the dungeon and bring those dragons to life. Most of all, however, beyond the experience points and whatever else players and DMs gain, the Adventurer's League is a wonderful way to meet new people. Tabletop gaming, more often than not, is a collective experience, and everyone has something to bring to the table. Meeting like minds who contribute to a wonderful night of adventure and magic helps create a feeling of community. It helps people feel like they're not alone. It draws people out, and encourages them not only to engage their imaginations, but share it with others. That, in and of itself, is a beautiful thing to me. This happens with most D&D groups, of course. But when gathering at home, most of the players know one another, or get to know one another fairly quickly as they meet regularly. In the League, this happens with strangers. Every week. And everyone benefits from it, and walks away having had a good time. I know this isn't always the case, but so far, my personal experiences have been overwhelmingly positive. In spite of my worries, I plan to keep making the trip every week.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Gothmatum: A Thin Dark Veil

Gothmatum: A Thin Dark Veil — Blue Ink Alchemy

A journal entry for Gothmatum Baenre. I am aware that, as long as my life can be and as much as I may discover, there are some things I may never understand. For example: necromancers tend to fancy themselves "masters of death", then give themselves over to curses such as lichdom and vampirism. They lie to themselves. These are states of undeath. They are born of a fear of death, not mastery. Those who seek such states retreat to remote, dark places. Crypts and foreboding castles are the order of the day for these so-called "masters of death." Cowards and fools, to a one. Life and death are separated by a thin, dark veil. Those who live can see death. When she comes, the living can run from her, try fight against her, or reach out to touch her. She has no master. She simply is. She lingers on her side of the veil, patient and eternal. She cannot be wielded like a sword or staff, but she can be understood. That is my goal. Not to master death, but to understand her. The nature of the veil is of greatest mystery to the living. Those who cross it are never the same, should they return. Souls are carried to other realms, other planes, or simply are lost forever. How does the transition work? Is there a mechanism somewhere in the cosmic clockwork of the planes? Or is it truly a duty of a psychopomp to take the soul by the hand and guide it to its destination? The nature of the veil — what scholar who truly wishes to understand death would not make that their primary focus? This is the goal to which I have dedicated myself. Many who claim the title of necromancer merely wish to dominate others with their animated corpses and fearsome spells that bring death. But do not evokers also bring death with fire and lightning? What of those illusionists who fool others into thinking that ravine is solid ground. No — true necromancy lies in studying the veil between life and death. Seeking to understand it. Maybe, for just a moment, penetrating it. I have spoken to one who has crossed that veil in both directions. He claims his soul went directly from Mount Celestia and back with no stops between. Does he merely not remember the journey? Is the veil both thin as a razor and infinite as the void? These are the questions to which I seek answers, not "how do I cheat death" or "in what way can I extend my life until it is the thinnest of threads linked to a shambling corpse that plays at still being a wizard"? The paths to the answers are dark. There will be false turns and pitfalls into roiling seas of madness. But I will find those answers. I will negotiate those turns, avoid those pitfalls. I have seen Death with my own two eyes. Now, I shall find ways to understand her. That, in my mind, is true necromancy.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Adventure Review: Quelling the Horde

Adventure Review: Quelling the Horde — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Quelling the Horde" (DDEX03-09) is an Adventurer's League module set during the Rage of Demons story arc. The story it tells is a classic one: farms and homesteads are getting sacked by goblins, and adventurers are needed to rise to the challenge. This time, some of the goblins seem to fancy themselves as 'knights'. Calling themselves the Skullspike Clan, they gruesomely drive metal spikes into their heads to resemble crowns, and ride on death dogs and giant toads during their raids. Something is definitely driving them to this madness, and it's up to the players to discover that something. There is a misprint, in some editions of the adventure, claiming it is optimized for five 1st-level characters. However, in its opening text, this claim is for five 3rd-level characters. This can confuse some DMs, and lead to sticking points. For example, a party of mostly 1st-level characters encountering the scarecrows at Callidell Homestead as written can struggle mightily, especially if none of the party has fire-based attacks. It's definitely something a DM should be aware of in preparing to run the adventure. That aside, the adventure is a solid one. There's opportunities for investigation and interaction before hitting the main feature, which is the Skullspike Caves. There are goblin antics with training different mounts, an encounter with an incubus, and the final confrontation with Agrak, leader of the Skullspike goblins. There are connections to the Underdark that tie the adventure into the greater Rage of Demons story tableau, and the adventure is flexible enough that it can stand on its own or be part of a larger campaign. [star rating="3.5"]: Would run again with some modifications and a better handle on keeping the party moving.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Adventure Review: Quelling the Horde

Adventure Review: Quelling the Horde — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Quelling the Horde" is an Adventurer's League module set during the Rage of Demons story arc. The story it tells is a classic one: farms and homesteads are getting sacked by goblins, and adventurers are needed to rise to the challenge. This time, some of the goblins seem to fancy themselves as 'knights'. Calling themselves the Skullspike Clan, they gruesomely drive metal spikes into their heads to resemble crowns, and ride on death dogs and giant toads during their raids. Something is definitely driving them to this madness, and it's up to the players to discover that something. There is a misprint, in some editions of the adventure, claiming it is optimized for five 1st-level characters. However, in its opening text, this claim is for five 3rd-level characters. This can confuse some DMs, and lead to sticking points. For example, a party of mostly 1st-level characters encountering the scarecrows at Callidell Homestead as written can struggle mightily, especially if none of the party has fire-based attacks. It's definitely something a DM should be aware of in preparing to run the adventure. That aside, the adventure is a solid one. There's opportunities for investigation and interaction before hitting the main feature, which is the Skullspike Caves. There are goblin antics with training different mounts, an encounter with an incubus, and the final confrontation with Agrak, leader of the Skullspike goblins. There are connections to the Underdark that tie the adventure into the greater Rage of Demons story tableau, and the adventure is flexible enough that it can stand on its own or be part of a larger campaign. [star rating="3.5"]: Would run again with some modifications and a better handle on keeping the party moving.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Refocusing

500 Words on Refocusing — Blue Ink Alchemy

You may notice that things look a little different here. A bit more fantastical. More dragons. Maybe the implication of a dungeon. It's not an illusion. I'm refocusing my endeavors outside of the job hunt on D&D. I'm still carving out time for the novel, as head weasels and real-world obligations allow. I'm still on the hunt for a dayjob to cover my rent and the other expenses of living, and I still want to make a (hopefully) significant mark with my words. In terms of hobbies, however, it's been a very long time since one has given me the sort of creative impetus and deep satisfaction that Dungeons & Dragons has proven to provide in the last few months. I think a big part of it is the collaborative storytelling. Everyone coming to the table is there to have fun, to work together to create that environment, and to cheer each other on as the epic story grows, changes, and builds. The DM does not exist above this experience, as some divine or diabolical overseer. They are a part of it, narrating the tissue that connects the players to the world and each other, as well as playing referee when conflict inevitably ensues. And I love filling that role. I do it just about every Friday night, for the Adventurer's League. I enjoy playing, too, and I'll be doing that on Friday nights on occasions as well. And the characters I'll be playing will be getting stories and profiles here. So, too, will go reviews of the materials I use both as player and DM. Advice for my fellow DMs, thoughts on what's exhilarating or frustrating as a player, comparisons of the current edition to older ones — it makes for a lot of material, and I'm going tap that vein. Not only does it make for fun and interesting content, it prompts me to write more. It's like a warm-up before the big lifts when working out. My hope is that with a few hundred words every day, I'll be ready to write at least a thousand in the novel. It'll be the initial incision in carving out more time to write more. A positive feedback loop full of words. Planning for, running, and playing games of Dungeons & Dragons provides me with a surprising amount of focus. Moreso than most of my other endeavors, from coding to video games. I think a lot about the stories I and my fellow players want to tell, or will tell. I understand the math involved. I dream up new characters, monsters, and dungeons. My mind works at a good clip with good ideas coming thick and fast. I may never make a ground-breaking video game. I doubt I'll develop the next killer app. But I'll tell great stories, as I've always dreamed. From a table of a few friends, to readers all over the world, I will be a storyteller. And maybe that's the way I can, and will, truly make a difference. On Fridays I write 500 words.

Special thanks to Geek & Sundry, Critical Role, and Matt Mercer for helping to inspire these things.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Refocusing

500 Words on Refocusing — Blue Ink Alchemy

You may notice that things look a little different here. A bit more fantastical. More dragons. Maybe the implication of a dungeon. It's not an illusion. I'm refocusing my endeavors outside of the job hunt on D&D. I'm still carving out time for the novel, as head weasels and real-world obligations allow. I'm still on the hunt for a dayjob to cover my rent and the other expenses of living, and I still want to make a (hopefully) significant mark with my words. In terms of hobbies, however, it's been a very long time since one has given me the sort of creative impetus and deep satisfaction that Dungeons & Dragons has proven to provide in the last few months. I think a big part of it is the collaborative storytelling. Everyone coming to the table is there to have fun, to work together to create that environment, and to cheer each other on as the epic story grows, changes, and builds. The DM does not exist above this experience, as some divine or diabolical overseer. They are a part of it, narrating the tissue that connects the players to the world and each other, as well as playing referee when conflict inevitably ensues. And I love filling that role. I do it just about every Friday night, for the Adventurer's League. I enjoy playing, too, and I'll be doing that on Friday nights on occasions as well. And the characters I'll be playing will be getting stories and profiles here. So, too, will go reviews of the materials I use both as player and DM. Advice for my fellow DMs, thoughts on what's exhilarating or frustrating as a player, comparisons of the current edition to older ones — it makes for a lot of material, and I'm going tap that vein. Not only does it make for fun and interesting content, it prompts me to write more. It's like a warm-up before the big lifts when working out. My hope is that with a few hundred words every day, I'll be ready to write at least a thousand in the novel. It'll be the initial incision in carving out more time to write more. A positive feedback loop full of words. Planning for, running, and playing games of Dungeons & Dragons provides me with a surprising amount of focus. Moreso than most of my other endeavors, from coding to video games. I think a lot about the stories I and my fellow players want to tell, or will tell. I understand the math involved. I dream up new characters, monsters, and dungeons. My mind works at a good clip with good ideas coming thick and fast. I may never make a ground-breaking video game. I doubt I'll develop the next killer app. But I'll tell great stories, as I've always dreamed. From a table of a few friends, to readers all over the world, I will be a storyteller. And maybe that's the way I can, and will, truly make a difference. On Fridays I write 500 words.

Special thanks to Geek & Sundry, Critical Role, and Matt Mercer for helping to inspire these things.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, VIII: Victor

Honor & Blood, VIII: Victor — Blue Ink Alchemy

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this tale can and will deviate from series canon. The Story So Far: Victor Luxon has completed his task of returning heirloom blades to the great Houses of Westeros. He and his household make for their restored castle at Moat Cailin, but not before visiting his father-in-law, Walder Frey, at the Twins...

"So..." The word was drawn out for a moment longer than most would consider polite. Victor Luxon tore another mouthful of meat from the haunch in his hand. He waited for the speaker to lean closer before he made eye contact. Walder Frey's mouth never stopped moving. The largest orifice in the old man's weasel-like face was even more animated as he entreated his son-in-law. "So! You still have some of those old swords, do you?" Victor shrugged. "My father has them. They're locked up, under the Mage's Tower." "The Mage's Tower." Walder turned his head to spit. The gelatinous projectile sailed down from their high table and landed in the soup of one of Walder's sons. The young Frey gave his father a withering look. Walder merely chuckled. "Serve ya right for being so pretty, boy!" The old man turned to Victor. "Too much of his mother in that one. Too pretty." "So you said." Victor took a drink of wine. "Why do you ask about the swords?" "Freys don't have ancestral blades. It'd be nice to have one." He got that leer in his look again. "Just be a matter of putting a different hilt on it, I imagine. Who'd know the difference? A sword's a sword, right?" "To the peasants and the dim lower nobles," Victor replied. "Show it to any of the Great Houses, and —" "Oh, yes, have them call me a liar! I'm not used to that old sausage, not at all." Walder Frey sniffed wetly. Victor tried to keep his frown to himself. He'd traded that bastard and his irritable smile for a completely different definition of the word 'disgusting'. "Or, better yet, would I be 'dishonoring' the sword if I put some Frey colors on its hilt? That's something you Luxons know all about, eh? Honor?" "It's in our words." Victor set down his goblet. "Do you really want a Valyrian sword that badly?" Walder blinked as if stunned. "Who wouldn't? Pretty things, those. Look quite fashionable over my hearth." "A sword's meant to be used. It's a weapon, not a sculpture." "And how often does your lord father use his?" Victor frowned. This conversation was quickly going in uncomfortable directions. "Often enough to make men without sense think twice before opening their fetid mouths." Walder's expression darkened. "Boy, you'd best not take that tone with me." Victor met Walder's gaze. "If we were squatting over the same shithole, father-in-law, you can be damned sure I'd tell you if your shit stank. I'd expect you'd do the same for me." For a moment, the mouth of Walder Frey made no sound. Then, like a hole in a sack bursting wide under the pressure of its contents, the Lord of the Crossing's jaw hinged downward wide, and he laughed loudly. "You just might be the most worthwhile in-law I ever had the good fortune to put in bed with one of my daughters!" He slapped Victor on the shoulder. Victor barely felt it. "I've seen lesser men, even my own blood, piss themselves when I round on 'em." "You do remember every insult hurled at you, or so they say. Most of that, I imagine, comes from so-called highborn manners." "Too right, you are." Frey took a large drink of wine. "What is it that you want?" Victor narrowed his eyes. "That's a broad question." "Well, then, make your answer broad. Come on, speak up." "I want what you want." Victor paused. "I want to make my house great." Frey leaned back, a long "ah" sound coming from his mouth. "And how, exactly, are you going to do that?" "By engaging in actions my sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters after, will speak of in awe and reverence. By taking what is mine. By denying my house's lands, titles, and holdings to those who'd take them from us." "You're starting to sound like you see yourself as some kind of conqueror." "And why not?" Victor gestured broadly. "The North is vast. The Starks will not be able to control all of it forever. There will be opportunities that House Luxon will seize. I would dishonor myself, and all the Luxons past and future, if I settled for less than I'm owed." "So the Starks owe you the North, eh?" Frey grinned his skull-like grin. "Come now, boy. Such things should not be shouted from the parapets. They need be whispered, between those of similar ambitions." Victor furrowed his brows. He was not used to whispering about such things. He found the very notion uncomfortable. Honorable men did not whisper. Still, he nodded. "Good. You have some sense, at least." Walder Frey beckoned him closer. "Come, let us whisper now about our liege-lords, and how we might best serve ourselves, rather than their fat arses..."

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

Next: Jon

Mondays are for making art.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Carving

500 Words on Carving — Blue Ink Alchemy

No, we're not carving you up, little calf. It'll be okay. Here, have some sprouts. We cool? Okay, then. Last night, I went to see Chuck Wendig. He's an author I'd had the privilege of meeting once before, way back in 2009, at a tiny game convention in Philadelphia. We played a role-playing game together, jammed about writing, and I tried not to make an ass of myself. No small feat, back in those days. He was excited to see me again, and we talked about Seattle and writing with another man I'm very glad to have finally met, Phil Brucato, mastermind of Mage: the Ascension and a game I'm dying to try out called "Powerchords: Music, Magic & Urban Fantasy". All three of us, at one point, talked about carving the time out of the days in order to write. "In large, bloody chunks," I recalled Chuck writing at one point. Both men gave grim nods. From professional novelists to fanfic enthusiasts, writers cannot merely find the time to write. We have to make the time. That's just as difficult as the writing itself. The world at large makes all sorts of demands on our time and energy. There's always another chore, another commitment, another distraction. We want to give ourselves a break, try to get other things done, clear our decks to do nothing but write. The insidious truth is that such a state of being, where nothing but writing happens, rarely if ever exists. Writing happens in a particular space, a conflux of physical, mental, and emotional states, and we writers need to assure ourselves that we can, and should, ask for that space. It's possible to think that you don't deserve it, because you haven't been writing anyway, or those dishes have been stacking up, or seriously I need to spend more time with my partner. It's also possible to feel that you're somehow entitled to it, and shirk everything else just to write, which is arguably worse than the former possibility. Bottom line? You have to carve out the right slice of time, and make the most of it before you balance it with something else. We cannot, and should not, exist in a vacuum. We have our writerly spaces, sure, from libraries we prefer to sheds we build just for writing — and perhaps slugging whiskey and howling and throwing poo at the walls. What happens in the Mystery Box stays in the Mystery Box. Thing is, we can't always be there. How can we relate our words to the world if we're not in the world more often than not? "Carve the time," Chuck admonished me when he wrote in my writing journal. A reminder that while the world makes its demands, I deserve to make the time to write. I shouldn't seek to let writing dominate my time, either. I can strike the right balance, with my sharpened metaphorical knives. That's a skill in and of itself. He wrote something else, too. "Finish thine shit." On Fridays I write 500 words. Photo courtesy The Dodo.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Being the DM

500 Words on Being the DM — Blue Ink Alchemy

If you've played Dungeons & Dragons, I suspect you've had moments where you've wanted nothing more than for your player to become transcendent in their heroism, the center of the narrative at the table, or both. You don't just want to be a hero; you want to be THE hero, with all eyes on you. Dungeon Masters can fall into similar traps: you, the DM, want the party to adhere to your narrative like a locomotive to its rails, and you get frustrated when these little humanoids defy your god-like will by making different choices. These are fallacious thoughts. The DM is not a puppet-master. Players are not demigods. And the story is not on rails. D&D is just as much an exercise in collaborative storytelling as it is a fantasy combat simulator. Everyone coming to the table is there to have fun, to work together to create that environment, and to cheer each other on as the epic story grows, changes, and builds. The DM does not exist above this experience, as some divine or diabolical overseer. They are a part of it, narrating the tissue that connects the players to the world and each other, as well as playing referee when conflict inevitably ensues. And I'm not just talking about the conflict that involves dice. Personalities are going to clash. Dice are going to roll terribly. Discrepancies between rules and reality will arise. And let's not forget we're talking about gamers, some of whom love nothing better than to find ways to 'game the system' for their maximum benefit — cheat codes in video games serve the same purpose. It's a game, and who doesn't like to win? The thing is, though, D&D is just as much a story as it is a game, and in a story, the winners are those who both tell and hear the story, not those who constantly do everything "right" or constantly "win". Those characters get very tiresome very quickly. For my part, I think it's important, especially as a DM, to think about how decisions and rulings impact the feelings of the players at the table. Sure, a player breaking a weapon or injuring themselves due to a mishap makes for a dramatic consequence for the character or builds atmosphere for a darker world, but how will the player feel? Does it help anybody but myself if I tell a player "that's a bad idea," or "no I won't allow that"? If it's within the rules, why not let them try? Conversely, as a player, I don't want to give my DM a hard time, nor make my fellow players feel inadequate or unimportant. I don't like feeling that way, why impose that feeling on someone else? If we're coming together at the table to have fun, shouldn't we work together, communicate together, to make sure that happens? I don't have easy answers to these questions, but they're worth pondering. While we ponder, we can also read more tips on being a DM! On Fridays I write 500 words. Special thanks to Geek & Sundry for the use of Matt Mercer's face and DM tips in the link at the end. Critical Role is a fantastic show!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

Delta-V: Judicious Panic — Blue Ink Alchemy

Previously: The year is 3301. It's been two weeks since Commander Jason Frimantle committed an act of piracy under Federal law, strong-arming new hires of his father's shipping company over valuable cargo.

"...and if you look to the starboard side of the spacecraft, you will see what is colloquially known as a 'hot Jupiter'." Jason Frimantle muted his comm and sighed softly. When he'd first seen the astronomical wonder a week ago, he too had been surprised by the vibrancy of color and violence in the storms visible on the gas giant's surface. Trapped as it was in the competing gravity wells of two nearby stars, the tidal forces in its titanic hydrogen and helium pockets would have torn a planet the size of Earth to shreds. From here, though, the Dolphin-class passenger liner was perfectly safe, and Jason was almost certain that at least a few of his passengers were taking holo-vids, pointing, and making awestruck noises. All Jason could think of was the paycheck. The problem with working for a company like Baroness Starsight Tours was that they were tied to one particular place. And at that place, they kept personnel records, bureaucrats... weak points. So far, Jason's stunt on Abel Prospect had gone unreported, as far as he could find out. And thus far, no bounties had been posted on him at any of the stations near Baroness Starsight's headquarters and main ports of call. "Pilot?" The voice crackled from the comm located in the passenger compartment. "Did you bring any food aboard?" "Refreshments are available in the cabinets located aft. All credit programs accepted." "What? We have to pay?" Jason rolled his eyes. Of course you have to pay, it was in the contract you signed. "Standard Baroness Starsight contracts include the pricing for all refreshments available aboard —" His comm buzzed. His external comm. "Jason Frimantle." It was a statement. Not a question. Jason flipped channels. "This is Baroness Starsight civilian vessel 'Deveraux', how can I help you?" "This is gonna look bad on my resume." Jason looked at the ship sending the signal. It was an F-63 Condor, being flown by a commander ranked as Expert. "Get your passengers into escape pods. They'll be safe, and I know that ship's insured. I've been told you're worth more alive, but if you try anything, like holding them hostage, I'll be a lot less inclined to be gentle." "Hostages? What are you talking about?" "Pirates are known for that sort of thing, Mister Frimantle. Please, I'm asking nice." Jason checked the information again. 'Marcus Corso'. Bounty hunter, more than likely. Don't panic. Do not panic. Don't you dare. He flipped the comm back over. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Commander speaking. Return to your seats and secure yourselves at all points. I am about to take evasive maneuvers." He took a deep breath, then flipped to the external channel. "Commander Corso, I'm not going to hold anyone hostage, and I'm not going to turn myself over to you. I'm plotting a course back to Independent space now. You're welcome to try and stop me." He reached under the console, pulled off a particular panel, and tweaked a few of the wires. This ship wasn't designed for many pilot modifications, and tampering with it could cost him the contract. But this seemed a bit more important. There was a laugh. "I have to admit, kid, I like your gumption. Your dad said you might be difficult. But you're in a Dolphin-class space bus. I'm in a cutting-edge Fed fighter. There's no contest." "If I were staying to fight," Jason said, "I'd agree. But you're about to eat high wake. I suggest you get clear, this beast can breach pretty big." The ship's computer warned Jason that Corso had deployed his hardpoints. In the next moment, laser blasts spattered against the ship's shields. Jason banked the ship hard to port, firing the portside reverse engine. As soon as his aft was pointed at Corso, he hit the boost. With a surprisingly dolphin-like whine, the liner leaped forward at maximum velocity. The frame-shift drive charged, and they were yanked across space at super-relativistic speeds. Jason didn't hesitate or rest once they dropped back into supercruise. He plotted the course back to the home port and made one jump after another in rapid succession. He barely stopped to scoop extra fuel to make sure they didn't get stranded. It wasn't until the ship was in the station and docked that Jason managed to breathe again. There was no sign of pursuit. Corso hadn't popped into space outside of the station. In fact, as far Jason could see, there'd been no F-63s at all anywhere near them. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the cabin behind to greet the passengers as they disembarked. He hoped none of them would note that those blonde locks were matted with sweat. A couple of the passengers — a concerned father, a bureaucrat who barely stopped talking to her personal comm, a little girl with pigtails who kicked him in the shin — gave him grief over the abrupt end of the trip. Still, they'd hit their goals and gotten home safe. Jason would get paid. And then he'd leave. Somewhere else, somewhere the Wayfarer could take him even further from Federation bounty hunters and system authorities... "Commander." He blinked, coming back to where he was standing. He was looking at a familiar face. Reddish-brown hair, light brown eyes.. "Commissioner Parker?" She smiled. It was a wide, warm thing, tinged with mischief. Not an expression worn by the shipping magnate bureaucrat back on Lave Station. It was about then that he noticed that while her fashion was similar to the commissioner's — pencil skirt, business-style blouse and jacket, heels — it had its own spin on the look. The skirt was just a bit shorter, the cut of the jacket a little more daring, the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She wore spectacles, which the other had not, and while she wore her hair in a similar fashion, curling locks of it fell to frame her face, and the chopsticks in the bun were more vibrant and eye-catching. "I see you've met my sister." Her voice, again almost identical to the other's, was smoother, more relaxed. "Kind of stuck up, isn't she?" Jason swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. "She's a conservative sort, yeah." "That's putting it mildly." Her smile widened. "Parker's my name, yes. My twin hasn't gotten married — can't imagine why that is — and neither have I. But I don't commission a thing. You can call me Stephanie." He nodded. "And you know my name." "I do." Her lips pursed in an interesting way, at least to Jason's eyes. "And I'm aware of your skills, and cool head under pressure." He thought of the sweat that'd trickled down his cheek. "Thanks." "Listen. I represent a... certain organization. We're always on the lookout for new talent. Especially commanders who can handle themselves in a crisis and aren't afraid of running afoul of... antagonistic parties. The pay's fantastic, and we'll provide your first ship. Interested?" Jason thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure. If it gets me out of Federation space, especially." She put out her hand. "Shake on it." He did. She had a firm grip, and her fingers lingered on his palm for just a moment. "Good. Be sure to sever your ties with Baroness Starsight. You'll find your new ship in Landing Bay 24." "Twenty-four," Jason said with a nod. She smiled at him again. "Looking forward to working with you, Commander." She turned and walked down the corridor, heels clicking whenever they touched the deck. Unlike her sister's heels, they were stiletto-style, and the seams of her stockings ran up the back of her legs in clean, straight lines. Jason really didn't know how to process what just happened. He made his way to the Baroness office to collect his pay and hand in his resignation. Then it was to Landing Bay 24. There, he found a small ship that he knew was capable despite its size: a Viper Mk.III fighter. He ran his hand over its hull with a smile. It was already fitted with registry numbers saying it was his. He got in and checked the cockpit. He found a note on the pilot's seat, shocked to discover it smelled faintly of Stephanie's perfume. He opened it. Don't forget that you owe us. This isn't a gift; it's an investment. A chill ran down Jason's spine. What had he just been talked into doing? To be continued... Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Foundational Barter

Delta-V: Foundational Barter — Blue Ink Alchemy

Previously: The year is 3301. Six months after Zachary Hudson was swept into office, Jason Frimantle, a young and unregistered Commander, broke with his father to start his own trading business.

One of these days, I'm going to need to get myself a docking computer. It wasn't that Jason had trouble easing the Wayfarer through the 'mail slot' of a particular station. His more immediate concern when landing was scraping his ship against the guide rails, or bumping up against other ships. It was a reaction based on how the Federation treated incoming or outgoing Commanders — threats of lethal force were commonplace from traffic control. Jason found the attitude of those along this trading route much more agreeable, for the most part. He guided his ship to the landing pad within Lave Station, feeling the reassuring bump of his landing gear against the solid metal. The pad lowered into the hangar, and Jason felt the faint pull of the access corridor interior's 0.2 gravity. One didn't have to worry about a particularly strong step along a corridor putting one into freefall, but handrails were still highly recommended. He moved from his ship into the corridor with a few long yet careful strides, and took hold of the handrail in the corridor. A few minutes later, he was in the Workers trade station, bringing up his manifest to onload some crates of Lavian Brandy. The woman at the front desk looked up as Jason walked in. "Commander Frimantle?" Jason blinked. "Um. Yes?" "Commissioner Parker would like to see you." Most of the dealings Jason had had with the Workers of Lave Liberals had been through a contact that worked directly with the system market. Parker was the overseer of the faction's trade, a subordinate to their leadership; from what Jason had gathered, they were a middle manager who tracked inventory and ship traffic. He wasn't sure why such a person would want to see him, since he was still starting out in terms of being a freelance trader. Regardless, it wouldn't hurt to make new friends, or at least establish new contacts. He thanked the receptionist and found Parker's office. Parker stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling holo display of Lave's market, a tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. She was an older woman, still in her middle years but definitely showing the signs of working hard on her career. She wore a business-style blazer and knee-length pencil skirt that flattered her figure yet projected an air of professional austerity, backed up by the unadorned blouse that came to her neck. Her reddish-brown hair was drawn back in a conservative bun, but the chopsticks holding it in place were lavishly decorated with flowers and branches that seemed to fly in the face of her steely demeanor. Jason adjusted his jacket, which he'd opened after exiting the Wayfarer, suddenly aware of the fact that both it and his pressure suit were due for a cleaning. His hair was probably mussed, as well, from the last few trade runs being uninterrupted by stopping for anything other than food and sleep. Parker looked up from the tablet in her hand at the motion, looking at Jason over the rims of spectacles that complimented the light brown color of her eyes. "Commander," she said, her voice reminding Jason of a schoolmistress. "Thank you for coming to see me." "Nice to meet you, Commissioner," Jason replied. "What can I do for you?" She turned away from the display to lay her tablet on the desk. Jason noted she was wearing high heels, which couldn't have been easy at lower gravity. They weren't stiletto-style, but still... "I have need of a trader who can take care of a matter of some urgency. Your efficiency in the Zaonce trade route leads me to believe you can accomplish such a task." She turned back to him, regarding him for a long moment. "Do you believe I am correct?" Jason nodded. "Lots of Commanders starting out like this run, ma'am. It's got decent profit margins and there's enough of a gap between deliveries that no markets get too flooded, nor do they dry up. The items are always in demand, be it Lavian brandy or blue milk." "I see you have a head for the greater business picture as well as your own credits. I do believe we can work together." She picked up a different tablet, took a step towards Jason, and handed it to him. "How is your planetary landing experience?" Jason regarded the tablet. It was information and telemetry for a settlement called Abel Prospect, located in the Arque system. "I've been a spacer all of my life. Making planetfall hasn't really been a priority, but I've done it a couple of times. Usually with my father guiding me." Thinking of his father filled Jason with a mix of emotions that weren't entirely pleasant. He tried to keep that out of his voice, but Parker was studying his expression closely. After a moment, she nodded. "Very good. The settlement has indicated a need for medical supplies. There has been a minor epidemic of a rare skin disease. None of the in-system stations have what they need to deal with this, and they want to combat it lest it become a system-wide outbreak." Jason studied the layout of the settlement and the planetary landscape around it. "I don't see any landing pads." "That is the other concern. They lack the facilities to accommodate starships in the usual manner. They also have no means to take in a SRV. So the supplies must be hand-delivered." Jason's brows furrowed. "How's the gravity there?" "0.09 on the surface. They need two tons of specialized medical supplies, and are paying 200% above market price. You will be entitled to 50% of the profits." Jason looked over the figures, and hoped he wasn't suddenly showing signs of his excitement. With that amount of money, he could buy several enhancements for the Wayfarer — a frame-shift drive with longer range, an improved fuel scoop, a more comfortable pilot's seat... Maybe even a new ship, he thought. "I do believe you've got yourself a pilot, Ms. Parker." "Excellent. The sooner you can depart, the better." A short jump or two later, the Wayfarer's planetary approach suite was guiding Jason into a low orbit over the rocky body where Abel Prospect had been established. The gravity of the body was negligible, but he definitely felt the tug of it when his ship dropped out of supercruise. The Wayfarer creaked slightly as he adjusted his approach, unused to flying in any sort of atmosphere or planetary gravity. Granted, Abel Prospect's host body had only the thinnest of gas layers drawn to it during its formation, and a human being would still suffocate in about 15 seconds if they found themselves outside without a pressure suit. As he made his descent, he checked his radar to ensure a good position for the transfer of the goods. Then he looked again. There was another contact on the surface. He rolled to starboard to get a visual look. A Hauler, smaller (and, in Jason's opinion, less elegant) cousin to his own Adder, was parked near Abel Prospect's sole lock. A bad feeling crept into him, tightening his jaw as he sussed out a similar place to put down the Wayfarer. Once he was settled on the surface, Jason activated his p-suit's helmet and seals, and did a check of his equipment — integrated oxygen supply, suit displays, utility & gun belt, and so on. He moved aft, unlocked the crates from their restraints, and opened his hatch before pushing them out towards the lock. As he moved closer, he saw that it was still cycling. Quickly, he tapped a few commands into the control panel. He reset the system, then opened the outer door. Two men were inside, wearing pressure suits, staring in shock at the outer door. Jason gave them a wide grin. "Gentlemen! Delivering medical supplies?" One of them slowly nodded. "Um... yeah." Jason nodded, looking over the crates. "Four tons, it looks like. What's your margin?" "150% market price," said the other. "Undercutting the competition to sell more quantity? Nice." Before he continued, Jason took in the logo on the crates. He blinked, trying to hold down a sudden surge of shock and anger. It was the logo of his father's company. Without warning, he drew his pistol. Like the flight jacket he'd left in the Wayfarer, it had belonged to his grandfather. It was an old-fashioned ballistic weapon, a revolver, designed to fire without issue in near or full vacuum. He shoved its muzzle against the clear faceplate of the closest trader. The other man didn't move. Neither of them seemed armed; if they were, their sidearms were somewhere inside their pressure suits. What was the point of that? "Okay. Before I cycle this lock, you're going to leave it. And your crates. You're going to take off, go back to Eravate, and tell my father that he, and you, and any of his other cronies, are staying on your side of the galaxy. Nod if you understand." The man nodded. Jason reached behind him with his free hand and opened the outer door one more time. "Good. Now get out." They obeyed. Jason slammed the butt of his pistol into the controls to close the door and cycle the lock. He turned to the crates — now six in total — and tried to ignore the little voice telling him that, technically, he'd just committed an act of piracy. But what was his father going to do? Put a bounty on his own son? To be continued... Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

Delta-V: Judicious Panic — Blue Ink Alchemy

Previously: The year is 3301. It's been two weeks since Commander Jason Frimantle committed an act of piracy under Federal law, strong-arming new hires of his father's shipping company over valuable cargo.

"...and if you look to the starboard side of the spacecraft, you will see what is colloquially known as a 'hot Jupiter'." Jason Frimantle muted his comm and sighed softly. When he'd first seen the astronomical wonder a week ago, he too had been surprised by the vibrancy of color and violence in the storms visible on the gas giant's surface. Trapped as it was in the competing gravity wells of two nearby stars, the tidal forces in its titanic hydrogen and helium pockets would have torn a planet the size of Earth to shreds. From here, though, the Dolphin-class passenger liner was perfectly safe, and Jason was almost certain that at least a few of his passengers were taking holo-vids, pointing, and making awestruck noises. All Jason could think of was the paycheck. The problem with working for a company like Baroness Starsight Tours was that they were tied to one particular place. And at that place, they kept personnel records, bureaucrats... weak points. So far, Jason's stunt on Abel Prospect had gone unreported, as far as he could find out. And thus far, no bounties had been posted on him at any of the stations near Baroness Starsight's headquarters and main ports of call. "Pilot?" The voice crackled from the comm located in the passenger compartment. "Did you bring any food aboard?" "Refreshments are available in the cabinets located aft. All credit programs accepted." "What? We have to pay?" Jason rolled his eyes. Of course you have to pay, it was in the contract you signed. "Standard Baroness Starsight contracts include the pricing for all refreshments available aboard —" His comm buzzed. His external comm. "Jason Frimantle." It was a statement. Not a question. Jason flipped channels. "This is Baroness Starsight civilian vessel 'Deveraux', how can I help you?" "This is gonna look bad on my resume." Jason looked at the ship sending the signal. It was an F-63 Condor, being flown by a commander ranked as Expert. "Get your passengers into escape pods. They'll be safe, and I know that ship's ensured. I've been told you're worth more alive, but if you try anything, like holding them hostage, I'll be a lot less inclined to be gentle." "Hostages? What are you talking about?" "Pirates are known for that sort of thing, Mister Frimantle. Please, I'm asking nice." Jason checked the information again. 'Marcus Corso'. Bounty hunter, more than likely. Don't panic. Do not panic. Don't you dare. He flipped the comm back over. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Commander speaking. Return to your seats and secure yourselves at all points. I am about to take evasive maneuvers." He took a deep breath, then flipped to the external channel. "Commander Corso, I'm not going to hold anyone hostage, and I'm not going to turn myself over to you. I'm plotting a course back to Federation space now. You're welcome to try and stop me." He reached under the console, pulled off a particular panel, and tweaked a few of the wires. This ship wasn't designed for many pilot modifications, and tampering with it could cost him the contract. But this seemed a bit more important. There was a laugh. "I have to admit, kid, I like your gumption. Your dad said you might be difficult. But you're in a Dolphin-class space bus. I'm in a cutting-edge Fed fighter. There's no contest." "If I were staying to fight," Jason said, "I'd agree. But you're about to eat high wake. I suggest you get clear, this beast can breach pretty big." The ship's computer warned Jason that Corso had deployed his hardpoints. In the next moment, laser blasts spattered against the ship's shields. Jason banked the ship hard to port, firing the portside reverse engine. As soon as his aft was pointed at Corso, he hit the boost. With a surprisingly dolphin-like whine, the liner leaped forward at maximum velocity. The frame-shift drive charged, and they were yanked across space at super-relativistic speeds. Jason didn't hesitate or rest once they dropped back into supercruise. He plotted the course back to the home port and made one jump after another in rapid succession. He barely stopped to scoop extra fuel to make sure they didn't get stranded. It wasn't until the ship was in the station and docked that Jason managed to breathe again. There was no sign of pursuit. Corso hadn't popped into space outside of the station. In fact, as far Jason could see, there'd been no F-63s at all anywhere near them. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the cabin behind to greet the passengers as they disembarked. He hoped none of them would note that those blonde locks were matted with sweat. A couple of the passengers — a concerned father, a bureaucrat who barely stopped talking to her personal comm, a little girl with pigtails who kicked him in the shin — gave him grief over the abrupt end of the trip. Still, they'd hit their goals and gotten home safe. Jason would get paid. And then he'd leave. Somewhere else, somewhere the Wayfarer could take him even further from Federation bounty hunters and system authorities... "Commander." He blinked, coming back to where he was standing. He was looking at a familiar face. Reddish-brown hair, light brown eyes.. "Commissioner Parker?" She smiled. It was a wide, warm thing, tinged with mischief. Not an expression worn by the shipping magnate bureaucrat back on Lave Station. It was about then that he noticed that while her fashion was similar to the commissioner's — pencil skirt, business-style blouse and jacket, heels — it had its own spin on the look. The skirt was just a bit shorter, the cut of the jacket a little more daring, the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She wore spectacles, which the other had not, and while she wore her hair in a similar fashion, curling locks of it fell to frame her face, and the chopsticks in the bun were more vibrant and eye-catching. "I see you've met my sister." Her voice, again almost identical to the other's, was smoother, more relaxed. "Kind of stuck up, isn't she?" Jason swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. "She's a conservative sort, yeah." "That's putting it mildly." Her smile widened. "Parker's my name, yes. My twin hasn't gotten married — can't imagine why that is — and neither have I. But I don't commission a thing. You can call me Stephanie." He nodded. "And you know my name." "I do." Her lips pursed in an interesting way, at least to Jason's eyes. "And I'm aware of your skills, and cool head under pressure." He thought of the sweat that'd trickled down his cheek. "Thanks." "Listen. I represent a... certain organization. We're always on the lookout for new talent. Especially commanders who can handle themselves in a crisis and aren't afraid of running afoul of... antagonistic parties. The pay's fantastic, and we'll provide your first ship. Interested?" Jason thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure. If it gets me out of Federation space, especially." She put out her hand. "Shake on it." He did. She had a firm grip, and her fingers lingered on his palm for just a moment. "Good. Be sure to sever your ties with Baroness Starsight. You'll find your new ship in Landing Bay 24." "Twenty-four," Jason said with a nod. She smiled at him again. "Looking forward to working with you, Commander." She turned and walked down the corridor, heels clicking whenever they touched the deck. Unlike her sister's heels, they were stiletto-style, and the seams of her stockings ran up the back of her legs in clean, straight lines. Jason really didn't know how to process what just happened. He made his way to the Baroness office to collect his pay and hand in his resignation. Then it was to Landing Bay 24. There, he found a small ship that he knew was capable despite its size: a Viper Mk.III fighter. He ran his hand over its hull with a smile. It was already fitted with registry numbers saying it was his. He got in and checked the cockpit. He found a note on the pilot's seat, shocked to discover it smelled faintly of Stephanie's perfume. He opened it. Don't forget that you owe us. This isn't a gift; it's an investment. A chill ran down Jason's spine. What had he just been talked into doing? To be continued... Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

Delta-V: Judicious Panic — Blue Ink Alchemy

Previously: The year is 3301. It's been two weeks since Commander Jason Frimantle committed an act of piracy under Federal law, strong-arming new hires of his father's shipping company over valuable cargo.

"...and if you look to the starboard side of the spacecraft, you will see what is colloquially known as a 'hot Jupiter'." Jason Frimantle muted his comm and sighed softly. When he'd first seen the astronomical wonder a week ago, he too had been surprised by the vibrancy of color and violence in the storms visible on the gas giant's surface. Trapped as it was in the competing gravity wells of two nearby stars, the tidal forces in its titanic hydrogen and helium pockets would have torn a planet the size of Earth to shreds. From here, though, the Dolphin-class passenger liner was perfectly safe, and Jason was almost certain that at least a few of his passengers were taking holo-vids, pointing, and making awestruck noises. All Jason could think of was the paycheck. The problem with working for a company like Baroness Starsight Tours was that they were tied to one particular place. And at that place, they kept personnel records, bureaucrats... weak points. So far, Jason's stunt on Abel Prospect had gone unreported, as far as he could find out. And thus far, no bounties had been posted on him at any of the stations near Baroness Starsight's headquarters and main ports of call. "Pilot?" The voice crackled from the comm located in the passenger compartment. "Did you bring any food aboard?" "Refreshments are available in the cabinets located aft. All credit programs accepted." "What? We have to pay?" Jason rolled his eyes. Of course you have to pay, it was in the contract you signed. "Standard Baroness Starsight contracts include the pricing for all refreshments available aboard —" His comm buzzed. His external comm. "Jason Frimantle." It was a statement. Not a question. Jason flipped channels. "This is Baroness Starsight civilian vessel 'Deveraux', how can I help you?" "This is gonna look bad on my resume." Jason looked at the ship sending the signal. It was an F-63 Condor, being flown by a commander ranked as Expert. "Get your passengers into escape pods. They'll be safe, and I know that ship's ensured. I've been told you're worth more alive, but if you try anything, like holding them hostage, I'll be a lot less inclined to be gentle." "Hostages? What are you talking about?" "Pirates are known for that sort of thing, Mister Frimantle. Please, I'm asking nice." Jason checked the information again. 'Marcus Corso'. Bounty hunter, more than likely. Don't panic. Do not panic. Don't you dare. He flipped the comm back over. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Commander speaking. Return to your seats and secure yourselves at all points. I am about to take evasive maneuvers." He took a deep breath, then flipped to the external channel. "Commander Corso, I'm not going to hold anyone hostage, and I'm not going to turn myself over to you. I'm plotting a course back to Federation space now. You're welcome to try and stop me." He reached under the console, pulled off a particular panel, and tweaked a few of the wires. This ship wasn't designed for many pilot modifications, and tampering with it could cost him the contract. But this seemed a bit more important. There was a laugh. "I have to admit, kid, I like your gumption. Your dad said you might be difficult. But you're in a Dolphin-class space bus. I'm in a cutting-edge Fed fighter. There's no contest." "If I were staying to fight," Jason said, "I'd agree. But you're about to eat high wake. I suggest you get clear, this beast can breach pretty big." The ship's computer warned Jason that Corso had deployed his hardpoints. In the next moment, laser blasts spattered against the ship's shields. Jason banked the ship hard to port, firing the portside reverse engine. As soon as his aft was pointed at Corso, he hit the boost. With a surprisingly dolphin-like whine, the liner leaped forward at maximum velocity. The frame-shift drive charged, and they were yanked across space at super-relativistic speeds. Jason didn't hesitate or rest once they dropped back into supercruise. He plotted the course back to the home port and made one jump after another in rapid succession. He barely stopped to scoop extra fuel to make sure they didn't get stranded. It wasn't until the ship was in the station and docked that Jason managed to breathe again. There was no sign of pursuit. Corso hadn't popped into space outside of the station. In fact, as far Jason could see, there'd been no F-63s at all anywhere near them. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the cabin behind to greet the passengers as they disembarked. He hoped none of them would note that those blonde locks were matted with sweat. A couple of the passengers — a concerned father, a bureaucrat who barely stopped talking to her personal comm, a little girl with pigtails who kicked him in the shin — gave him grief over the abrupt end of the trip. Still, they'd hit their goals and gotten home safe. Jason would get paid. And then he'd leave. Somewhere else, somewhere the Wayfarer could take him even further from Federation bounty hunters and system authorities... "Commander." He blinked, coming back to where he was standing. He was looking at a familiar face. Reddish-brown hair, light brown eyes.. "Commissioner Parker?" She smiled. It was a wide, warm thing, tinged with mischief. Not an expression worn by the shipping magnate bureaucrat back on Lave Station. It was about then that he noticed that while her fashion was similar to the commissioner's — pencil skirt, business-style blouse and jacket, heels — it had its own spin on the look. The skirt was just a bit shorter, the cut of the jacket a little more daring, the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She wore spectacles, which the other had not, and while she wore her hair in a similar fashion, curling locks of it fell to frame her face, and the chopsticks in the bun were more vibrant and eye-catching. "I see you've met my sister." Her voice, again almost identical to the other's, was smoother, more relaxed. "Kind of stuck up, isn't she?" Jason swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. "She's a conservative sort, yeah." "That's putting it mildly." Her smile widened. "Parker's my name, yes. My twin hasn't gotten married — can't imagine why that is — and neither have I. But I don't commission a thing. You can call me Stephanie." He nodded. "And you know my name." "I do." Her lips pursed in an interesting way, at least to Jason's eyes. "And I'm aware of your skills, and cool head under pressure." He thought of the sweat that'd trickled down his cheek. "Thanks." "Listen. I represent a... certain organization. We're always on the lookout for new talent. Especially commanders who can handle themselves in a crisis and aren't afraid of running afoul of... antagonistic parties. The pay's fantastic, and we'll provide your first ship. Interested?" Jason thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure. If it gets me out of Federation space, especially." She put out her hand. "Shake on it." He did. She had a firm grip, and her fingers lingered on his palm for just a moment. "Good. Be sure to sever your ties with Baroness Starsight. You'll find your new ship in Landing Bay 24." "Twenty-four," Jason said with a nod. She smiled at him again. "Looking forward to working with you, Commander." She turned and walked down the corridor, heels clicking whenever they touched the deck. Unlike her sister's heels, they were stiletto-style, and the seams of her stockings ran up the back of her legs in clean, straight lines. Jason really didn't know how to process what just happened. He made his way to the Baroness office to collect his pay and hand in his resignation. Then it was to Landing Bay 24. There, he found a small ship that he knew was capable despite its size: a Viper Mk.III fighter. He ran his hand over its hull with a smile. It was already fitted with registry numbers saying it was his. He got in and checked the cockpit. He found a note on the pilot's seat, shocked to discover it smelled faintly of Stephanie's perfume. He opened it. Don't forget that you owe us. This isn't a gift; it's an investment. A chill ran down Jason's spine. What had he just been talked into doing? To be continued...

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

Delta-V: Judicious Panic — Blue Ink Alchemy

Previously: The year is 3301. It's been two weeks since Commander Jason Frimantle committed an act of piracy under Federal law, strong-arming new hires of his father's shipping company over valuable cargo.

"...and if you look to the starboard side of the spacecraft, you will see what is colloquially known as a 'hot Jupiter'." Jason Frimantle muted his comm and sighed softly. When he'd first seen the astronomical wonder a week ago, he too had been surprised by the vibrancy of color and violence in the storms visible on the gas giant's surface. Trapped as it was in the competing gravity wells of two nearby stars, the tidal forces in its titanic hydrogen and helium pockets would have torn a planet the size of Earth to shreds. From here, though, the Dolphin-class passenger liner was perfectly safe, and Jason was almost certain that at least a few of his passengers were taking holo-vids, pointing, and making awestruck noises. All Jason could think of was the paycheck. The problem with working for a company like Baroness Starsight Tours was that they were tied to one particular place. And at that place, they kept personnel records, bureaucrats... weak points. So far, Jason's stunt on Abel Prospect had gone unreported, as far as he could find out. And thus far, no bounties had been posted on him at any of the stations near Baroness Starsight's headquarters and main ports of call. "Pilot?" The voice crackled from the comm located in the passenger compartment. "Did you bring any food aboard?" "Refreshments are available in the cabinets located aft. All credit programs accepted." "What? We have to pay?" Jason rolled his eyes. Of course you have to pay, it was in the contract you signed. "Standard Baroness Starsight contracts include the pricing for all refreshments available aboard —" His comm buzzed. His external comm. "Jason Frimantle." It was a statement. Not a question. Jason flipped channels. "This is Baroness Starsight civilian vessel 'Deveraux', how can I help you?" "This is gonna look bad on my resume." Jason looked at the ship sending the signal. It was an F-63 Condor, being flown by a commander ranked as Expert. "Get your passengers into escape pods. They'll be safe, and I know that ship's ensured. I've been told you're worth more alive, but if you try anything, like holding them hostage, I'll be a lot less inclined to be gentle." "Hostages? What are you talking about?" "Pirates are known for that sort of thing, Mister Frimantle. Please, I'm asking nice." Jason checked the information again. 'Marcus Corso'. Bounty hunter, more than likely. [i]Don't panic. Do not panic. Don't you [b]dare[/b][/i]. He flipped the comm back over. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Commander speaking. Return to your seats and secure yourselves at all points. I am about to take evasive maneuvers." He took a deep breath, then flipped to the external channel. "Commander Corso, I'm not going to hold anyone hostage, and I'm not going to turn myself over to you. I'm plotting a course back to Federation space now. You're welcome to try and stop me." He reached under the console, pulled off a particular panel, and tweaked a few of the wires. This ship wasn't designed for many pilot modifications, and tampering with it could cost him the contract. But this seemed a bit more important. There was a laugh. "I have to admit, kid, I like your gumption. Your dad said you might be difficult. But you're in a Dolphin-class space bus. I'm in a cutting-edge Fed fighter. There's no contest." "If I were staying to fight," Jason said, "I'd agree. But you're about to eat high wake. I suggest you get clear, this beast can breach pretty big." The ship's computer warned Jason that Corso had deployed his hardpoints. In the next moment, laser blasts spattered against the ship's shields. Jason banked the ship hard to port, firing the portside reverse engine. As soon as his aft was pointed at Corso, he hit the boost. With a surprisingly dolphin-like whine, the liner leaped forward at maximum velocity. The frame-shift drive charged, and they were yanked across space at super-relativistic speeds. Jason didn't hesitate or rest once they dropped back into supercruise. He plotted the course back to the home port and made one jump after another in rapid succession. He barely stopped to scoop extra fuel to make sure they didn't get stranded. It wasn't until the ship was in the station and docked that Jason managed to breathe again. There was no sign of pursuit. Corso hadn't popped into space outside of the station. In fact, as far Jason could see, there'd been no F-63s at all anywhere near them. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the cabin behind to greet the passengers as they disembarked. He hoped none of them would note that those blonde locks were matted with sweat. A couple of the passengers — a concerned father, a bureaucrat who barely stopped talking to her personal comm, a little girl with pigtails who kicked him in the shin — gave him grief over the abrupt end of the trip. Still, they'd hit their goals and gotten home safe. Jason would get paid. And then he'd leave. Somewhere else, somewhere the Wayfarer could take him even further from Federation bounty hunters and system authorities... "Commander." He blinked, coming back to where he was standing. He was looking at a familiar face. Reddish-brown hair, light brown eyes.. "Commissioner Parker?" She smiled. It was a wide, warm thing, tinged with mischief. Not an expression worn by the shipping magnate bureaucrat back on Lave Station. It was about then that he noticed that while her fashion was similar to the commissioner's — pencil skirt, business-style blouse and jacket, heels — it had its own spin on the look. The skirt was just a bit shorter, the cut of the jacket a little more daring, the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She wore spectacles, which the other had not, and while she wore her hair in a similar fashion, curling locks of it fell to frame her face, and the chopsticks in the bun were more vibrant and eye-catching. "I see you've met my sister." Her voice, again almost identical to the other's, was smoother, more relaxed. "Kind of stuck up, isn't she?" Jason swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. "She's a conservative sort, yeah." "That's putting it mildly." Her smile widened. "Parker's my name, yes. My twin hasn't gotten married — can't imagine why that is — and neither have I. But I don't commission a thing. You can call me Stephanie." He nodded. "And you know my name." "I do." Her lips pursed in an interesting way, at least to Jason's eyes. "And I'm aware of your skills, and cool head under pressure." He thought of the sweat that'd trickled down his cheek. "Thanks." "Listen. I represent a... certain organization. We're always on the lookout for new talent. Especially commanders who can handle themselves in a crisis and aren't afraid of running afoul of... antagonistic parties. The pay's fantastic, and we'll provide your first ship. Interested?" Jason thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure. If it gets me out of Federation space, especially." She put out her hand. "Shake on it." He did. She had a firm grip, and her fingers lingered on his palm for just a moment. "Good. Be sure to sever your ties with Baroness Starsight. You'll find your new ship in Landing Bay 24." "Twenty-four," Jason said with a nod. She smiled at him again. "Looking forward to working with you, Commander." She turned and walked down the corridor, heels clicking whenever they touched the deck. Unlike her sister's heels, they were stiletto-style, and the seams of her stockings ran up the back of her legs in clean, straight lines. Jason really didn't know how to process what just happened. He made his way to the Baroness office to collect his pay and hand in his resignation. Then it was to Landing Bay 24. There, he found a small ship that he knew was capable despite its size: a Viper Mk.III fighter. He ran his hand over its hull with a smile. It was already fitted with registry numbers saying it was his. He got in and checked the cockpit. He found a note on the pilot's seat, shocked to discover it smelled faintly of Stephanie's perfume. He opened it. Don't forget that you owe us. This isn't a gift; it's an investment. A chill ran down Jason's spine. What had he just been talked into doing? To be continued...

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on the Mirror

500 Words on the Mirror — Blue Ink Alchemy

It can be difficult to recognize the face that looks back at me in the mirror. Especially since I've grown my hair out and started styling my facial hair in certain ways. But the eyes are still there, the eyes I've had since I was a child. They've seen a lot, perhaps more than they should have. I see them in the mirror, these mechanisms through which I see the world, and try to process who's looking back at me. Is this a person worth fighting for? Movies with Mikey's "Creed" episode draws attention to a mirror moment, where the protagonist is told by his coach (Rocky Balboa, in this case) "that, right there, is your toughest opponent." A somewhat unspoken agreement — a 'creed', if you will — between fighters is discussed. It's simple: "I fight, you fight." If you step into the ring, so will I, and we'll each give our all to prove ourselves to ourselves and to one another. (Seriously, if you're not watching Movies with Mikey, do yourself a favor and check it out.) I've started repeating that creed to myself when I see myself in the mirror. "I fight. You fight." Who or what am I fighting, though? Is it that other person, the one in the mirror? Yes and no. In the past, that person in the mirror has resembled someone else. Someone I don't recognize. Someone who had been influenced by other people. First of all, some of those people are fucking monsters. Not everybody has your best interest at heart. People will seek to take advantage of you, to exploit your weaknesses. Those sorts of abuses, which can hurt more deeply and thoroughly than any punch or cut, give fuel to the monsters that live in our heads, the voices that say we're better off dead. That's what I'm fighting. Those voices, those monsters, those irritating head weasels. You can't see them, though. And it's very, very hard to fight what you can't see. Ask anybody who has a chronic pain disorder or a mental illness. Ask about their experiences with doctors, with society. You'll see how hard it is to fight the unseen. What we can see, though, is the person in the mirror. "I fight. You fight." The final trap in this is the one in which we fight against ourselves, not with ourselves. The difference is that in the former case, we make ourselves an antagonist, a foe to be conquered. But what good do we do ourselves if we cast ourselves as our own villain? We can be our greatest ally, instead. Whatever the threat might be is one that both entities fight together. You can see what was, or you can see what could be. When you see the image of yourself in the mirror, it's yours. The you in the mirror is a you that needs you. You can fight it, or you can fight for it. "I fight. You fight." On Fridays I write 500 words.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy