Monday, October 23, 2017

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.

Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, October 20, 2017

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.

Blue Ink Alchemy

Friday, October 13, 2017

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!

Blue Ink Alchemy

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

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.

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.

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

Monday, October 9, 2017

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

Friday, October 6, 2017

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

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 their image altered or even defined by other people. People who took advantage of me. People who devalued and discarded me. People who cast me in a role that I neither auditioned nor asked for. People who saw my weaknesses, exploited them, and spoke of me as if those weaknesses were strengths I'd cultivated for nefarious purposes. First of all, those people are fucking monsters. Moreover, their lies gave fuel to the monsters in my head that tell me I'm 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. In the latter, we become our greatest ally, and whatever the invisible or salient 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 entirely yours. The you in the mirror is a you that needs belief. You can fight it, or you can fight for it. "I fight. You fight." On Fridays I write 500 words.

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 their image altered or even defined by other people. People who took advantage of me. People who devalued and discarded me. People who cast me in a role that I neither auditioned nor asked for. People who saw my weaknesses, exploited them, and spoke of me as if those weaknesses were strengths I'd cultivated for nefarious purposes. First of all, those people are fucking monsters. Moreover, their lies gave fuel to the monsters in my head that tell me I'm 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. In the latter, we become our greatest ally, and whatever the invisible or salient 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 entirely yours. The you in the mirror is a you that needs belief. You can fight it, or you can fight for it. "I fight. You fight." On Fridays I write 500 words.

Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, October 2, 2017

Songs of Cornell: Just Getting Started

Songs of Cornell: Just Getting Started — Blue Ink Alchemy

There really wasn't anything Cornell Starblossom liked more than a lively tavern at night. Night was when everybody shook of the day's responsibilities, relaxed, and loosened their laces, especially their purse strings. The half-elf was adept enough with bandore and thelarr to maintain a decent enough lifestyle with just a few hours of song every night. What really got him attention — and tips — was his voice. Unlike the instrumental skills, honed by years of study at the College of Fochlucan, he'd been born with a melodious voice with good range and solid timbre. He'd trained that too, to be sure. From participating in hymns to Sune with his mother, to literally singing for his supper all up and down the Sword Coast, he'd built the stamina, clarity, and expressiveness to handle a night's worth of song, much to the delight of patrons and approval of tavern owners. He sang songs of pure love, loves lost and regained, learning to love one's own self. He sang ballads of heroes long gone and the battles of mighty nations. He sang of dragons, dire portents, and powerful magic. Most of all, he sang to the individuals in the tavern, rubbing elbows with men and sitting beside ladies, all the while keeping a fine hat in view for the depositing of coin. It was getting late at the Clover Wall Roadhouse when Cornell wrapped up his encore. He felt tired, but satisfied. After recent ordeals, he was glad to have time to simply ply his trade and get to know the locals, especially those in high standing. The blacksmith in particular had been of interest to him, in terms of acquiring better means of protecting himself. Having done that, he resolved to spend the next tenday involved in nothing but good song, good food, and pleasurable company. He was thinking about the feisty redhead who'd invited him to her chambers in a few hours as he counted the night's coin. Just enough for his upscale rooms and meals to last him until tomorrow night. He leaned back with a smile. He had no taxes to pay, no lands to manage, no manor to worry over. Just him, his music, and the road. It was freedom, and he valued it highly. "Oi. Knife-ears." He blinked, slowly, and looked up at the source of the voice. It was a burly, smelly human, beefy hands in fists. A thinner, weasel-faced human stood behind the first, sneering at Cornell. "Gentlemen." Cornell's voice came out in his easy drawl, an affect picked up from his youth in Daggerford and time on the road. "Got some feedback on th' set? I'm always lookin' t' improve." "We bet good money on you in the arena, flower-muncher. We want it back." Ah. So these two were from the Redplumes. Or, at least, had supported the Redplumes in their assault and kidnapping of innocents along the road. Especially non-humans. Cornell's smile faded just a touch, remembering the roar of the crowd, the frothing of the quipper-infested waters... "Ain't my fault you bet on th' wrong odds." He paused. "Were they good odds that we were gonna bite it? I shoulda placed a bet on us, myself. Might've been able to help you kind gents." The beefy one slammed his fist into the table. "We will have coin, or we will have blood!" "Oi." This was the barkeep, wiping down his bar, looking up from tending to his last few customers. "Keep it down or get out. No fighting in my place." Cornell gave the barkeep a nod and a smile, and got to his feet. "You heard th' man, gentlemen. Care t' step outside?" The two humans shared a vicious grin and moved to the door. Cornell handed the barkeep his coin — "for my rooms and board 'til tomorrow night" — and followed, running his fingers over the feather in his hat before putting it on his head. He thought about the rapier hanging from the left side of his belt, and the new crossbow on the right. It was his bandore that he hefted onto his left shoulder, however. As he walked to the door, he did a quick check of the tuning of the strings, plucking one or two to get the notes just right. As soon as they were outside, he saw Weasel-face pulling out a pair of crossbows not unlike Cornell's new acquisition: built for a single hand, quick to reload, deadly with good aim. Ham-fist's weapon of choice was a hammer with a long haft and a heavy-looking head. They grinned. Ham-fist opened his mouth to speak. Cornell looked squarely at Weasel-face and gave the bandore a quick riff.

this may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to

The discordant melody and minor chord made Weasel-face's eyes go wide. Screaming in panic, the man dropped his crossbows to clutch his head in pain, and turned to run as fast as he could. Ham-fist whirled to yell an imprecation, and that's when Cornell drew his crossbow, aimed, and shot the human in the back of the thigh. Howling, Ham-fist went down. Cornell walked over, hanging the crossbow from his belt, and drawing his rapier. He placed the tip of the blade under Ham-fist's chin, and lifted the human's face towards his. "I'm no killer, nor am I thief," he said, his voice grave and even. "But I am a Harper agent." Cornell lowered his instrument to the ground gently and opened the left side of his jacket, showing the badge he wore underneath. "An' you are a threat t' the common folk, or at least those who ain't like you." He put a little pressure on the rapier, a tiny bead of blood appearing on the man's white skin. "I suggest you grab your friend an' leave. Don't let me see you here again. Remember: we're watching you, racist." Ham-fist nodded, or at least did so as well as he could with a rapier at his throat. Cornell smiled, stepping back, and sheathing his weapon. Ham-fist stumbled to his feet and jogged after Weasel-face. Cornell took a deep breath, and let it out again. While he had no taxes or land, he did have his responsibilities. It was the Harpers who had sponsored his entry into Fochlucan, kept his mother safe, and appraised his father, an elf wizard and adventurer in his own right, of Cornell's progress. And there was the whole empathy-for-the-common-folk thing. Growing up half-elven wasn't easy, especially in areas in the North of the Sword Coast mostly dominated by mainline humans. He could empathize with so many of them. It was part of the reason why stories of the Harpers had always appealed to him, and why he now wore their emblem. He adjusted his hat and headed back for the Roadhouse, bandore on his shoulder. The night, much like his journey across Faerûn in search of story, song, and worthy causes, was just getting started. Mondays are for making art. Dungeons & Dragons copyright Wizards of the Coast.

Blue Ink Alchemy

Songs of Cornell: Just Getting Started

Songs of Cornell: Just Getting Started — Blue Ink Alchemy

this may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to

The discordant melody and minor chord made Weasel-face's eyes go wide. Screaming in panic, the man dropped his crossbows to clutch his head in pain, and turned to run as fast as he could. Ham-fist whirled to yell and imprecation, and that's when Cornell drew his crossbow, aimed, and shot the human in the back of the thigh. Howling, Ham-fist went down. Cornell walked over, hanging the crossbow from his belt, and drawing his rapier. He placed the tip of the blade under Ham-fist's chin, and lifted the human's face towards his. "I'm no killer, nor am I thief," he said, his voice grave and even. "But I am a Harper agent." Cornell lowered his instrument to the ground gently and opened the left side of his jacket, showing the badge he wore underneath. "An' you are a threat t' the common folk, or at least those who ain't like you." He put a little pressure on the rapier, a tiny bead of blood appearing on the man's white skin. "I suggest you grab your friend an' leave. Don't let me see you here again. Remember: we're watching you, racist." Ham-fist nodded, or at least did so as well as he could with a rapier at his throat. Cornell smiled, stepping back, and sheathing his weapon. Ham-fist stumbled to his feet and jogged after Weasel-face. Cornell took a deep breath, and let it out again. While he had no taxes or land, he did have his responsibilities. It was the Harpers who had sponsored his entry into Fochlucan, kept his mother safe, and appraised his father, an elf wizard and adventurer in his own right, of Cornell's progress. And there was the whole empathy-for-the-common-folk thing. Growing up half-elven wasn't easy, especially in areas in the North of the Sword Coast mostly dominated by mainline humans. He could empathize with so many of them. It was part of the reason why stories of the Harpers had always appealed to him, and why he now wore their emblem. He adjusted his hat and headed back for the Roadhouse, bandore on his shoulder. The night, much like his journey across Faerûn in search of story, song, and worthy causes, was just getting started. Mondays are for making art. Dungeons & Dragons copyright Wizards of the Coast.

Blue Ink Alchemy

Blue Ink Alchemy

Monday, October 23, 2017