Literary Crimes Against Gaming

Literary Crimes Against Gaming — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel like Karn some days. And not just from lack of coffee. Bad writing can be just as influential and inspirational as good writing. That may seem to be an incongruous statement. But in my experience, there have been some instances where I've been reading a novel, a story or a post, and have wanted nothing more than to blow the author out of the water, literarily speaking. I find this to be the case especially in writing related to gaming, which makes me twice as angry. It's one thing to write badly, but to degrade a setting or concept I like through that bad writing should be a hanging offense. That's my opinion, at least. Take, for example, the Quest for Karn. I've been looking for a good Magic: the Gathering novel ever since Arena, which is still the best if you ask me. The planeswalkers that Wizards of the Coast have put together are an interesting bunch, but I feel like there's more that could be done with them, territory in the human experience and the permutations of their powers that remains unexplored. And when you present these characters in as bland a way possible, with no real characterization and a plot apparently paced to make The Lord of the Rings look like a jaunty sprint by comparison, you leave a sour taste in the reader's mouth, instead of making them hungry for more. I must confess, however, that doing this to the likes of Venser and Elspeth is pretty harmless, considering what could have been done. As far as I'm aware, Wizards has yet to acquire the services of someone like Richard A. Knaak, who misses the point of characters like a champ. Consider Stormrage. In Warcraft III, we learn that Tyrande Whisperwind is a confident, driven and inspiring leader of her people, a warrior-priestess with thousands of years of experience in doing what she says and making decisions without regret. By Knaak's hand, however, she's transformed into someone who never grew out of being a teenager, an immature and insecure person who fears the judgement of her peers and might just be cribbing notes from Bella Swan. There's no growth in Knaak's characters. If they're great, they're always great as well as flawless. If they're flighty, uncertain and relatively weak, they're a girl. I had to pause for a cleansing breath, there. Gaming books outside of novels suffer as well. Mage is probably my all-time favorite permutation of the World of Darkness, but the core book for Ascension feels unnecessarily huge. There's great stuff in there for storytellers and players a like, but it can take a little sifting. The prose passages feel ponderous more often than not, with some overwrought language and long-winded anecdotes that are likely aimed at increasing the book's gravitas while taking away from the essential information gamers are looking for. I still love the book, don't get me wrong. It's gorgeous, the new mythology tickles my fancy and the new spheres of magic are very well thought out. It's just fluffier than I'd like. In addition to wrapping up the first draft of one manuscript, rewriting another and editing a third, I think it would behoove me to investigate more deeply the ways and means people find their way into gaming material, from source books to novels. I've had great experiences working with Machine Age Productions and I hope I can take that experience to other gaming houses in the future. Writing for and about gaming isn't just something I want to do, after all; it's something worth doing right.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Literary Crimes Against Gaming

Literary Crimes Against Gaming — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel like Karn some days. And not just from lack of coffee. Bad writing can be just as influential and inspirational as good writing. That may seem to be an incongruous statement. But in my experience, there have been some instances where I've been reading a novel, a story or a post, and have wanted nothing more than to blow the author out of the water, literarily speaking. I find this to be the case especially in writing related to gaming, which makes me twice as angry. It's one thing to write badly, but to degrade a setting or concept I like through that bad writing should be a hanging offense. That's my opinion, at least. Take, for example, the Quest for Karn. I've been looking for a good Magic: the Gathering novel ever since Arena, which is still the best if you ask me. The planeswalkers that Wizards of the Coast have put together are an interesting bunch, but I feel like there's more that could be done with them, territory in the human experience and the permutations of their powers that remains unexplored. And when you present these characters in as bland a way possible, with no real characterization and a plot apparently paced to make The Lord of the Rings look like a jaunty sprint by comparison, you leave a sour taste in the reader's mouth, instead of making them hungry for more. I must confess, however, that doing this to the likes of Venser and Elspeth is pretty harmless, considering what could have been done. As far as I'm aware, Wizards has yet to acquire the services of someone like Richard A. Knaak, who misses the point of characters like a champ. Consider Stormrage. In Warcraft III, we learn that Tyrande Whisperwind is a confident, driven and inspiring leader of her people, a warrior-priestess with thousands of years of experience in doing what she says and making decisions without regret. By Knaak's hand, however, she's transformed into someone who never grew out of being a teenager, an immature and insecure person who fears the judgement of her peers and might just be cribbing notes from Bella Swan. There's no growth in Knaak's characters. If they're great, they're always great as well as flawless. If they're flighty, uncertain and relatively weak, they're a girl. I had to pause for a cleansing breath, there. Gaming books outside of novels suffer as well. Mage is probably my all-time favorite permutation of the World of Darkness, but the core book for Ascension feels unnecessarily huge. There's great stuff in there for storytellers and players a like, but it can take a little sifting. The prose passages feel ponderous more often than not, with some overwrought language and long-winded anecdotes that are likely aimed at increasing the book's gravitas while taking away from the essential information gamers are looking for. I still love the book, don't get me wrong. It's gorgeous, the new mythology tickles my fancy and the new spheres of magic are very well thought out. It's just fluffier than I'd like. In addition to wrapping up the first draft of one manuscript, rewriting another and editing a third, I think it would behoove me to investigate more deeply the ways and means people find their way into gaming material, from source books to novels. I've had great experiences working with Machine Age Productions and I hope I can take that experience to other gaming houses in the future. Writing for and about gaming isn't just something I want to do, after all; it's something worth doing right.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: X-Men First Class

Movie Review: X-Men First Class — Blue Ink Alchemy

Uncanny X-Men was one of the first comic books I read when I was growing up. It introduced me to the colorful world of super-heroic abnormal people fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. Being a scrawny geeky kid, the appeal was obvious. The first two movie adaptations did an admirable service to the long-running title and its characters, even if it seemed to be somewhat ashamed of the ways in which the characters dressed themselves. Last Stand and X-Men Origins Wolverine are best left unmentioned, especially since one of the feats X-Men First Class pulls off is rendering both of those movies superfluous, if not wiping them out of existence entirely. First Class takes us back to the very groovy 1960s where a young Charles Xavier has just received his doctorate from Oxford and Erik Lensherr has begun a private search for the man who destroyed his family. While Charles is a child of privilege, Erik is a Holocaust survivor, but the two men are bound by their nature as mutants. Both of them want mutants to be free from persecution by normal humans, but Charles wishes to do this peacefully while Erik is convinced that human nature, being what it is, will leave mutants no alternative but to fight. They agree, however, that the dangerous mutants in control of the clandestine Hellfire Club must be stopped, and to do this they ally with the United States government to train some of the young mutants who struggle to control their powers. They are the first X-Men. The first thing that may strike you about First Class is a pair of tonal shifts that really work in the narrative's favor. Moving away from the dark visuals of the first two movies towards a more bright, diverse pallate helps capture the atmosphere of an earlier time, and harkens more honestly to the comic book roots of the material, as well as evoking memories of the Connery-era James Bond. At the same time, the story has grown more dark and mature. I won't go into details because I don't want to spoil any major turning points, but believe me when I say that the composition of this story has less to do with Saturday morning cartoons and more with classic tragedies crafted by the Greeks and Shakespeare.
As it turns out, we DO prefer yellow spandex. This isn't to say that the writing in First Class even approaches that calibre. This is still a comic book movie and it's not going to win any Oscars based on that premise alone. However, what the film gets right is something the unmentionable sequels got wrong. X-Men and X2 were similar to First Class in that their focus was more on characters than on spectacle. Granted, they spent a lot of their time on Wolverine, but that's to be expected when you get a man like Hugh Jackman who completely inhabits a beloved character. It almost went unnoticed that Patrick Stewart did a very similar service to Professor X and Ian McKellan to Magneto. Watching the first two films now, you can see that these two veterans were hinting at a deep, rough and complicated friendship that stretched back for years, and now James McEvoy and Michael Fassbender bring the details of that friendship's origin to life. Prequels are often met with trepidation and suspicion, and rightly so. George Lucas proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's very easy to screw up an established universe by trying to expand on what has come before. Bryan Singer and Matthew Vaughn, however, wisely keep to the essence of the characters and the bits of information scattered throughout the movie and comic storylines to tell the story of Charles and Erik in a way that's less bombastic special effects reel and more subtle romance. More than anything, it captures the deep respect and admiration they have for one another and underscores the tragedy of the events that drive the emotional and philosophical chasm between them.
One of the best scenes in this film, and there's zero action. The downside to this powerful writing and these top-notch performances is that most of the rest of the events and players get overshadowed. Of the rest of the mutant cast, Jennifer Lawrence as a young Mystique and Nicholas Hoult as Beast are the only standouts while January Jones seems to have been told Emma Frost's mutant powers are looking drool-worthy and a complete lack of ability to emote. The film also falls victim to some unfortunate tropes and is very concerned about driving home its civil rights message with lines like "Mutant and Proud!" and "They didn't ask so I didn't tell." Now it might be the case that some anvils need to be dropped to make a point that might have been lost in the noise of those despicable sequels, but in contrast to the chemistry between the two leads it ends up feeling either unnecessary or just lazy. Tight storytelling does not belabor points like this. But it could be I'm just picking nits. There's more than enough good material, in spite of the shortcomings in story and some less dimensional characters, to make X-Men First Class worth recommending. It's more than competent storytelling and while the characters take precedence over spectacle, I'm sure jaws will drop more than once over the course of the movie. It belongs on the same level as other recent Marvel movies such as Iron Man and Thor, the performances and chemistry of the leads comes close to that of the lead actors in The Dark Knight. It says a lot when a scene of two men in easychairs talking by a fireplace is every bit as electrifying as any of the action scenes in your movie. X-Men First Class is the X-Men movie fans have been waiting for every since the first sequel, and even if you're not a fan, I think you'd enjoy it. Check it out and I doubt you'll be disappointed. And yes, I know the comic book outfits looked silly, but First Class gives us a great compromise in the uniforms of the X-Men. It was really awesome, for me, to see an X-Men movie that looked like a damn X-Men movie and not some weird spin-off of Blade or the Matrix. Mutants are their own people, and they should be proud of that, even if it means wearing yellow and blue kevlar pressure suits instead of trendier black leather. Mutant and proud? Crap, now I'M doing it.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: X-Men First Class

Movie Review: X-Men First Class — Blue Ink Alchemy

Uncanny X-Men was one of the first comic books I read when I was growing up. It introduced me to the colorful world of super-heroic abnormal people fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. Being a scrawny geeky kid, the appeal was obvious. The first two movie adaptations did an admirable service to the long-running title and its characters, even if it seemed to be somewhat ashamed of the ways in which the characters dressed themselves. Last Stand and X-Men Origins Wolverine are best left unmentioned, especially since one of the feats X-Men First Class pulls off is rendering both of those movies superfluous, if not wiping them out of existence entirely. First Class takes us back to the very groovy 1960s where a young Charles Xavier has just received his doctorate from Oxford and Erik Lensherr has begun a private search for the man who destroyed his family. While Charles is a child of privilege, Erik is a Holocaust survivor, but the two men are bound by their nature as mutants. Both of them want mutants to be free from persecution by normal humans, but Charles wishes to do this peacefully while Erik is convinced that human nature, being what it is, will leave mutants no alternative but to fight. They agree, however, that the dangerous mutants in control of the clandestine Hellfire Club must be stopped, and to do this they ally with the United States government to train some of the young mutants who struggle to control their powers. They are the first X-Men. The first thing that may strike you about First Class is a pair of tonal shifts that really work in the narrative's favor. Moving away from the dark visuals of the first two movies towards a more bright, diverse pallate helps capture the atmosphere of an earlier time, and harkens more honestly to the comic book roots of the material, as well as evoking memories of the Connery-era James Bond. At the same time, the story has grown more dark and mature. I won't go into details because I don't want to spoil any major turning points, but believe me when I say that the composition of this story has less to do with Saturday morning cartoons and more with classic tragedies crafted by the Greeks and Shakespeare.
As it turns out, we DO prefer yellow spandex. This isn't to say that the writing in First Class even approaches that calibre. This is still a comic book movie and it's not going to win any Oscars based on that premise alone. However, what the film gets right is something the unmentionable sequels got wrong. X-Men and X2 were similar to First Class in that their focus was more on characters than on spectacle. Granted, they spent a lot of their time on Wolverine, but that's to be expected when you get a man like Hugh Jackman who completely inhabits a beloved character. It almost went unnoticed that Patrick Stewart did a very similar service to Professor X and Ian McKellan to Magneto. Watching the first two films now, you can see that these two veterans were hinting at a deep, rough and complicated friendship that stretched back for years, and now James McEvoy and Michael Fassbender bring the details of that friendship's origin to life. Prequels are often met with trepidation and suspicion, and rightly so. George Lucas proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's very easy to screw up an established universe by trying to expand on what has come before. Bryan Singer and Matthew Vaughn, however, wisely keep to the essence of the characters and the bits of information scattered throughout the movie and comic storylines to tell the story of Charles and Erik in a way that's less bombastic special effects reel and more subtle romance. More than anything, it captures the deep respect and admiration they have for one another and underscores the tragedy of the events that drive the emotional and philosophical chasm between them.
One of the best scenes in this film, and there's zero action. The downside to this powerful writing and these top-notch performances is that most of the rest of the events and players get overshadowed. Of the rest of the mutant cast, Jennifer Lawrence as a young Mystique and Nicholas Hoult as Beast are the only standouts while January Jones seems to have been told Emma Frost's mutant powers are looking drool-worthy and a complete lack of ability to emote. The film also falls victim to some unfortunate tropes and is very concerned about driving home its civil rights message with lines like "Mutant and Proud!" and "They didn't ask so I didn't tell." Now it might be the case that some anvils need to be dropped to make a point that might have been lost in the noise of those despicable sequels, but in contrast to the chemistry between the two leads it ends up feeling either unnecessary or just lazy. Tight storytelling does not belabor points like this. But it could be I'm just picking nits. There's more than enough good material, in spite of the shortcomings in story and some less dimensional characters, to make X-Men First Class worth recommending. It's more than competent storytelling and while the characters take precedence over spectacle, I'm sure jaws will drop more than once over the course of the movie. It belongs on the same level as other recent Marvel movies such as Iron Man and Thor, the performances and chemistry of the leads comes close to that of the lead actors in The Dark Knight. It says a lot when a scene of two men in easychairs talking by a fireplace is every bit as electrifying as any of the action scenes in your movie. X-Men First Class is the X-Men movie fans have been waiting for every since the first sequel, and even if you're not a fan, I think you'd enjoy it. Check it out and I doubt you'll be disappointed. And yes, I know the comic book outfits looked silly, but First Class gives us a great compromise in the uniforms of the X-Men. It was really awesome, for me, to see an X-Men movie that looked like a damn X-Men movie and not some weird spin-off of Blade or the Matrix. Mutants are their own people, and they should be proud of that, even if it means wearing yellow and blue kevlar pressure suits instead of trendier black leather. Mutant and proud? Crap, now I'M doing it.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, II: Chrysander

Honor & Blood, II: Chrysander — Blue Ink Alchemy

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon. The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon's Landing. House Luxon is in the process of returning a trove of stolen blades to their rightful Houses. Carrying those belonging to the Houses of the Reach and Dorne, Victor Luxon has reached Oldtown. After delivering the treasures of House Hightower, the Citadel offers the growing House of the North something no political force in Westeros should be without: a maester. The Archmaesters have been reviewing candidates for three days...

He began the day he always did. He swung his body into a seated position on the small cot in his cell within the Citadel, in walking distance to one of the lower libraries. He used a cloth soaking in the bowl of water by his cot to clean the stump of his right calf, the flesh smooth inches below his knee where he'd been cut free of the dead horse. He reached under the cot for his leg. It was made of two pieces of ash, one shaped like a foot and the other taking the place of his lost leg tissue, held together with a sturdy pin of iron. He strapped it into place with the specific procedure he'd used countless times since coming to the Citadel as a novice. The leg had been his own design, perhaps the largest step in forging his link for alchemy. He stood, ensuring the leg held, and half-hobbled to the larger water bowl on the dresser. Even with the faux leg it was difficult to move quickly without assistance. Rapid movement, like dreams of knighthood and vast sums of wealth, had been left crushed under the poor horse. He reached to the side of the bowl for the razor, washed the blade in the water, and took it to his scalp, jawline and lips. He scoured his head of hair, including his eyebrows. I am a maester of the Citadel, he told himself as he set the razor aside. Would that we had vows like the brothers of the Night's Watch that the realm might know our quality. Sighing, he put on his robe and fished his chain out from beneath it. Adjusting it so it hung correctly, he next took up his staff. It was old, an oak shaft just slightly taller than he, carved with Valyrian letters and symbols and topped with a shard of dragonglass. He leaned on the familiar tool, cleared his throat and opened the door. He had been expecting one of the pages of the Citadel, or perhaps a novice like Pate, ready to help him to the library for the day's research, filing and answering of questions. He was instead faced with another maester. "Maester Chrysander. The Realm has need of you." The figure in the hall was shorter than Chrysander, stockier and broad of shoulder, his chain easily double that of the cripple's. In normal clothes and not the robes of a maester, he could have been mistaken for a deckhand or thug in the employ of a pirate or dock lord. Instead, his imposing frame spoke of power and knowledge. The thing that Chrysander focused on, however, was the Valyrian steel mask the other wore. "Archmaester. I'm honored you deliver this summons in person." "I've done it before," Marwyn sniffed, gesturing for Chrysander to join him in the hall. The junior maester did so, his staff clacking softly against the stone with every other step. "It's not that rare. Your predecessor in your post, Maester Luwin, was also summoned in such a fashion. Of course, that was some years ago, and to an old and storied House of the North. You are going in the same direction, but to a House much younger." "That would be House Luxon, I take it." "Your ears work fine, I see, even if your legs do not." Chrysander looked over his shoulder. As usual, the black cat with which he shared his cell had stepped out to follow him. Selyne's tail was straight up, crooked slightly to one side, as she padded along silently behind the maesters. After a moment, her ears pricked up and she darted down a side corridor. Chrysander smiled. She'll be along. She needs breakfast, too. Over a meal of bread, cheese, fruit, cooked eggs and fresh water, Chrysander discussed the post with Marwyn. The archmaester hosted his apprentice in his own rooms, where he removed his mask to eat. His red teeth tore into an apple before he spoke of Chrysander's purpose. "Other than providing guidance for Lord Goddard and education for his children, I advise you to keep a weather eye towards the Wall. Ravens from the North have been most disconcerting of late. The astronomers are quite nervous." "I suspect the Luxons are equally squirelly." "Ha!" Marwyn slapped the table hard, sending an orange rolling across the floor. "A good one, but I'd watch those puns if I were you. They may not be welcome in a lord's hall." "I will do so, Archmaester. What else of the North?" "As I mentioned, Luwin preceded you, as my apprentice and as a maester in the North. You know which House he serves, and their words." Chrysander nodded. "Winter is coming." "Aye. Look well-armed to receive it when it does, Chrysander. Your charge is nothing more, and nothing less. The Realm may depend upon House Luxon standing its ground when the blizzards come, bringing Seven knows what else with them." Chrysander fingered the ring of Valyrian steel on his chain. "It will be done, Archmaester. The Realm has called, and I will answer." Satisfied, they left to proceed to the yard. Chrysander made a list of provisions, books and materials he'd need for his service at Moat Cailin, and requested the garron Aloysius, a heavy and somewhat lethargic beast too large for barding and too intractable to serve as a steed. Yet he pulled carts very well and he didn't seem to mind Chrysander's presence. As the cart was loaded and Selyne caught up with him, Chrysander caught sight of a man in the yard testing his strength against several squires of House Hightower. Marwyn approached, his mask back in place. The man in the blue and silver armor roared defiantly at the six men coming at him. His greatsword, blunted for practice, nevertheless floored two before they could come to grips with him. The shield of a third was splintered when he tried to attack, and he fell away, clutching a broken arm. The figure in the armor punched a fourth in the face while parrying the blow of a fifth. Pushing the warhammer away, he glanced between the two squires who still stood and laughed heartily. "I knew you squirts from the South were made of suet!" At this, the squires attacked as one. Still laughing, their opponent stepped aside from one blow, parrying another and headbutting the one on his left. As the squire staggered back, blood spewing from his nose, the broad-shouldered warrior grabbed the final one by the throat and forced him to his knees. The others staggered to their feet and called out, one at a time, that they yielded. "I've only seen such ferocity and dedication to victory once before," Archmaester Marwyn observed. "When was that?" The man in the Valyrian steel mask turned to his apprentice, his expression inscrutable. "Gregor Clegane. The Mountain that Rides."

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, II: Chrysander

Honor & Blood, II: Chrysander — Blue Ink Alchemy

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon. The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon's Landing. House Luxon is in the process of returning a trove of stolen blades to their rightful Houses. Carrying those belonging to the Houses of the Reach and Dorne, Victor Luxon has reached Oldtown. After delivering the treasures of House Hightower, the Citadel offers the growing House of the North something no political force in Westeros should be without: a maester. The Archmaesters have been reviewing candidates for three days...

He began the day he always did. He swung his body into a seated position on the small cot in his cell within the Citadel, in walking distance to one of the lower libraries. He used a cloth soaking in the bowl of water by his cot to clean the stump of his right calf, the flesh smooth inches below his knee where he'd been cut free of the dead horse. He reached under the cot for his leg. It was made of two pieces of ash, one shaped like a foot and the other taking the place of his lost leg tissue, and he strapped it into place with the specific procedure he'd used countless times since coming to the Citadel as a novice. The leg had been his own design, perhaps the largest step in forging his link for alchemy. He stood, ensuring the leg held, and half-hobbled to the larger water bowl on the dresser. Even with the faux leg it was difficult to move quickly without assistance. Rapid movement, like dreams of knighthood and vast sums of wealth, had been left crushed under the poor horse. He reached to the side of the bowl for the razor, washed the blade in the water, and took it to his scalp, jawline and lips. He scoured his head of hair, including his eyebrows. I am a maester of the Citadel, he told himself as he set the razor aside. Would that we had vows like the brothers of the Night's Watch that the realm might know our quality. Sighing, he put on his robe and fished his chain out from beneath it. Adjusting it so it hung correctly, he next took up his staff. It was old, an oak shaft just slightly taller than he, carved with Valyrian letters and symbols and topped with a shard of dragonglass. He leaned on the familiar tool, cleared his throat and opened the door. He had been expecting one of the pages of the Citadel, or perhaps a novice like Pate, ready to help him to the library for the day's research, filing and answering of questions. He was instead faced with another maester. "Maester Chrysander. The Realm has need of you." The figure in the hall was shorter than Chrysander, stockier and broad of shoulder, his chain easily double that of the cripple's. In normal clothes and not the robes of a maester, he could have been mistaken for a deckhand or thug in the employ of a pirate or dock lord. Instead, his imposing frame spoke of power and knowledge. The thing that Chrysander focused on, however, was the Valyrian steel mask the other wore. "Archmaester. I'm honored you deliver this summons in person." "I've done it before," Marwyn sniffed, gesturing for Chrysander to join him in the hall. The junior maester did so, his staff clacking softly against the stone with every other step. "It's not that rare. Your predecessor in your post, Maester Luwin, was also summoned in such a fashion. Of course, that was some years ago, and to an old and storied House of the North. You are going in the same direction, but to a House much younger." "That would be House Luxon, I take it." "Your ears work fine, I see, even if your legs do not." Chrysander looked over his shoulder. As usual, the black cat with which he shared his cell had stepped out to follow him. Selyne's tail was straight up, crooked slightly to one side, as she padded along silently behind the maesters. After a moment, her ears pricked up and she darted down a side corridor. Chrysander smiled. She'll be along. She needs breakfast, too. Over a meal of bread, cheese, fruit, cooked eggs and fresh water, Chrysander discussed the post with Marwyn. The archmaester hosted his apprentice in his own rooms, where he removed his mask to eat. His red teeth tore into an apple before he spoke of Chrysander's purpose. "Other than providing guidance for Lord Goddard and education for his children, I advise you to keep a weather eye towards the Wall. Ravens from the North have been most disconcerting of late. The astronomers are quite nervous." "I suspect the Luxons are equally squirelly." "Ha!" Marwyn slapped the table hard, sending an orange rolling across the floor. "A good one, but I'd watch those puns if I were you. They may not be welcome in a lord's hall." "I will do so, Archmaester. What else of the North?" "As I mentioned, Luwin preceded you, as my apprentice and as a maester in the North. You know which House he serves, and their words." Chrysander nodded. "Winter is coming." "Aye. Look well-armed to receive it when it does, Chrysander. Your charge is nothing more, and nothing less. The Realm may depend upon House Luxon standing its ground when the blizzards come, bringing Seven knows what else with them." Chrysander fingered the ring of Valyrian steel on his chain. "It will be done, Archmaester. The Realm has called, and I will answer." Satisfied, they left to proceed to the yard. Chrysander made a list of provisions, books and materials he'd need for his service at Moat Cailin, and requested the garron Aloysius, a heavy and somewhat lethargic beast too large for barding and too intractable to serve as a steed. Yet he pulled carts very well and he didn't seem to mind Chrysander's presence. As the cart was loaded and Selyne caught up with him, Chrysander caught sight of a man in the yard testing his strength against several squires of House Hightower. Marwyn approached, his mask back in place. The man in the blue and silver armor roared defiantly at the six men coming at him. His greatsword, blunted for practice, nevertheless floored two before they could come to grips with him. The shield of a third was splintered when he tried to attack, and he fell away, clutching a broken arm. The figure in the armor punched a fourth in the face while parrying the blow of a fifth. Pushing the warhammer away, he glanced between the two squires who still stood and laughed heartily. "I knew you squirts from the South were made of suet!" At this, the squires attacked as one. Still laughing, their opponent stepped aside from one blow, parrying another and headbutting the one on his left. As the squire staggered back, blood spewing from his nose, the broad-shouldered warrior grabbed the final one by the throat and forced him to his knees. The others staggered to their feet and called out, one at a time, that they yielded. "I've only seen such ferocity and dedication to victory once before," Archmaester Marwyn observed. "When was that?" The man in the Valyrian steel mask turned to his apprentice, his expression inscrutable. "Gregor Clegane. The Mountain that Rides."

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: A Real American Hero

Flash Fiction: A Real American Hero — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the terribleminds flash fiction challenge, The Flea Market

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The elderly man was comfortable, resting in the expansive bed that dominated the master bedroom of his suburban home. Under the babble of the talk hosts on the television was the constant, mechanical sound of the respirator. He'd told the doctors he didn't need it, but they'd insisted. He'd accepted it, grumbling all the while, repeating that he'd taken two bullets for his country and he wasn't going to let some clump of cells the size of a golf ball take him out now. Of course, now it was the size of an orange, and getting bigger. The door opened. The man looked up from the television, past the framed medals on the wall, to the figure walking into his room. He was tall, as tall as the man had been in his youth, with the same short blond hair and green eyes. They were eyes the man had seen before, a long time ago, before he'd gone to war. "My God..." The young man said nothing. He closed the door gently behind him. He knew the nurse was downstairs, but she'd be out for groceries in a few minutes. He looked down at the bed, at the war veteran laying there, his once strong cheeks and neck withered by time. The young man reached into his pocket, placing an action figure on the veteran's rolling tray. "Do you recognize this?" The old man looked from the doll to the stranger and shook his head. "This was my very first G.I. Joe. A Real American Hero. I found this one at a flea market, but I had one just like it when I was little. My mother told me that my father was a man like this. So I watched and read all I could on soldiers. How they were noble, brave, smart and polite. How they sacrificed for their country." "Who... who are you?" The veteran's voice shook like branches in a strong wind. The young man continued. "So imagine my surprise when my father never comes home. That he was apparently killed in action. Only, he wasn't. There was a clerical error. He was wounded in action, not killed." The young man looked over his shoulder at the medals. "Purple heart, right? And next to that? Is that one for the civilians you killed?" "Get out of my house." "No." The young man seemed to loom over the bed. "When you came back, you didn't go back to the girl you'd left behind or the boy she'd given birth to while you were gone. You came here. You started over. And do you know why?" The young man produced an old newspaper and slapped it down on the tray, toppling the action figure. The headline read NEW YORK ALLOWS GAY MARRIAGE. "Because you didn't want to live in a New York City that tolerated fags." "Marriage is a holy sacrament! They defile it! It's in the Bible!" The young man slapped him. "So you turn your back on the woman who loved you and a son you never met because God told you it was the right thing to do? I thought God was love! What love was there in pretending we never existed, Dad?" The veteran stammered. The young man seemed to compose himself, producing another paper. "I know you weren't sitting idle while this was going on, either." The paper now on top of the New York one bore the headline MULTIPLE HIGH SCHOOL YOUTHS FOUND DEAD. The veteran felt his mouth go dry. "We... we were..." "Doing God's work? Hard to justify to parents who won't see their sons grow up, go to college, fall in love, start lives of their own." The young man picked up the paper and began to read. "'All five victims were members of a new student organization aimed at helping kids in the LGBT community survive the bullying and derision they face every day. Apparently they were walking home when an eyewitness reports seeing an unmarked van pull up next to them...'" "Stop. Please." The youth glared at him, then continued. "'... They were found two weeks later in a defunct paper mill's basement. Their bodies had been dissolved using lye and other chemicals to hide the means of death, but while the case has been ruled a homicide, police admit they are having difficulty finding suspects.'" He put the paper down on top of the other one. "I guess the war never ended for you, did it, Dad?" "Please... son, I'm sorry..." "No. You don't get to say you're sorry and walk away. You don't get to lay here in comfort and spend your last few years agreeing with Fox News and shouting at the Democrats. You haven't earned this. You had a great life, love and a family, and you turned your back on it out of hate. You disgust me." The old man's jaw twitched. "You're one of them, aren't you? You're one of those abominations before the Lord." "No. I'm not. I'm just the son you abandoned, here to collect a debt." He reached over the old man to grab one of the pillows from the bed. "You're a real American hero, Dad. You should die fighting." He pushed down with the pillow onto the old man's face. The veteran struggled, trying to slap the arms away, but he was too weak. His nails found no purchase on his son's coat. His cries were muffled by the soft down and expensive cotton cover. The young man kept the pillow there. He kept it there while the veteran fought him. He kept it here when the slapping stopped. He kept it there until the old man's bowels were empty and the room stank of death. He stood up, picked up his flea-market action figure, and tucked it away. "See? Killed in action after all. The Army was just ahead of its time." With that, the young man walked out.

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Blue Ink Alchemy