PotM: The Fall of Shanlinn Firehand

There you are, thought Shanlinn Firehand as the Captain of the Watch, Vikor Creuller, swung out from the back of an oversized jaguar which had grown a police car around its spine. He was massive, nearly eight feet tall and half that wide, armed with baton and pistol and various other tricks hidden beneath his long black leather coat. 

She'd killed the two guards who had been following the Moon, though, and none of the rest of them knew she'd been anywhere near him. She had to be a tempting prize; they'd been hunting her for decades, now. The dagger in her hand was a potent weapon, but not so potent as her sword; she was betting that even Viktor wouldn't note its absence until it was too late. 

If this had been an ordinary operation, she would have had an escape route mapped out, with a half-dozen others as fallbacks. Instead, what she had was desperation and sacrifice.

Viktor studied her for a long moment, held at bay at the back of an alley by a group of guards with spears. "Take her," he said. 

"Dawn," she answered, and let the Sun flow through her. 

It was a blessed death, the light searing in this ever-dark city, carving through the City Watch, their bestial vehicles, and a substantial portion of the park beyond. She hoped the Moon had made his way through; she'd given him as much time as she could manage. 

Four decades of gradually-increasing nightmare would end for her, here and now, and her sword was safely in another's keeping; she held to the hope of being reborn. And for this select group of suborned assholes, she would bring a fiery death. 

PotM: Victims -- aren't we all?

Warden Viktor Creuller looked down at the body in the box. It was dead, of course; a perfect stab wound, right up under the ribs. So very, very precise. Oh, the knights are going to pay for this... 

There were only a few of them left, Shanlinn Firehand chief among them and despite her origins the most adept at evading his patrols. This should have been a standard encounter, one of his men preventing the citizens from trying to help each other. Now that man was dead, and the murderer... 

Vanished, he admitted to himself, clenching his teeth. No tracks, no traces, for all that old man Telomere had called the intrusion in. The upper floors of the tower were empty, derelict; a few long-dead bodies, but no signs of life, hidden or otherwise.  The murderer might have been Shanlinn herself -- she was known to use a dagger, betimes -- but he didn't think so. No, this was something else. Something new. Something Braderick Cytosene -- old man Telomere -- had sensed in his city. 

There were back ways, of course, but the Watch stood guard over those. The streets would still be busy; a bold murderer might travel that way. Or, there might be a nearby bolt-hole, hiding the perpetrator away. 

"Sir! Sir." The Watchman who stopped beside him was one of the constables. "We have her. Shanlinn Firehand.  We have her cornered down by the park!"

Viktor grinned. "Excellent," he purred. "Have your fastest beast carry me there." 

That was a mistake

I did it. I did the thing I shouldn't have done. I knew better, and I did it anyway.

Folks, I looked at the news. 

That was a mistake. 

I was immediately treated to video clips of the President of the United States of America spouting a steady stream of bullshit that sometimes veered into outright nonsense -- as in, "those words do not mean anything when you put them together in that order". This, while everybody else at the table just sat around nodding along. I don't see how it's possible to see that and not conclude that that the man's health -- both mental and physical -- is visibly declining. And on national TV, yet.

Meanwhile, we're winning the war with Iran (we aren't), they're begging to make a deal with us (they aren't), we have a plan to decisively end this conflict if they don't fall in line (we don't), the Strait of Hormuz will reopen completely any day now (it won't), and the economy hasn't taken a massive hit (it has). All of this while spending about a billion dollars a day, after decades of being told that there was no money for healthcare, housing, infrastructure, education, or anything else that might actually help people.

So now the Pentagon is preparing to ask Congress for another $200 billion just as we're slashing medicare, and congress has apparently zero information on how they plan to spend it. 

 Y'all, I'm so, so very tired.

 

StV: Meanwhile in Downtown Dallas

None of this should have been complicated. The bank vault was walled in reinforced concrete with a heavy steel door, impassable except that Antaeus could slide through from below and punch the door off its hinges from the inside. That would set off the alarm, of course, but the Witch of the Mists could offer cover while Evil Gecko slid in and helped Antaeus bundle up the take. After that it was just a matter of walking out, while the mists foiled cameras and any guards on site.

It was the spotlight glare cutting through the mists that was the first sign of trouble. The masked figure that dropped down in front of Antaeus was next, but Antaeus punched her into the next block. 

"This way!" called Evil Gecko, as Antaeus hauled their spoils clear of the bank and The Witch of the Mists held her position, hiding them. 

Gecko lifted a manhole cover, and motioned Antaeus down. "That way," she pointed. "Three ladders, then come back up. Spider should have a van waiting."

The Witch of the Mists came up beside her. "Hold your breath and drop," she said quietly. "I'm going to make it very unpleasant up here."

Evil Gecko nodded and dropped down the manhole, rolling as she landed at the bottom. Likely the witch would be climbing down after them, and... yes, that scraping was the manhole cover being pulled back into place. Whatever band of heroes they'd run afoul of, there was a decent chance they'd gotten away. 

Stretched Thin

"I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."  ~JRR Tolkien (Bilbo Baggins)
The Fellowship of the Ring

I'm not feeling quite myself lately. I have trouble getting motivated, staying focused, and doing work... but also writing, playing video games -- I haven't touched a Playstation in like two months -- and even reading. (And I've had some really fascinating things to read lately, several of which have been a big help in keeping me cheery.) Dungeons and Dragons remains a high point, whether I'm a player or the Dungeon Master, but while that cheers me up for as much as a day or so, I go back to being sort of blah afterwards. 

Is it because of this thing at work where we're no longer allowed to attend conferences out of state, and have to do battle with a committee to get permission to make an exception? Maybe, partly. I mean, flashbacks to my last job there, and also I'm enrolled for a conference in early April and I still don't know if I'm attending, which is an additional bit of stress on top of the part where attending a conference at all is weirdly stressful for me.

Is it personal/family stuff? Secondborn is going to have to repeat tenth grade next year, but I think at this point we're just kind of relieved to have that sorted out, and she made the selection on where she would attend to do that -- and seems pretty cheery about it. We've the D&D campaign going again for her and her friends, too. Plus, Firstborn is home for Spring Break. So I don't really think it's that.

Is it the unseasonably warm spring and associated allergies? Maybe, partly. I feel like I may have missed my window for a camping trip this spring, just because before long it's going to be too damned hot to go. I can't imagine what it's going to be like by the time May rolls around. 

Or is it watching our federal government -- which my tax dollars help pay for -- being run by the worst people in existence, and making unforced errors with easily predictable consequences that are now impossible to reverse? Because constant exposure to that shit -- and it is constant -- sure as hell isn't helping anyone's mental health. Even trying to be careful about how much news I take in, I find myself overwhelmed. (Not to mention how insulting I find it that this war-that-isn't-a-war is costing us incomprehensible amounts of money each day, after I've spent years listening to politicians try to claim that there isn't enough money to fund the postal system or provide public healthcare or offer public housing or pay our teachers more or-- Y'know, anything that might actually help people.)  And yeah, that's definitely a big part of it too.  

Anyway, if I'm a bit erratic in updating the Blog o' Doom here, that's why. 

Villain: Witch of the Mists

Name: Nadja Jane Whitaker
Alias: Witch of the Mists
Age: 38
Appearance: 6' tall, with medium brown hair and milky skin, blue eyes and a slender, leggy build.
Job: Thief

Nadja Whitaker was set for a life in law enforcement. She had a major in Criminal Justice, a minor in sociology, and a background which included both target shooting and various martial arts. She was on the cusp of getting hired by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department when her background check dug up an incident involving Anomalous powers -- back in middle school. She found herself rejected from the job, and blackballed from the entire industry. 

Enraged, she turned to crime instead, using her knowledge of the system and her Anomalous powers to pull off robberies, foil police, and make her mark on the world. She takes particular pleasure in bringing down dirty cops -- or at least exposing them -- and has been known to help protesters escape from kettling and other police entrapment. 

Her powers include summoning fogs -- harmless, nauseating, or deadly -- and assuming a mist-form herself, though that means leaving behind clothing and equipment. Outside of her profound dislike of law enforcement, she is generally easy-going, and likes to spend her days exercising and her evening drinking beer and playing pool or card games. She has been working informally with Antaeus and Evil Gecko lately, and Evil Gecko's non-violent ethos has encouraged her to stretch her powers far enough to develop a sleep mist that renders its victims unconscious.  

Valthor: The Ancient Book

"Oh, the last third of the book has spells, and we've been using those to build a lexicon so we can translate the rest of it. It's disturbing stuff: necromancy, and conjuration related to necromancy . What really interests me, though," continued the scholar, "is the first section. The title of it is something like, 'story' with markers for both truth and obscurity, followed by 'ground' or 'world', and then 'primacy'. Taken together, it's something like 'The Secret History of the First World'."

Sy, who wasn't a bad fellow for being a human and a priest of the Harvest Maiden, stiffened. Valthor managed not to glance at him, because he had a pretty good idea of why the cleric looked stung. 

Among the peoples of the daylight world and servants of the gods, it was generally taught that this was first and only world. To claim otherwise was generally considered heresy, though the degree varied somewhat from place to place. And there was a very specific belief, not uncommon in the court where he'd grown up, that the Harvest Maiden herself was the last survivor of the gods of the previous world.

Here, and particularly among the clergy of the Harvest Maiden, such a belief was not just heresy but blasphemy. In the court of his former home, the belief had been something else: it had been taught as a warning. 

No, he was definitely not going to bring that up with Sy. Not unless, for some unimaginable reason, it actually became important to know.

The scholar had finished reassuring the priest that he meant no insult, and that perhaps they should expect that a book of evil magics might also include a heresy or three. Sy had settled back, though he still looked disgruntled. 

Valthor couldn't blame him. Ominous didn't even begin to cover this. 

Valthor: The Truth of the Blade

"Thank you," said Valthor, as Tizrin handed the rapier back to him. "What's the verdict?"

The little rabbit-man artificer looked up at him. "Well," he said in his soft, almost furry voice, "it isn't cursed. It's just... bound to you, somehow. And it's a pretty basic magic weapon, enchanted to make it more likely to hit and to do a bit more damage... except, it has some hidden magics sealed away. Abilities that haven't been activated yet."

"Oh?" asked Valthor. He'd grown up around dark magics and even less savory practices, but he wasn't a spellcaster himself. 

Tizrin nodded. "Oh yes, and what's very weird is that its bond to you is connected to the seal. You'll still need to attune to it, and after that maybe you can figure out how to unlock more of it."

"Thank you," Valthor said again. "I will."

It was later, alone in his room, when Valthor would draw the blade again and study it. It felt good in his hand, light and ready. He made a few passes with it, then sheathed it again. 

Well, she was definitely my sister, then. What were you up to, Mother? He could make no guess on that front; he simply didn't know his mother well enough. She had taught him magical theory, shown him the bladesinging style she used with her sword, asked him questions designed to to make him think about his other siblings: what they wanted, how they went about getting it. She had never never discussed her own feelings about the rest of the court or her interactions with them, though.  

What were you up to? 

PotM: Leandra and Vishan at training

Swords were the weapons of nobility, and to be knighted was to enter the lowest of their ranks. Still, there were other weapons, and Leandra learned them all alongside her fellow students: spears, axes, maces, poleaxes, halberds, bows, crossbows. Some of her cohort had been training since they were very young, and she struggled to catch up to them. 

Horses were another matter. Leandra had been riding for nearly as long as she could walk; she knew the beasts and their moods. Warhorses were larger and fiercer, but she took to them all the same, and when it came to charging with shield and lance she found herself at an advantage. 

That was where she first met Vishan. Proud and self-assured, he had mounted his horse without preamble, and immediately been thrown. She had rushed over to check on him -- dark-haired and grey-eyed and athletic, but clearly no friend to warhorses -- and the first words out of his mouth were, "You didn't see that." Then he'd groaned, inhaled sharply, and tried to push himself back to his feet. 

"Didn't see what?" she'd asked innocently, widening her eyes and smoothing her face to hide the laughter. She held out a hand, he took it and let her help him to his feet. 

They'd been inseparable after that: practicing together, teaching each other, eating together... It wasn't until three months later that Vishan let slip that he was a Prince of the Realm. 

PotM: Leandra at Margull

Before the rise of the Usurper, Margull was where people came to test and train themselves for knighthood: an isolated training post from long ago, now with a city grown up around it. The High Reeve ran the fort and its four fortalices, and served on the Mayor's Council; the Mayor and Council managed the town and its governance. 

Leandra traveled to Margull when she first came of age. The journey was a gift from her parents, celebrating her entry into womanhood with a trip in the family's cart, driven by her father and pulled by one of their two plow-horses. They were greeted at the gates of the training post, and granted permission to enter. A knight in clothing of crimson and gold came and spoke to them, and then took her away for testing. 

When they returned to her father, the knight granted his permission for Leandra to enter the training. He asked her father to return in half a year for her first evaluation, where she would discover whether they thought she had the makings of a knight, or whether they judged that she would do better on her parents' farm. Leandra and her father cried tears of joy and sorrow, and in the morning he departed alone. 

Leandra remained, and began her study of the blade.  

Fighting Monsters

I wish I'd paid more attention to last night's dreams. There was a lot of Being Attacked By Monsters and also Fighting Them Off, and the monsters themselves were varied and bizarre. Admittedly, it's been a long week -- don't ask, or at least don't expect me to answer -- but still, this was the kind of material I could use. And the sense of fighting back effectively was reassuring. 

The setting was... a lot of uncertain ground -- moving from place to place, climbing and descending, but that's about all I recall of it. There were things that seemed like people, and things that were unmistakably monstrous; most were animal, but some were mostly or partly vegetable. 

Gah. I should have taken notes while it was all still fresh in my head.  

Inspirations: Final Fantasy

I mentioned that the Final Fantasy games were a big inspiration for my long-ago writing project, so here's the into to Final Fantasy VIII -- which is maybe not the strongest entry in the series, but it's the one I was playing around the time I wrote that book, and it has a lot of intriguing peculiarities to its world-building and its magic system. 

I'm going to see if I can find a way to replay it, I think, just to look at that again.

Re-reading my own work

I mentioned my old Warrior's Legacy project a couple of days ago, and one of my friends asked to read it. Apparently describing it as the "Pulp Fantasy Wuxia Cyberpunk novel" made it sound appealing. I finished the first draft back around 2003, and always meant to work through a second draft for it, but I never could quite get that going and eventually tucked it away in the writing drawer. Having sent it over to my friend, however, I started re-reading it, and...

It's not bad. It's actually pretty good. It's fun. Could it use a bit more editing? Of course. Does it suffer from Kitchen Sink Syndrome? Oh, absolutely, but that's also kind of baked into the setting -- it was inspired by a number of the earlier Final Fantasy games. I think its big weakness is that I didn't really know how to wind it up when I was writing it, but I haven't gotten far enough along in my re-read to decide if that's actually true, or just a lingering but mistaken impression. 

...Am I going to give it a sequel? Um. Definitely not right now. I have at least two other projects that I want to get back into first, if I can ever get my head on straight again. But for the moment, I'm find the story itself enjoyable, and the fact that it is enjoyable deeply reassuring. 

 Heh. Also, I was using a different pseudonym at the time.

That feeling when...

...you're so disgusted with the state of the world that you literally can't think of anything worth posting.

Ecuador?? Fucking Ecuador???

I'd just like to point out the screamingly obvious here: Kamala would not currently be bombing Iran, kidnapping foreign heads of state, or doing... whatever the hell it is we're doing... in Ecuador -- Ecuador? Did I even read that right? Nor would she have CBP murdering citizens in the street.

 

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," sure, but right now the President is visibly succumbing -- on live TV, yet! -- to both Dementia and physical health issues, and simultaneously being directed and channeled by some of the worst people on Earth. And if we're being honest, he was neither all that bright nor principled (aside from self-interest -- I guess that's a principle) before his health started going.

 

Would a lot of bad shit still have been happening, out of sight instead of out in the open? Yes, absolutely. ICE and CBP should both have been dissolved after Trump's first term. Do we now know the names and faces of a bunch of horrible, evil people who need to be stripped of wealth and influence and relegated to financial and social exile -- Homan, Bovino, Musk, Miller, Rubio, Bessent, etc.? Absolutely. 

 

Look, if you voted for Trump and are now regretting it, well... welcome to the party, I guess -- but I need you to sit with yourself and take a long, hard look at how you got there: who you were listening to, what information you trusted, which predictions you took seriously. And I need you to seriously consider how you got it so wrong, so you don't fucking do it again. I don't want to hear "nobody could have predicted--"  or "I had no way to know" or anything like that, because there were voices worth listening to that were absolutely screaming that this -- exactly this -- was going to happen. 

 

And the ones who were opining -- on major news networks or opinion columns, for example -- that it really wouldn't make any difference who got elected? They need to be ruthlessly mocked, remembered for their failures and enabling of all this, and faced with consequences for helping this happen. (I'm not saying murder them, but, like, when you get something this wrong you shouldn't still have a job where you get to tell a large audience what's what.)

 

Meanwhile... if we do manage to put American boots on the ground in Iran, it's going to be the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq all over again, but on steroids. If -- may the gods help us -- we move against Spain for refusing to host us while we're conducting an illegal, unconstitutional war of choice , we're now at war with NATO and that is absolutely going to end badly. (Yes, that was an exercise in the fine art of understatement.) If, if, if... and all the people in charge seem determined to make the worst possible choices.

 

Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. There's a lot going on out there. 

No more adventures!

Okay, so these were pretty cool people and I was happy to help them... until now. I mean yeah, okay, a wood elf with glowing runes imprinted on his face; a dragonborn berserker who thought he was a lizardfolk; and a humanoid frog with poisonous skin who acted as their priest. It was a weird group. But they saved me when my magic ran wild and the insects I was enlarging became huge instead of just big. So I threw in with them. 

It worked out pretty well. I could enlarge the dragonborn and let him do his thing with the flaming sword, and  then hang back and throw the easier spells that didn't require my concentration. That was right up until we went down into the Sunken City, and started dealing with all the mechanical beings they'd left behind. 

Alvedes was the guy who'd hired us, and he was pretty cool but he wasn't a warrior in any sense. He wanted Ahriman's Tome, the grimoire of the long-dead witch-king.  He led us in, directed us to the Planetarium and took the mapping crystal from it. Then we discovered the Sunken Palace, where we found several useful things, but also a lot of mechanical defenders... and for the most part, we were doing well, until we got close to the King's Library. 

A thousand tons of fallen stone had closed it away, and a Steel Predator roused itself to chase us out. I've never come so close to dying in my life. 

We made it back to Riftguard. I'm going to join the college here, and stay the hell away from any ruins in the Rifts. 

Iran

And now we're bombing Iran. 

I'm just sitting with that.

We're not At War, because the President can't do that by himself, and Congress hasn't even been informed, let along declared war. Instead, we're just... at war. But at least we have good reasons for going to war, even if nobody's actually managed to say what they are or what the plan actually is. 

And of course the first reports I'm hearing is that we've already managed to bomb a primary school full of little girls, with eighty-five dead.

I hate this. I hate it so much. It's going be Iraq all over again, on steroids.

The things I would be doing right now if I had Vast Supernatural Powers... 

Update: the air strike killed more than one hundred children.