When two roads diverge before you, always look for the third path. Chance, whether good or bad, will one day find you and if you are clever enough to see what it offers you, you will make your fortune.
So says Trivia, God of the Third Road.
Random chance - the roll of a celestial die - is the true balancing force of the universe. I was only a child when I learned this.
I had been abandoned as a baby and raised in an orphanage. I hated it there; they worked us to death to earn the meager meals they gave us and the headmaster would whip us if we said anything without being asked. Whether we were adopted by good people, or bought by slavers, it made little difference to him, so long as he got a good deal out of it. I didn’t get on well with the other children, either, or, more precisely, they didn’t get on with me. The hope of ever having a better life lashed out of them by the headmaster’s whip and their only hope was to never see it again. They did as he said, danced on their strings like good little puppets. It spared them a beating, but it killed their future. To people like that, I was dangerous to be around. I was too small to hold all the anger that I provoked from the headmaster, and they avoided me, lest the overflow fall onto them.
Why I never gave up like the rest of them, I don’t know - perhaps it was luck, the only real skill I had then. For whatever reason, I kept telling myself that some day, things would be different. I wasn’t going to wait around to be handed over to the first person to come along with a sack of gold willing to buy me. No, I was going to make something of myself and I was not afraid to let others know of this. That was the reason why the headmaster had decided that he was going to whip me harder than usual that day, to beat that self-righteous arrogance out of me.
That’s when Trivia rolled the first pair of dice in my direction.
As luck would have it, there had just been a noblewoman at the orphanage that day hoping to adopt a son, so the headmaster’s whip was upstairs in his office, locked away out of sight. When I spoke up after the woman had left, he promptly went to retrieve it. That was when I noticed that the headmaster, furious at my outburst, had forgotten to lock the door. The headmaster never forgot anything, not even the smallest details. It was something that would never happen again, a random chance that I somehow knew was my way to fortune.
Life on the streets of Wall City is hard no matter who you are, but it is especially difficult for someone who’s only ten years old. I didn’t know a thing of the ways of the streets, I didn’t know the right way to talk to people or the right people to talk to - hell, I didn’t even know how to hold a knife properly, which was why I got beaten almost as badly and as often as I did back at the orphanage for a while. It was the worst three years of my life, but I never once regretted my decision to leave, because at least here, I had a chance to make something of myself, no matter how slim it was.
I learned the ropes of the city rat’s life quickly and it wasn’t long before people had at least figured out that there were easier people to steal food from than me. I became a pickpocket to survive and gained a reputation as the meanest knife fighter on the streets, but I still wasn’t going anywhere with my life. I needed something to get myself started on a better road than what I was on.
There were others like me on the streets. Darren Leingod, another cutpurse, had started off worse than me, but was recently rising up in ranks as a smuggler, and all his efforts in the black market were just beginning to show profit, but I knew that wasn’t for me. I’d seen Leingod a couple of times and knew from the look in his eyes that he lived in more fear than any of the others back at the orphanage. No, I didn’t want to make my fortune in crime. Clearly, when you take something by force, you must spend the rest of your life using force to keep it and the thought of living with the constant need to keep one eye open while I slept just wasn’t appealing.
I don’t know if I really believed in gods at that time and, from what I’d heard from the noisy priests in the temple district, I certainly didn’t feel like worshiping any of them if they did happen to exist. But then I came across a small shrine to Trivia in the slums. Trivia was an interesting god, or so it seemed from his priests; without exception, every one of them were gamblers. They also didn’t like to preach much and would only tell you of their god if you asked them. Even then, you had to ask about it when they weren’t too drunk or hung-over if you really wanted to learn anything. Trivia was, officially, the god of the “Third Road.” There was an argument among the priests about whether that was fate or luck, or if they were really one and the same. I spent many nights in the shrine watching them debate this point, often over a few mugs of ale and a game of dice. It never did convert me to their faith, but it certainly was an interesting way to pass a few hours.
I was thirteen when the dice rolled a second time. I don’t think it had anything to do with the copper penny I had casually dropped at the alter that morning, but I might be wrong. After all, Trivia is a most whimsical god and you never know when a little lip-service will please him.
It was the middle of summer and I was searching the city for some easy target to lift a few coppers from for a loaf of bread. That’s when I saw him. He was wearing a dark purple robe with the hood drawn up, so I couldn’t see his face clearly, but he walked with a staff, so I assumed he was an older man. He had a number of small pouches tied loosely to his belt, any one of which would have been simple enough to procure. The funny thing about him, though, was that nobody reacted to him. People mechanically stepped out of his way when he passed, all the while continuing their business as though didn’t realize what they were doing.
I had heard stories of wizards before, people who wielded powers beyond that of normal people, who could do anything they wanted by just saying a few words, or gesturing with their hands, or waving a stick. I had been told that it was wizards who had discovered the power that worked all the machinery in the city and that in ancient times, they used to be able to make marvels greater than what we had even then, but they had long ago lost the means. I had never believed any of those stories. I’d met a couple of mechanists before, learned a bit of their trade from passing conversations, and it certainly didn’t seem to require mysterious power to run an electric street lamp, or a gas-powered furnace. I’d never seen a wizard though, or anyone who claimed to be one. “That’s because the real powerful wizards all come from Vasellio,” some would explain, while others would say, “It’s a godly magic that runs technology now.”
Sure they do. Sure it is.
When I saw this man, however, I remember thinking, Could this be a wizard? He fit all the descriptions of wizards I’d heard from people. It was the first time that I argued with myself about what I should do. On the one hand, I didn’t want to anger someone who might command great power in a very literal sense, but, on the other hand, I needed something to eat and the only people I’d ever heard talk of wizards were usually either slightly mad or wandering storytellers trying to amuse a crowd. A dozen other possibilities came to one hand or the other and, in the end, I couldn’t decide what to do. So I flipped a coin; heads, I go for it, tails, I don’t.
There are a couple of really good places in Wall City to lift a purse, where the walls break into little alleyways that are perfect for slipping into unnoticed. As luck would have it, the man was very close to one and he happened to be going in that direction. I followed him for a few blocks, keeping a safe distance from him so that I could watch him, but not be noticed. When he reached the spot, a tight back street between the Blushing Mermaid tavern and an abandoned warehouse, I made my move.
The pouch came off without any resistence and before anyone could have seen, I was making for the Blushing Mermaid’s basement door. As I laid my hand on the latch, a firm grip closed on my collar.
“There’s nothing in that pouch for you, boy.”
The voice was soft and deep, not quite empty of emotion. It’s tone was calm and it hardly sounded threatening, rather I thought that I was merely being told a simple fact. But there was no way that I could have been noticed, of that, I was certain - I’d picked enough pockets to avoid being caught so easily - and that confidence made the situation all the more frightening. Sweat beaded on my forehead and, as I carefully reached for my dagger, the only thought going through my head was that I was about to die.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the cloaked figure warned, not taking his hand off me. “Remember that when you take something by force, you spend the rest of your life using force to keep it.”
If my whole body hadn’t been so tense, I think I might have soiled myself. Not only had he seen me prepare to draw my weapon, he repeated something that I had told myself many times before, as though he had probed into my mind and read it like a book. I went numb from the shock and the pouch slipped from my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he released my collar and bent down to scoop it up.
I seemed to have taken leave of my senses then, for instead of running, I turned to face him and, without any thought of what the answer might mean, I asked, “Are you what they call a wizard?”
The figure rose up and stared down at me. Beneath his hood, I saw a stiff, chiseled face, not unlike the headmaster I had run from, but his chin was slightly more pronounced and his eyes were a piercing and disturbingly bright green. There was also some kind of letter branded onto his forehead; I didn’t know it at the time, but I would later learn it was his name. For a moment, there was only silence and I was afraid to break the eye-contact that he had made with me. Finally, he spoke.
“Possibly. Are you what they call a city rat?”
That caught me off guard. The only people who had ever answered a question with a question before always meant it as a way of warning you not to keep asking questions. Before I had a chance to decide if I was being threatened or not, he spoke again.
“Before we can answer that, we must first decide who ‘they’ are, and what exactly they call a ‘wizard’ or a ‘city rat.’”
I had always prided myself on having a quick tongue, which was why it thoroughly embarrassing for me when I started stuttering. The statement seemed needlessly (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!), yet, having brought it up, it appeared to me that he had made my question unfathomably complex. I was simply overwhelmed.
When I failed to produce a response that was more than meaningless blubbering, the man shrugged and started to walk away. As I watched him go, I suddenly found my tongue, but still missing my wits, I cried, “Wait!” He turned to regard me with his not quite empty stare and for a moment I felt as though the world was growing larger around me. Another moment of uncomfortable silence passed as I wracked my brain for something else to say, all the while telling myself that if I didn’t shut up, I was going to get myself killed.
“How did you see me?” I forced out.
“The question that interests me more,” he replied, “is how did you see me? It is not often that I am seen when I do not wish to be.”
There was another pause. I don’t think I can really explain how I felt at that moment. So many different thoughts and feelings crowded about in my head that, to this day, I have never felt confused by anything else I’ve ever come across. I was terrified of the man, yet I almost felt drawn to him. I wanted to run away, but somehow I knew that I could not escape him if he did not want me to. At the same, I didn’t want to run away, I wanted to go with him, wherever it was he was going. I wanted to know if this man was truly a wizard, and yet I shuddered at the knowledge of what that answer might mean. I had to know if the stories were true, I knew that if they were, I might end up dead, or worse, and I also knew that I was willing to risk such a fate just to know the truth.
The man’s expression never changed, but I knew that he was smiling. In his eyes, there was an undeniable look of amusement and, possibly, pleasure. Looking back on it after so many years, I realize that the only accurate way to describe that look was that of a proud father who is too stoic to allow himself to show it.
“What is your name, boy?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “I don’t have one.”
“Then I will give you a name. From this day forward, you are Freyad Dryden. Come with me if you are ready to make something of yourself.”
That was the day that I was truly converted to the faith of Trivia, God of the Third Road, which was, of course, luck.
Thought it was time I showed what I was all about. This here is the prologue of my Gaea project, which introduces you to the narrator of the Lost Empires book.
And, for your entertainment, a follow up story.
Chapter One: Meeting Sly
I should have thought it a bad omen when my journey into the world began with the question, “Why me?” Had I had sense then, I would have packed up my bags and gone home then and there, probably become a school teacher, or a poet, maybe a musician, but no, I had no sense at all back in my early days. Sometimes, I wonder if I have any sense now.
But my adventures began with the question “Why me?” and though I should have known better, I kept walking the road ahead of me - with two of the Fists of Luther at my side, eyes on me, ready to draw their swords the instant I put my foot out of line. They were certain I would, too. Bunch of crazy xenophobes, those inquisitors; they don’t trust anyone who comes in from outside of Adun that they don’t have records of leaving in the first place.
I tried to convince them that I was born in Adun, in Wall City, as a matter of fact, which was where I was headed at the time, but they wouldn’t believe me. There was no record of a Freyad Dryden ever living in Wall City and there wouldn’t be, thanks the that damn orphanage headmaster. I couldn’t exactly tell them that I had been picked up by a wandering wizard and taken to Dymacion either. Oh, gods, no, that would never have gone over well with them. So, I was stuck with two paladins, whose names I was never given, following me until they could acquire some proof as to who I was.
They were a lot alike, the two of them. They both had dark hair, clean-shaven faces and glaring green eyes that were all it took to convince me that they were insane. Well, perhaps they weren’t insane. Perhaps all fanatics have that look, or perhaps all fanatics are insane. I’m placing my money on the latter. In any case, in their polished chain-mail armor with the holy symbol of Luther hanging from a gold chain against the breastplate, it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. It was almost eerie, how identical they were, how their steps fell and lifted as one, how they could go for so long without saying a single word. They were machines, not people.
So, with the sun just a little past its peak and two unwanted companions following at my heels, I entered the town of Freiburg. Like most towns in Adun, the people were out and about, attending to their business, whatever it was. They might have greeted me cheerfully as they passed and I might have greeted them back, had the inquisitors not been right behind me. As it was, people moved to the other side of the street, or slipped into nearby shops, windows and doors closing softly. When the inquisitors are harassing poor travelers like myself, it could only mean one thing, it was a slow day and the inquisitors were bored. That meant it was time to keep your head down and not cause a scene.
I fumed inwardly, but said nothing. I was a simple bard, A bard! No one bothers bards, it just isn’t done, they’re harmless. All we can do is sing happy songs and dance and tell stories. Everyone else believed it, why not these buffoons? How was I to make a name for myself with the Fuhrer’s lapdogs following me around everywhere I went? It was clear I had to escape and soon. The next city they would drag me to would be Reichsburg, not only the opposite direction from where I intended to go, but their headquarters. Once there, they’d check the records and, finding no proof of my origin there, the next place I’d be sleeping would likely be in a lightless cell beneath the headquarters of the Fists of Luther.
If you’ve never been in danger of being put to the question by Adun’s inquisitors, you can’t possibly imagine the fear that I felt. Everybody’s heard the tales of torture - the rack, the iron-maiden, the hot coals, the boiling oil - but the tales don’t tell the half of it. I’d met a man who’d escaped from the cells of the inquisitor headquarters and the things he told me . . . Well, let’s leave it where it stands. The point is, I knew fear and I wanted to get away. I just didn’t know how. If I tried to run, they’d take it as proof of some crime and execute me on the spot and I felt a peculiar need to keep my head attached to my shoulders for at least a few more years. Perhaps, if I could cause some distraction and slip away unnoticed, but they were probably expecting some stupid trick like that.
I never counted on the answer to just come crashing into me - literally. The young woman damn near knocked me down. She wore a plain gray dress that was just about as unremarkable as you can get and her face was equally average, with dull blues eyes staring out through locks of dark brown hair that needed to be trimmed. She was a simple woman just going about her business, and meant no harm. And, as she quickly apologized and started on her way again, I noticed she was walking away with my money pouch.
That was the stick that broke the horse’s back. Since leaving my home, I’d been attacked by hobgoblin bandits, caught in a terrible storm, eaten alive by mosquitoes, harassed by paladins and now some thief thought she could just snatch my gold and walk away? Not should Trivia’s dice have rolled death’s eyes was I about to stand for that. Ignoring the Fists’ angry glares, I turned after her, crying out for her to stop, reaching out to take hold of her collar. Her pace quickened and my hand closed on empty air.
Now, as you can imagine, it was something of a shock when empty air felt strangely like a handful of fur, but it was an even greater shock when the woman vanished. Where she had been standing, there was now a small humanoid creature about three feet tall, covered in tan-red fur and vaguely fox-like in appearance. Her red hair, tied back in a pony-tail, ran down the length of her back to the tail that I was suddenly holding and three horns poked about four inches out of it. She wore only a pair of loose, green pants and a bandeau of pink cloth just barely enough to cover her more than ample breasts. With her supple body and large head, she looked like a child and, as she turned to stare in annoyance at me with her bright blue eyes, I almost let go.
Then I remembered my pouch and squeezed tighter. She gave a startled yelp and the next thing I knew, all I could see were dancing flecks of black and white, coupled with the sensation of falling, followed by a jarring pain in my backside to accompany the burning of my face.
“How dare you!” she shouted. “That was very inappropriate of you! Squeezing a young lady’s tail; of all the nerve. You should be ashamed.”
Rubbing my cheek, I glared in the general direction of the voice, where her outline was slowly becoming clear through the fading stars. Beside me, the two Fists stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords, but they had not yet drawn them. Why, of all the times, they should decide to suddenly decide at that moment to follow the law and wait for an accusation to be made, I still don’t know, but I was too irritated to mull it over. That punch had really hurt.
“She stole my money,” I said, pointing an accusing finger.
Finally the swords came out and the little creature took a step back, holding out one hand defensively.
“Now, hold on a moment boys,” she said calmly. “I haven’t stolen anything.”
“Yes, you did!” I shouted, rising to my feet and pointing to my pouch. “That’s my money.”
The creature looked at the pouch as if seeing it for the first time. With a weak laugh, scratching the back of her head nervously, she looked at me, then at the inquisitors - or, more precisely, at their swords - then back to the pouch.
“Oh, this?” she waved her hand dismissively. “I didn’t steal it. I’ve never seen it before in my life. Really, you dropped it; I was just picking it up for you.”
The inquisitor on my left took another step forward, brandishing his sword at her. “You must think that we’re stupid.”
“Well, yes, actually,” she replied. “But I’m starting to think you might not be as stupid as people have led me to believe.”
If you’ve ever seen an angry dog just about to sink its teeth into some unfortunate trespasser, then you can get a pretty good idea of what the scene looked like for just a moment. It was quite astonishing actually. The Fists tensed as one - I could almost see the hair rising on the backs of their neck in rage - and their faces went livid, their grips tightening on their blades. I swear one of them looked as though he was about to have an apoplexy, so much did the vein on his head bulge.
The little creature, on the other hand, looked truly frightened. Her eyes glistened with moisture, her shoulders slumped and she was nervously drawing little circles in the dirt with one foot. Pity overcame my anger at the sight. After all, I had been a pickpocket like her, once, forced to lift a few coppers from others every day just to buy bread. It was probably all she knew and I didn’t have the heart to see a girl’s blood spilled over a few coins - hell, they were rupees, after all, hardly worth the fuss I was making.
As one of the Fists prepared to raise his sword, I took hold of his hand. The both of them turned to face me, their eyes burning with anger.
“It’s alright,” I said, then I turned to the creature. “Look, I just want my pouch back.”
With a tear rolling down her cheek, she nodded to me. I looked calmly at the two inquisitors, who stepped back, sheathing their swords, one of them sighing with what I was sure was disappointment. Sniffling, staring at her feet, the little creature approached me, taking tiny, apprehensive steps past the Fists, then looked up at me with deep blue orbs full of remorse. I smiled gently, holding out my hand to her. With one more sob, she slowly raised the hand that held my pouch up . . . and stuffed it into brassiere so that only its opening stuck out between her cleavage.
“Ha ha!” she cried with triumph, thrusting her chest at my face. “Take it now! Take it! I dare you!”
Even under the circumstances, I had enough sense not to laugh at the Fists. Once again, their faces had gone bright red, but this time from blushing and not anger and it took effort not to let my mirth show. They stood there, transfixed with modesty, as this strange little creature hooted at me like an owl, jiggling her breasts shamelessly. I guess such a sight had overwhelmed their hardwired, propaganda-riddled brains. Obviously, they were useless and, if I was going to get my money back, I had to take it myself.
Jaws dropping in horror, the inquisitors faces turned an even deeper shade of crimson than they already had been - if you can believe that - but the look of surprise on her face as I snatched my pouch away and put it back on my belt was quickly replaced a mischievous smile of approval. Nodding, she took hold of my other hand and shook it vigorously.
“Well, nice to meet you. I hope you have a really good day.”
With that she stepped past me and started away, leaving me to stare in disbelief, wondering what, exactly, had just happened. The inquisitors, however, were not finished. The first one to recover from the shock stepped past me and called for her to halt, which she did, turning to face him with an expression of such wide-eyed innocence that one would think she was guilty of murder. I tried to tell him to let it go, that I had my money back and there was no reason to pursue the matter any further, but as far as he was concerned, I had apparently ceased to exist.
“Tell me, imp,” he barked. “What have you stolen today?”
The creature rolled her eyes and, with an irritated sigh, pointed to me, answering, “Well, nothing, thanks to him.”
“I’m not so sure,” said the paladin. “Show me everything you’re carrying.”
Sadistic. That’s the only word I can think of to describe the gleam in her eyes. It gave me the chills just watching as she turned slightly to the side, placing her hands on her hips with a smile as seductive as any siren. Winking at the man, she leaned forward a bit, so that he could not look away from her face without staring down into her garment.
“Mmm, I didn’t think you were that kind of man,” she said. “But you know, I don’t charity service. If you really wanna see it, you’re gonna have to do some of the work yourself.”
The inquisitor went white as a sheet and I thought for a moment that he was going to pass out from shame. His companion held his composure a bit better, though.
“By Luther’s hand, woman,” he growled, “have you no decency.”
For a moment, the creature looked offended, perhaps even hurt. Indignantly, she took hold of the straps and pulled them aside, inspecting herself thoroughly. Someone - I think it was the second inquisitor - let out a high whine, like a teapot at the boil. Finally, she looked up at him angrily.
“I think they’re decent enough,” she retorted. Then, to me, she demanded, “Don’t you agree?”
Well, what was I supposed to say? How exactly does one respond to something like that? I said not a word, but nodded weakly, trying my hardest not to stare openly at her chest, then, trying - and failing - to suppress a blush, averted my eyes. She nodded thoughtfully, then closed the straps, straightened them and started to leave, muttering under her breath about the indecency of men in Adun.
For a moment, I was relieved that the ordeal was finished, but only just long enough to realize that it wasn’t. The Fists were not about to let her get away with her behavior and rushed past me, swords ready. Though she made no overt move, I suddenly noticed a metal ring with three spikes around its edge in her hand and realized she was about to attack. I called out to warn the inquisitors - why, I don’t know, it must have been reflex - but it was too late to stop things from playing out.
Fortunately for the Fists, the creature decided to go easy on them. As the first came in, his blade gleaming in the sunlight, she swung her arm back and struck the man on the forehead with the dull part of her ring between the spikes. As he stumbled back, stunned by the blow, the second attacked. Easily sidestepping his clumsy chop, she leapt straight up, jackknifing in the air, taking a moment to place one hand on his shoulder as she flipped over the top of him and landed behind. Her weapon disappeared - where she put it, I don’t know and do not wish to know - and put some distance between herself and her attackers in a series of back handsprings.
I watched the whole thing, barely six seconds from start to finish, and when she landed several feet away from me, she crossed one arm in front of herself and bowed deeply. Before I knew what I was doing, I applauded her acrobatics, stopping quickly when I realized that the inquisitors were recovering.
“By the way, boys,” she said to them, holding something up in her hand. “I did say that I don’t work for free. I think this should cover the service charge.”
In the light of the sun, I could see a small, silver object hanging from a chain. Looking closer, I realized it was a miniature sword with an all-seeing eye engraved on the hilt, the holy symbol of Luther. One of the inquisitors looked down in shock, suddenly noticing his charm had been snatched away. Jeering a singsong insult at the two of them, she darted off down the alley, the two chasing after her with furious cries.
A soft breeze drifted through the empty streets as I stood there, wide-eyed and drop-jawed. What had just happened? I turned the events over in my mind again and again, each time invariably coming to the same conclusion - that I was now standing alone on an empty street and that the paladins who had been harassing me since I first came out of Heaven’s Gate Pass were nowhere to be seen, had likely forgotten all about me.
I drew a gold rupee from my pouch, placed it on my thumb and sent it whirling into the air, catching it on the back of my hand. The scales were face up, a very good sign. Humming a merry tune, I turned and made my way to the nearest tavern, noting along the way a woman peeking out from the crack of a window; she had a smile on her face.
When I arrived at the tavern, I ordered a mug of ale from the fat barkeep, paid for the drink and took a seat at a table in the back, where a number of men were dicing. Silently saying a quick prayer of thanks to Trivia for the hand, I played a few games. The god of luck continued to favor me that day, for in a matter of hours, I had exchanged my useless rupees for Adun marks and made a considerable profit in the transaction.
I had lost track of time during the games and the sun was setting outside. As I took note of it out the window, I also saw the two inquisitors coming toward the tavern and decided it was best not to remind them I was still here. Scooping up my earnings, tossing a few coins to the other players to thank them for the game - they gave me really dirty looks at that, but how was I to know that wasn’t the custom here, having lived so many years in Dymacion? - and slipped into the kitchen. Luck was still with me, for at the moment, the cooks were all looking away and the back door was open. Quickly and silently, I exited just before it closed shut and made my way out of town.
As I left Freiburg and made my way down the path through the forest toward Wall City, I prayed to Trivia to watch over my journey and let no chance harm befall me. This was the first mistake. It is never good to tempt the god of fate and luck, or give him enough room to maneuver. Trivia indeed answered my prayer, for nor chance harm befell me, but that would have been preferable to what happened next.
“Yeah, I think you’ve got the right idea.”
I froze where I stood, the blood draining from my face as I slowly turned toward the sound of the voice and saw that strange little creature from earlier that day. With a broad grin stretching from ear to furry ear, she swaggered over to me and again took one hand and shook it; the other, I kept on my pouch.
“It’s probably a good idea to get out of here,” she said. “Those dolts are going to be furious with the both of us for this. Sorry about that, by the way. My name is Sthlyrruth, but you can call me Sly.” Throughout this, I kept trying to speak, but no words would come to me, nor do I expect I could have gotten them out if I’d had them. “That was a boatload of fun, wasn’t it? Those Fists are funnier than a barrel full of goblins. Not too sure what’s funny about a bunch of goblins stuffed into a barrel, but I’m sure you know what I mean. So, what’s you’re name?”
She paused expectantly and I managed to stutter out my name, which was the second mistake I made that night. She pressed one of her fingers to her chin in thought, nodding decisively, then turned to me with a smile radiant enough to light up the darkening sky.
“I like you, Dryden,” she said. “Where are you headed?”
“Wall City,” I replied.
This was the third mistake and the one that sealed my fate. She smiled again, nodded again.
“That sounds like an interesting place to go. Let’s have some fun, then.”
“H-have some fun?” I stuttered.
But she was already starting down the road as if she could not hear my protests. Slowly, it was dawning on me that I would not be able to get rid of her, at least not while I was on the road. Resigning myself, I decided I would at least lay down some rules.
“I expect you to be a little more ladylike,” I started.
I immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. She stopped in mid-step, turned slowly, ever so slowly, to face me, her eyes full of shock.
“I beg your pardon,” she shot back, her voice oozing with indignance. “More ladylike?”
I find it hard to believe that I, the great epic poet, the quintessential bard, can always find a way to say the most stupid thing possible, then follow it up with something even more stupid. It just blows my mind that I can be so good at performing that my reputation precedes me everywhere I go, yet I can be so bad with words. You see, instead of being intelligent, and leaving it at that, I continued.
“Well, yes,” I replied. “You know, be a little respectful, show some propriety, or at the very least keep your top on.”
She was on me in an instant, staring me down with those blue fox-eyes, despite the fact that she barely came up to my chest. Glaring coldly, she tapped her finger against my nose repeatedly.
“Now listen here, old man,” she hissed. “I don’t know who you think you are, but there’s not a chance in the nine circles of Kadhul that you’re gonna make me act like some little boy.”
“Little boy?” I blurted.
“Yes!” she shot back. “Be on your best behavior, respect your elders, keep your head down and your mouth shut. That’s how little boys act, and young girls still tied to their fathers’ aprons. Look at these horns,” she pointed to them for emphasis. “Measure the length. I am eighty-five years old and that makes me an adult and I am going to act like how a mature, adult woman is expected to act.”
I stared at her a moment, uncomprehending. “That’s not how I was raised to think.”
“Humans,” she snorted, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “You’re all backward. Gods, next thing you’ll be telling me is I shouldn’t belch after meal.”
Again, the first words that came from my mouth were the worst possible thing to say. “Well, ideally, no.”
I had never met one of Sly’s kind before, but that wasn’t necessary to recognize that the way her fur bristled and her tail went stiff was a very bad sign. In the next instant, she was baring her teeth at me, which was even easier to recognize as a display of anger.
“By Arieth, there is not a man alive who can tell me a woman can’t belch and scratch herself in public, so long as the company’s not to important.” (“Scratch yourself?” I muttered, but she would have none of it). “Those are rights a woman should just take for granted. If you and I are going to be traveling together, you’d better get this straight; I demand respect. Keep this attitude up for long and you’re really going to regret it.”
“Take for granted?” I sputtered. “Regret it? I only . . . Now wait just a damn minute! Who said anything about us traveling together?”
“I did,” Sly answered, her tail twitching in agitation. “What, are you dumb as well as rude? By all the gods!”
She turned her back to me and stomped off down the road, arms folded across her breasts, muttering something about men always thinking women should be soft and flowery - like themselves - and women having every right to be who they were. Her tirade stopped abruptly and she whirled about to face me.
“Well, come on,” she said. “Let’s get going.”
What else was there to do? I followed her. Along the way, a thought struck me and I asked her a question that I really ought to have known I didn’t want to hear the answer to.
“Did you at least give the paladin back his holy symbol?”
“Well,” she replied in the patient tone of one explaining things to a child, “it isn’t as if I could make any money off of it.”
“Then, you did give it back to him?” I pressed.
She nodded. “Yes, yes, eventually.” I started to sigh with relief, but it was cut short as she continued. “I mean, those guys are really dedicated to their faith and he’ll probably keep looking until he finds it, so I can say that eventually, I did give it back to him, right?”
“Oh, by Trivia’s dice!” I cursed.
“You a gambler?” she asked. Only vaguely aware of anything, I replied that I was, but she went on before I spoke. “Not me. I never gamble, except with my life. After all, father always said, ‘Daughter, you can do anything you like, but you must never gamble with something that isn’t yours. It’s just not right.’ Since my life is the only thing I have that I can be really sure is actually mine . . . Well, the rest goes without saying, I suppose. Do you have any trail mix?”
The unceasing chatter continued until we laid out our bedrolls and laid down for the night - and even then, she would occasionally talk in her sleep - and resumed in the morning when we awoke. Through it all, one question kept turning over in my mind again and again.
Why me? Why me?
By all the gods, why me?
What is the little fox girl? werefox or some homegrown race? I’m thinking the latter, since she had horns. I enjoyed your stories. Your origin story is really quite good. Very internally consistant. I take it Luther is the LE god of nazis? The Reichburg and the “furher” comments along with the xenophobia and torture. Nice application. I didn’t like the name Trivia, tho. Just my opinion, but the god of chance (or fate) should have a proper name and Trivia is well, Trivial. But you are a good writer and I would enjoy anything else you would care to share.
The Fox-girl is a race called forest imps. If you view my Deviantart page (http://freyad-dryden.deviantart.com) my first journal entry has more about her race. A rundown of their origin, Arieth, the nine-tailed goddess of mirth (her avatar is a white, nine-tailed fox) was having a lovers spat with her lecherous husband, Hermes, and she decided to make him jealous by taking a mortal husband. The offspring of that union were the forest imps.
Originally, when I first created Gaea they were Kender, but Kender is product identity and even if I wanted to keep them, I couldn’t. I was still back in ninth grade when I came up with the original idea for the world, so I got stuck on the idea of a childlike race of thieves and the forest imps came out of the need to fill that void. They ended up being considerably different from the Kender though and I like what ultimately came out of it.
Trivia is actually the greek name of the god of the roads, his roman name being Janus. Or, at least that’s what I think. I’m not sure though, the sources aren’t the most reliable ones I’ve ever come across, but it seemed an appropriate name for a whimiscal deity like he is.
What I’m largely going for is a more contained and more politically complex world than most D&D worlds. The problem I have with Forgotten Realms and Ebberon is that they lack any sense of politics and only possess the vaguest sense of culture. Luther is actually the equivilent of Heironeous (that was what his name originally was, but apparently all the gods in the PH are also product identity, so I had to come up with all new names for the gods). I took a different spin on some of the aspects, however. The Fists of Luther are all paladins (clearly) so they are well intentioned people, but they’re spoonfed religious doctrin and political propoganda from the time they’re children and raised to be the perfect loyal tools of church and state. If you read about the (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!) leaders, most of them were also highly religious and they used their religion to justify their actions. I felt that using some real-world paralels would give the country more meaning as well as give it a certain flavor.
Okay, now that’s going to far. I can understand if you want to edit words like (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!) out, but I can’t say (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!) even if I’m actually referring to the German political group National Socialist Workers Party? I think somebody (by which I mean the administrator) needs to refine the censorship parameters just a bit.
And how come obscureinfo got away with it?
Okay, now that’s going to far. I can understand if you want to edit words like (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!) out, but I can’t say (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!) even if I’m actually referring to the German political group National Socialist Workers Party?
The official stance of the website is no politics, but I don’t think that’s the problem here.
I think somebody (by which I mean the administrator) needs to refine the censorship parameters just a bit.
I believe the censors were autogenerated by the board’s software, not manually entered in.
And how come obscureinfo got away with it?
Spelling. The censor is specific to exact spellings - so N-a-z-i-s can make it through but not N-a-z-i.
No politics? What total garbage.
Are we all so afraid of conflict that we’ll close our ears and eyes to avoid it? There’s not a story I’ve ever written since high school that doesn’t have some sort of political/social comentary to it and Gaea is loaded with the stuff. Of course the Nazis are a bit obvious but there is lots more within it and if my posts are going to be censored into scrap because of that, I may as well not bother dropping by at all.
I mean, some of us here may actually want to discuss aspects of my work and as much as I appreciate the input on game mechanics and statistical information, I wouldn’t mind discussing themes as well. Each human culture within Gaea is meant to be a commentary on different kinds of problems withing governments. Adun is corruption from too much control. Vasellio is a corruption due to negligence and overindulgence of nobility. Dymacion (which I don’t believe I’ve mentioned on this site yet) is corruption due to the sheer incompitence of bureaucracy (or however you spell that word). You get the idea. Furthermore, while each relies on a historical context, each has its ties to the contemporary government of the United States.
So, you mean to tell me that my work, all the years of effort on my Gaea Project, are unwelcome here because the standard is “no politics allowed.” Begging your pardon, my lord, but I don’t see this as any less childish than “no girls allowed.”
There’s one site that I’m a part of where I hold a political debate once a month with everyone on the site who wishes to participate and we’ve never once had problems with flaming, spamming, or general duchebaggery. Oh, sure, sometimes we step on each others toes a bit, but when such happens we work the matter out as responsible adults. I know that people are capable of being reasonable with the topic and the only thing that forbidding it is going to do is make people more and more intollerant of other ideas. I mean, it’s a bloody anime community! If they can be reasonable, so can we.
It’s in the rules. In fact, you were supposedly required to read the rules in order to register here. That said - making comparisons between fictional works and reality is not really discussing politics in the way the rules mean. The rule specifically prohibits discussions of the sort that many of us (myself included as one of the biggest posters) participated in at 3ebb.
Are we all so afraid of conflict that we’ll close our ears and eyes to avoid it?
THis is a D&D/gaming board. THere are political discussion boards elsewhere. The two don’t need to meet here.
There’s not a story I’ve ever written since high school that doesn’t have some sort of political/social comentary to it and Gaea is loaded with the stuff.
Again, discussion of fictional work (and fictional politics by proxy) is not something that the spirit of the rules intends to invoke.
Of course the Nazis are a bit obvious but there is lots more within it and if my posts are going to be censored into scrap because of that, I may as well not bother dropping by at all.
That’s your opinion and you’re entitled to it. But I hardly think the censoring of the word N-a-z-i constitutes “censored into scrap.” That would be what you call hyperbole, and extremely overstated at that.
I mean, some of us here may actually want to discuss aspects of my work and as much as I appreciate the input on game mechanics and statistical information, I wouldn’t mind discussing themes as well. Each human culture within Gaea is meant to be a commentary on different kinds of problems withing governments. Adun is corruption from too much control. Vasellio is a corruption due to negligence and overindulgence of nobility. Dymacion (which I don’t believe I’ve mentioned on this site yet) is corruption due to the sheer incompitence of bureaucracy (or however you spell that word). You get the idea. Furthermore, while each relies on a historical context, each has its ties to the contemporary government of the United States.
So, you mean to tell me that my work, all the years of effort on my Gaea Project, are unwelcome here because the standard is “no politics allowed.” Begging your pardon, my lord, but I don’t see this as any less childish than “no girls allowed.”
No one said anything of the sort. Take a chill pill and reconsider exactly what I said - the word N-a-z-i is censored by default for the programming, and since the general discussion of politics is banned, there’s not really a need to uncensor the word. That said, discussion of fictional politics within the contexts of your works is not really a problem.
There’s one site that I’m a part of where I hold a political debate once a month with everyone on the site who wishes to participate and we’ve never once had problems with flaming, spamming, or general duchebaggery.
First of all, I find that hard to believe. Second of all, even though the discussions at 3ebb treaded close to what you describe, they weren’t necessary components for a board discussing roleplaying games.
Oh, sure, sometimes we step on each others toes a bit, but when such happens we work the matter out as responsible adults. I know that people are capable of being reasonable with the topic and the only thing that forbidding it is going to do is make people more and more intollerant of other ideas.
That’s not necessarily true, in and of itself. Regardless the rule here is the rule and there’s already been intense discussion of this “problem” with the general answer that there’s not really a need for political discussion here.
I mean, it’s a bloody anime community! If they can be reasonable, so can we.
Point that was made much earlier. I invite you to visit this thread if you would like to read more about the discussion of politics.
Once again, if you want to discuss your work and the political ramifications within your writing, I don’t see how that’s a problem. But note that I think you over-exaggerate the “censorship” issue by a lot.
Ah, but seriously, I don’t think one can really overexagerate the censorship issue ane the very concept of it offends me deeply.
But that’s neither here nor there, is it?
By the way, don’t go reading emotion into my posts. I do not get angry when I debate something and that you add that in makes me seem quite overbearing and offensive. Well, moreso than I already am, which is not something I can really afford. I was merely pointing out the logical extension of the principle behind censorship, which, admittedly, was very out of place here. But such is my tendency.
I have already forgotten exactly what my point was.
Vote Cthulhu for president.
Getting back to the topic. Your story looks interesting and I would like to read it. While not going into grammar, spelling, or the best order for your words, I hope you don’t mind if I leave a little constructive criticism.
In writing, the key to an attentive reader’s heart is formatting. Just a few suggestions for future posts or for this one if you will.
If you’ve ever read any fiction with dialogue, you may have noticed how each spoken sentence in quotations will command it’s own line.
Here is a sample of your writing that may appear easier on the eyes. All I did was double space your paragraphs and give your dialogue a little breathing room. Cheers.
I seemed to have taken leave of my senses then, for instead of running, I turned to face him and, without any thought of what the answer might mean, I asked,
“Are you what they call a wizard?”
The figure rose up and stared down at me. Beneath his hood, I saw a stiff, chiseled face, not unlike the headmaster I had run from, but his chin was slightly more pronounced and his eyes were a piercing and disturbingly bright green. There was also some kind of letter branded onto his forehead; I didn’t know it at the time, but I would later learn it was his name. For a moment, there was only silence and I was afraid to break the eye-contact that he had made with me. Finally, he spoke.
“Possibly. Are you what they call a city rat?”
That caught me off guard. The only people who had ever answered a question with a question before always meant it as a way of warning you not to keep asking questions. Before I had a chance to decide if I was being threatened or not, he spoke again.
“Before we can answer that, we must first decide who ‘they’ are, and what exactly they call a ‘wizard’ or a ‘city rat.’”
I had always prided myself on having a quick tongue, which was why it thoroughly embarrassing for me when I started stuttering. The statement seemed needlessly (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!), yet, having brought it up, it appeared to me that he had made my question unfathomably complex. I was simply overwhelmed.
Well, I personally don’t like that format myself. By seperating every line of dialogue from the rest of the text like that, it creates a sort of mechanical feel that reminds me of William Shatner’s acting. In the right places, blending dialogue with movement can make the flow of the action more fluid. I could point to countless examples in Robert Jordan’s work. It’s all a matter of propper timing, which is something I’m working on.
This is largely an experiment for me. This is the first time since I started seriously writing that I’ve tried to do a first person perspective and I’m trying to find the correct blend of narration and commentary to give Dryden his personality. I’m also trying to use some of the old, victorian conventions to engage the audience. Rather than just some guy talking at the wind, I want it to seem more like someone is actually sharing his life story with an interested audience, but even as I’m using classic conventions, I’m trying to give them my own personal flair. At the same time, however, I’m also basically developing the world; the purpose of this particular story is to get the audience to see what Gaea is really like from a personal perspective. I’ve never done anything quite like this before, so it’s quite a bumpy ride. There are several more chapters on my Deviantart page (six, as of now, and I’m writing chapter nine at the moment) and some of them are better than others.
On the whole, I’d be quite appreciative of constructive criticism. I’ve always loved criticism more than praise, since it gives me something to think about and that often is the key to improvement. I can find more useful information in a single statement I total disagree with than a thousand paragraphs of empty praise.
And, as hard as you might find this to believe, I love to hear myself talk.
I’ve read Robert Jordan and his work uses proper formatting. It keeps readers interested which comes in handy for RJ because he’s a very long winded and detailed author.
Well, I personally don’t like that format myself.
It just seems to me like you don’t want to put effort into it. That’s cool. Good luck with that.
Hold it hold it hold it! Who said anything about effort? I put my very soul into my stories and I’ve been working for many years to improve my skills. Sure, I’m not as good as I wish I was, but that will always be true. I really don’t think the argument that “anything different from what everybody does is invalid” is really a good argument.
First of all, authors experiment with formatting all the time. Did you ever read James Joyce? To say that there’s a particular format that must be stuck to at all costs is a silly thing, something I would expect from a high school English teacher. Storytelling is an art and when you reduce it to something formulaic, you loose the essence of what it is. How did Kosh put it? “You should listen to the music, not the song.”
Like I said, what I’m attempting to do is create a feel of someone who is speaking to you. When you speak, how often do you stop to think about how it would look if you formatted it? At the same time, formatting is an important element of clarity - I have my doubts that it has anything to do with keeping an audience entertained - so I’m trying to find a careful balancing point between the two.
This is a lot of hard work. If, at times, it appears I don’t know what I’m doing, it’s largely because I don’t - not entirely anyway. I’m attempting something I’ve never done before and that not too many authors have experimented with in quite the same way that I am. I’ve really got nothing to draw upon as a guideline.
Unless you’ve got a few examples that I haven’t come across, for which I would be appreciative.
The biggest problem that I see with contemporary literature is that we’ve stopped being original. We either use the same conventions we always have, or we completely ignore conventions entirely. We’re not trying to do anything new. All throughout the history of literature, authors have tried to make their work - every aspect of their work - reflect their culture and the ideas it holds. One of the things happening in modern U.S. culture, in fact in most of the world, is that we’re becomming more casual. So, I’m trying to have a casual sort of feel to the narative, yet still contain a sort of subtle artistry to it. I’ve pretty much got the casual done and done, now I’m trying to get the subtle artistry.
