The Dark Lord writing prompt .

Written for a writing prompt on reddit.

Prompt: Dark Lord received a prophecy that a young orphan from the nearby village will end his reign. Instead of attempting to get her killed, he adopted her.

 The ritual was completed, and the brilliant light that had shown from the markings on the floor receded. The girl laying in the center of the ring of runes and sigils stirred, then sat up groggily and looked around in confusion. “Father? Are you there? what happened?” she asked as she blinked, trying to focus her eyes on the crumpled form laying in the smaller rune circle to the side. 

Her eyes flashed open wide as understanding sunk in. She leapt to her feet and ran over to his side. “Oh, Daddy, no. No! Why!?” she shouted, her eyes brimming with tears. She knelt beside the black robed figure and gently cradled his head in her arms. Her tears dripped freely down onto his face. “Why?”

The Dark Lord smiled up at her. It was a kind, gentle smile, the smile that was only for her, though this time it was tinged with sadness. His eyes that before had always practically glowed with arcane power and sheer force of will were now dull and exhausted. For the first time in the girl’s life, he looked old, weak. The man raised a trembling hand out of the pool of his robes and gently cupped her cheek. A hand that for so long had wielded spell and sword with powerful ease, now barely had the strength for the small movement.

“Because I love you, child.” the man rasped out in a wavering voice. A voice that before had boomed forth, bending men and magic alike to his commands. “Because it was the only way to save you.” His hand dropped back down, his strength exhausted. “I…  was the only sacrifice strong enough to... restore you. I.. am sorry…” His eyes drooped shut. His last breath was barely a whisper. “My destiny…” His lips settled into a contented smile.

The girl choked back a sob as she watched the last of the life draining out of the man who had raised her. The man who had taken her in, and loved her as his own. She couldn’t remember the day he had taken her in, so long ago as a child sees. But she knew of that day in the rain when he had come to take her. The family that had taken her in and treated her so cruelly, all fleeing in abject terror as the Dark Lord himself strode up to the home. She had just sat there, a toddler, watching him approach. She was the first person in over a century not to cower in terror at his overwhelming presence. She didn’t remember, but he had told her the story of it many times, a note of pride in his voice, and she knew it to be true.

There was also the part of the story he had never told her. But he had taught her well how to see the truth behind things, how to uncover what was hidden. She had learned on her own of the prophecy. The Prophet had foretold of her birth, and of her parent’s deaths. He had listed the signs and portents that had led her father to her that day. He had also foretold that she would be the bringer of the Dark Lord’s demise. That was the reason he had sought her out. Not to destroy her, but to take her in, raise her as his own. An attempt to twist the prophecy to his own ends.

Now she wept over her father’s body. She had never told him that she knew the true reason he had taken her. She suspected that he had known that she knew, but they had both left it unsaid. Neither could bear to speak it aloud, because the deeper truth was that they truly loved each other, the strange father and daughter. She was the only person in the world that he hadn’t seen as a tool to be used. She had never needed or wanted proof of his love, but now she knelt with that proof cradled in her arms.

She gently laid his head back down now, and stood. Looking down at his withered corpse, she swallowed back her sobs and her eyes hardened. His empire meant nothing to her. She had never really understood his lust for control, one of the few points of contention between them. The luxuries of the palace would bring her no comfort in her grief. She wanted none of it. He had taught her many things, deep things, and there was some small comfort there. She breathed deeply, feeling the power inside her not only restored, but vastly increased. She steeled herself, only one thought in her mind now. The magical malady she had just been cured of, that had almost killed her, was not natural. Someone had done this to her, to them. If it wasn’t the Prophet, then perhaps he would know who. She would find him, and he would tell her, willingly or not. One way or another she would hunt them down, and they would pay for what they had done to her father.

They would all pay.

Clever Jack

This is a character vignette to help me get the feel for my character Clever Jack for Jerry’s Descent of Asha campaign. This story was never actually part of the campaign and wasn’t shared with the other players.

The patrons of the inn looked up curiously as the weathered door to the inn swung open, letting in the cool evening breeze. A tall man walked in, wearing traveler’s leathers and a warm hooded cloak. He walked up to the bar and very deliberately placed down a silver mark on the bars edge.

“Mulled wine,” he said, without lowering his hood. The barman looked down at the silver sitting on the bar, and back up to the cowled face in front of him, before wordlessly clomping into the kitchen and returning with a steaming earthenware mug. This was not the barman the traveler knew for this inn, but then the inn had changed hands and names often, and it didn’t surprise him to see a new face. Running a peaceful business wasn’t easy out here in the lawless edge of the Necrohol. He sipped the warm drink, examining  the new barman. He was of a height with him, with a heavy mustache and big hunched shoulders. Looked like he could take care of himself. The barman looked back down at the silver mark lying on the bar.

“What else can I get for you then, sir?” he finally asked. The traveler took another quiet sip before answering.

“I’m looking for a man called Jack,” he says. The barman scrunched up his face in thought, mustache bristling.

“It’s a common name. What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s about yay tall, younger fella, short brown hair, talks a good game,” said the traveler, holding a level hand at his nose to indicate height.

The barman gazed longingly at the silver on the bar as he sadly admitted, “Can’t say that it rings a bell. Anything else?”

“Some call him Clever Jack. Rumor has it he’s in these parts.”

“Well,” said the barman, still eyeing the coin, “if he stops by I’d be glad to give him a message for you.”

“Yeah, you do that,” replied the traveler, pushing the coin towards the delighted barman. “You tell him that ‘Eight times is a fine meal for nine.’”

“Eight times is a fine meal for nine?” slowly repeated back the barman in a puzzled tone.

“Oh, he’ll know what it means,” replied the traveler. “You just tell him it right back just like I told you, word for word, you understand? If he don’t understand it, he’s a dead man, and he’s lucky I didn’t find him myself,” he added, draining the wine. He then set down the mug and walked out the door without another word.

“Well,” said the barman in a puzzled tone to the room in general, “Well, that was strange.” He clomped back into the kitchen shaking his head.

In the silence that followed, one of the other patrons finally turned to his old companion to say, “Strange indeed. Never seen that barman in here before. Wonder what happened to old Cormick?”

“He’s took sick all’a sudden, dinja’ hear? That fella’s a frind a’his, hilping out,” replied the old fellow. “Ne’re seen him a’for neither though, now’s you mention it,” he mused. “Hey barman!” he called at the kitchen doors. “Barman!” No one answered.

As the patron called out, Jack hung the barman’s apron neatly on the hook where he’d found it, then eased the back door of the kitchen closed and slipped silently towards the shadows of the brooding trees nearby. He had already traded his elevated boots for his usual soft leather slippers. A glint of silver vanished as he slipped the silver mark into a hidden pouch. Once in the safety of the trees, he removed the shoulder pads from under his shirt and slipped on his dark coat. He peeled the mustache off, leaving a patch of oddly youthful skin showing, had there been enough light to see it by. A splash of strong spirits on a rag removed the rest of his makeup, which he carefully folded away into the small pack he’d carried out of the kitchen, along with the other bits of his disguise. Lastly he slipped over to a particular gnarled tree at the roadside, reached into a knot and grabbed out a small, flat oilcloth packet which he frowned at, then tucked into his waistband under his shirt. Everything in order he glided off into the night.

As he stepped back into the light of his crew’s fire he commented, “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I don’t think we should take that contract you were considering. The more I think on it, the more I'm certain it’s a setup.”

“And just where the hell have you been?” asked Alec, the crew’s leader.

“Sorry, Chief. Just... answering nature’s call,” Jack replied, with a grimace that discouraged follow up.

“Alright but if you’re going to be gone that long… oh nevermind.” Alec sighed. “And I’m sorry, but we really do need that job. Vanguard won’t be happy if we come back empty handed.”

“That’s why I was thinking we could follow up on a rumor I heard back in town about a Drachurst noble’s son out here instead.  His coin’d spend as well as anyone’s,” said Jack. The oilskin packet containing that information had already been burned on the way back.

Three Gods of War

Many gods of War had the Norse of old. Fitting for a people of which so many went Viking. Three were even more warlike than the rest:

Stolid Tyr, One Handed, swordsman and general. He was the war god of discipline, training, and self sacrifice. He sacrificed his own right hand to so that Fenrir, the Destroyer, could be bound until the end-times. His was the guard who stood watch in the bitter cold of winter while other men feasted within; his was the warrior who stood fast and bled so the shield-wall would hold.

Mighty Thor, the Thunder, wielder of the great hammer Mjolnir. He was the war god of daring deeds and feats of prowess. He risked himself and emerged triumphant time and again against his Jotun foes. His was the man who boasted of his bold deeds in the meadhalls; his was the warrior who charged headlong into the teeth of the enemy with a song on his lips.

Above them all was wise Woden the All-Father, who bore the spear Gungnir and rode into battle on Sleipnir, the eight-legged stallion. He was a god of many things, chief among the gods, and the god of chieftains. A god of hard choices and cold stratagems. He sacrificed his eye and more at the Well of the World in exchange for Wisdom, and his companions are the ravens Thought and Memory. His was the king who must choose which of his loyal men to send to the slaughter so that others may live; his was the warleader who lay in ambush to defeat a superior force.

Many gods of war had the Norse of old, and only one god of Peace.

Note: My knowledge of Norse religion is amateur at best, and my views through a modern lens. Still I felt this piece poetic enough to be worth sharing. I hope it does not misinform. One inaccuracy that I am actually aware of is using the Anglo-Saxon "Woden" over the Norse "Oden" despite focusing on Norse religion because I just prefer the sound of it.

Lord of the Rings Films: fixing Legolas and Gimli’s rivalry

I know its a bit dated a discussion now, but I recently thought about this again and wanted to share. (Also posted to /r/fixingmovies.)

Like many fans of the books, I couldn’t ever be perfectly happy with a film adaptation, but I do understand that sometimes changes to the story can be a necessary evil when changing media. Despite this, there were several changes that still bothered me. I want to focus on fixing one in particular: the rivalry between Legolas and Gimli. Throughout the films Gimil gets the short end of the stick. He seems to lose every competition and that just doesn’t make an interesting rivalry.

One scene I would alter is the drinking contest in Theoden’s hall. In the scene Gimli challenges Legolas to a “last man standing” drinking contest. Gimli gets visibly drunker and drunker while Legolas remains completely unaffected until Gimli finally falls over unconscious, mid-boast. Now there’s quite a bit of lively debate online about the effects of alcohol on elves in Tolkien's works, so there's some room for interpretation. My proposed fix there would be to leave most of it as is: Gimli gets visibility drunker while Legolas seems to remain unaffected. However after Gimli’s dramatic collapse, the when the crowd turns to congratulate the winner, they find Legolas catatonic, asleep on his feet with eyes still open and half tankard of ale still in hand. Aragorn waves his hand in front of Legolas’s eyes and gets no reaction. This change adds more humor to an already amusing scene and sets up the rivalry on something like a draw.

The battle of Helm’s Deep just needs more of Gimli efficiently chopping orcs to pieces and less shots of him stumbling. He’s a badass, and this scene needs to better show that. Especially the part after the explosion where he attempts to hold the breach himself. He bounces his axe off of one orc helmet and falls on his ass, only to be saved by a volley of elven arrows and an elven counterattack. He really should have been still on his feet hewing orcs when the counterattack arrives, if about to be overwhelmed. This scene barely addresses the rivalry directly (it’s got more important things to show) but a stronger showing from Gimli here makes the later banter between them much stronger for the viewer. It also makes the "Don't tell the elf" bits funnier.

The biggest change I would make would be the “That only counts as one!” scene. Legolas’s takedown of the entire elephant and riders is a fun addition typical of Jackson’s interpretation, but again it leaves Gimli overshadowed. I would have added a subsequent battle shot where Gimli, grumpy about Legolas’s clear lead, faces down a charging elephant, slices its achilles tendon and sends it tumbling, crushing the riders. Again, this adds more excitement to the scene and strengthens the rivalry element. Afterwards, Gimli would proudly boast to Legolas that his elephant had more riders. Legolas would smirk and counter with, “But as you say master dwarf, it only counts as one.” Gimli is immediately grumpy again.

So, overall Gimli would be shown to be a worthy rival to Legolas, but Gimili would still be overall grumpy about Legolas outshining him (as he does already in the film as it is). That makes the rivalry more engaging, keeps the enjoyable humorous dynamic between them, and makes their growing mutual respect more meaningful.

Woodcutting

I was doing some woodcutting around my parent's property today, and had the idea to try and put the experience into words.

The swing of the axe, the flexing of my muscles; the physical power. The hard flat curves of the axe haft sliding through my hands; the feeling of precise control. The thunk and crack as the blade hits and the wood gives way. Wood chips flying. Cold breeze across hot sweat. Tension flows out into the swings, replaced with sweet soreness. Exhilaration.

Stacking the wood up, and cutting the next log. Repetition: log after log, cut and stack. Time flows by unnoticed. Peace.

Hunter's Mysterious Past: Part 2

The second part of the story of my character in an ongoing Pathfinder game. You should read Part 1 first if you haven't already.

This time the rock fall was intentional. The boy had looked up to the old wildsman, loved him as a father really, but the rockfall that crushed his mentor had been the only choice, and he knew Talon would have approved.

After the boy had fled from his home, Talon the Wildsman had taken him in and taught him the ways of living in the unforgiving wilds. How to find food and shelter, how to treat wounds, and everything else a man needed to know to be self-reliant in a harsh land. The boy took to the lessons from Talon far easier than the lessons of his old tutor. He still seldom spoke, and never would give his name. Talon mostly just called him “boy,” and that seemed to suit them both just fine. The boy soon showed a natural talent for tracking and killing animals that impressed his teacher. He still refused to enter any town, and when Talon went in to trade for supplies, he waited in the wilds.

Often times, when they crossed paths with other travelers in the wilds, they would share camp or even travel together for a few days. Talon knew many of those who made a living out away from the cities and towns, and he proudly introduced the boy as “a fine young hunter.” The name Hunter soon stuck. Hunter still always stayed outside of the city whenever Talon entered one, but he at last became comfortable with their occasional traveling companions. Life, while often harsh, fell into a simple rhythm for the pair, as they survived several winters together in the snows.

That rhythm was first broken when Talon returned from a visit to a city in the middle of the night with someone new. A young man dressed in pauper’s cloths, whose graceful movements and smooth skin would have implied noble stature, were it not for the slumped shoulders and nervous eyes of a hunted man. They broke camp immediately and left with all speed, traveling through the snows in the dark. They traveled as fast as the young man could handle. As they went he was always peering back as if expecting pursuit. Talon was skilled though, and so was young Hunter, so pursuit never found them. They dropped him off in a town a few days hurried travel away, having never discussed who he was or what he fled from. The only clue Hunter had was when on the second night of their journey he began to make strange words and gestures. Talon slapped the man’s hands down and told him not to do such things around them. The man, cowed, never tried to again.

The easy pattern resumed again after that, till one evening the next fall, just after the first heavy snow. Hunter had set up camp in the shelter of a steep boulder-strewn slope, while Talon went into the city of Ghrisifal for supplies. Once again Talon returned in the middle of the night, this time with a young girl. She was poor, and clearly had been so her whole life, but, like the young man, she bore the look of one who was hunted. They packed as quickly as they could, but this time pursuit found them too quickly. Calls went up back and forth across the hills that hid their camp, as men in armor coordinated closing the net around them. The only escape was up the rocks. Talon cursed, and ordered Hunter to climb to the top of the rocks without being seen and stay quiet till it was over. The girl could not climb such a steep slope, so Talon hid her in a crack in the rocks before facing the incoming men alone. A tall man in a flowing black cloak led soldiers into the campsite. The soldiers seized Talon and bound him securely while the cloaked man questioned him about the girl. When he refused to speak, the man lit their supplies on fire, and ordered the men to search for her. He tortured Talon then. Hunter could only watch helplessly as the man who had raised him was cut apart slowly. He never gave in, but the girl’s whimpers gave away her hiding spot anyway, and the cloaked man pulled her out. Talon was left to lie dying where he fell, in a spreading pool of his own blood. The man bound the girl tightly and began to question her about others like her. The sobbing girl answered his questions readily, but it quickly became clear that she didn't know anything, and in anger he threw her onto the fire and calmly watched her burn. Even in the the dim light, Hunter could see that the soldiers were sickened by the girl’s dying shrieks, but they said nothing.

On rocky slopes such as these the freeze and thaw worked at cracks in the rock, slowly breaking them loose. Without the added weight of a blanket of ice such slopes were stable enough to camp safely beneath, but the right boulder being knocked loose could change that. Hunter stood and looked down at the carnage in the campsite. One of the soldiers saw him then. Hunter just looked him in the eyes and with all his strength pushed a boulder loose, sending it bounding down the slope. The soldier cried out a warning,  and they all tried to run, but the cascading rocks engulfed the campsite too quickly and none escaped. When the last rocks settled, Hunter climbed back down the slope. The man in the cloak had been crushed. The burning girl was buried and no longer cried out. The tools and supplies were all buried or destroyed. Talon was buried. A few trapped soldiers still lived, but Hunter slit their throats. They struggled of course, but they soon died as easily as the animals he’d trained to kill.

He spent a cold night shivering in a crack in the rocks beside the dead, with no sleeping furs and unable to gather materials to start a fire in the dark. At first light, he crawled out and stiffly managed to gather some money off a few soldiers who weren't too deeply buried. Then he headed into the city of his birth to buy some supplies to start over.

Hunter’s Mysterious Past: Part 1

I've been sitting on this story for a while. The reason is that it is about my character in an ongoing Pathfinder game. He is known only as "Hunter" and he never speaks of his past. Keeping this story under wraps helped heighten the mystery of the character for the other players, but we are reaching a point where the players (but not the characters) will be revealing such secrets, to better appreciate the plot to this point. As such, I feel it is now appropriate to post Part 1. I will publish Part 2 later, probably in a month or three, depending on how the game progresses.

The death was an accident of course. The boy had looked up to the magistrate’s son; loved him like a brother really. He would never want to hurt him. The boy’s parents were wealthy enough to send him to a tutor, one of the best in the cold city of Ghirisfal. It didn’t help him much. He was always a quiet child, and while not stupid, he took poorly to lessons. The other children made fun of him, but the magistrate’s son had seen something in him that the other children hadn’t. He’d taken him under his wing, and the boy was loyal to him for it. The magistrate had taught his son at an early age the value of loyalty and the son had learned it well. He was unquestionably the leader among the children and when he accepted the awkward boy, that was that. Now the other children never picked on the quiet boy who did poorly at lessons. He wasn’t liked, but he was accepted. He had a place. And that is why the boy would never want to hurt him.

When before he’d always run straight home after lessons, now he’d always tag along when the other boys went out to play. While the weather was often deadly cold, and the ruins scattered through the city dangerous, boys will not be contained. One day they were exploring a particularly interesting old building. The great stones showed it had once been a proud structure, but now it was barely more than a heap of rocks. The snow and ice had melted almost entirely off as the seasons shifted into beginnings of the short summer. On a ruin like this the rocks always shifted a bit from the frost heaving of spring and fall. Sometimes even a small amount of weight, pushed at the right angle could dislodge huge rocks and send them crashing down. A small weight such as the quiet boy, eager to prove himself, climbing higher up the ruin at the other children’s daring.

The magistrate’s son didn’t see it coming at all. The rock had tipped off almost silently, and he was looking away. There was a loud thump and a sickening crunch at the same time, and the magistrate’s son was dead. The impact dislodged smaller rocks which rained down, and some of the other boys screamed. Guards came running and saw the quiet boy crouched on the ruins where the stone had fallen from. One of the other boys pointed an accusing finger at him.

The boy didn’t think, he just fled. Over the ruins, out into the next street. He heard the shouts of the pursuing guards, bringing more into the chase. He didn’t consider that it only made him look more guilty, that he didn’t have on his warm cloths, and didn’t notice the dark clouds of a late blizzard boiling down from the icy peaks of the Broken Ranges. He only considered that he had killed his only friend, and knew, in his gut without thinking, that he would soon be next if the guards caught him. And so he fled, ducking through back alleys and abandoned buildings as only a boy could. The shouts faded behind him, and he was out the city gates before the gate guards even noticed him.

He was over the next hill when he looked back and saw armed men headed out of the city gate after him. There was little shade outside the walls, and all the snow there had melted into soupy mud. Slogging through it slowed him down, but it also slowed down the men following him. Still, they gained on him. They were grown men, and strong. Then all the men suddenly stopped and stared off into the distance. The boy wondered why, till he followed their gazes to the billowing wall of white and darkest grey looming towards them. The men turned and headed quickly back into the city, but the boy could not follow. A copse of stunted trees and brush several hills away looked like it might provide some shelter, and he made for it as fast as he could.

Even before the wall of wind and ice hit, the temperature dropped. In the late spring a freak storm could drop the temperature from pleasant to deadly in minutes. The damp mud covering his legs and saturating his summer shoes left his legs cramped with cold, and his thin summer jacket let the building breeze through like knives.

He wasn’t halfway to the brush when the wall hit. It felt like a physical impact. The world went perfectly white, and the wind ripped his hat away. The force pushed him over. He shoved his clenched hands into his armpits, stood back into a crouch, and kept walking. He’d never been outside in weather this bad, but he instinctively knew that if he stopped he’d die. It wasn’t long till he was ready to. His hands, feet and face burned like fire, his legs were cramped, and he could hardly stand from the shivers. Every footfall felt like stomping on sharp stones. Even though the wind let up fairly quickly, the cold stayed, and the snow continued to fall. Soon his extremities went numb and stopped bothering him altogether. He didn’t know how long he trudged on through the freezing mud and deepening snow. He just went. Finally his body gave out, and he pitched over into a drift. He felt warm now, and drifted into a pleasant sleep.

Waking up was anything but pleasant. The boy was shivering again. He was no longer numb anywhere, and each shiver sent waves of fiery pinpricks through his hands and feet. He was bound up snugly in a pile of furs. Hard angular objects where in his armpits and groin. While he still felt chilled to the bone, the air was chokingly warm and filled with smoke from the fire that crackled on a bed of rocks nearby. Water dripped from the warm hides of a hastily made shelter as the snow over it melted. He coughed on the smoke. There were quick footsteps before sunlight spiked into his eyes and a draft of chill air immediately swept over him.

“So, you’re awake,” said the man who entered the shelter. “Thought you’d die on me a few times, boy, but I see you’re made of tougher stuff than that.” The man was rough looking and stunted, like an old tree growing on a rocky hilltop. He was dressed in light furs, had skin like leather, or perhaps more like tree bark, and his shaggy beard and hair looked like they’d seen neither blade nor brush in many long years. A necklace of large claws hung from his neck. For all the roughness of him though, he had a kind look in his eyes. “No, don’t try to move, you’re still weak. Let me get those for you,” he added, unbinding the furs and removing three large fire blackened rocks from under the furs. It was less painful without the rocks in his underarms and groin, but still excruciating. The man set them aside and re-bound the furs snugly. “I’ll get you some broth, you’ll be stronger soon.” The man set about getting the broth from the small pot over the fire, and continued, “Saw you fleeing into the storm. Right stupid thing to do. Soon as it eased I went after you. Got you barely in time.” If the man was bothered by his patient’s complete lack of response, it didn’t show. He dropped in a little snow to cool the brew and fished out few limp lumps before bringing it to the boy. “My own recipe. Bear fat, dried sweet-beets and fresh ginger. Would’a helped more if you were awake to drink it when I found ya, but it’ll get you right warmed now.” He held the boy’s head up and helped him drink.

True to promise, the cold feeling went away by the time he’d finished the broth. The man unbound the furs, but gave him firm instructions to lie still anyway. “You may have frost-black, and we’ll have to see to that, but not until you’re rested a’bit.” He gave the boy a concerned look and said, “So, you want to tell me why you’re so afraid of those men as you’d risk that storm?” He waited in silence for a bit, and finally the boy faintly shook his head no. “Well, you planin’ on going back to that city?” This time the boy shook his head more emphatically. “Well, then you’re gonna have to learn to live off the land. I’m called Talon the Wildsman,” he said, pointing to his necklace of claws as he said his name. “And you can be my student.”

Notes:

• Temperature drops this fast actually happen in places like Montana, where in the summer, they say it can go from 90 to 35 in about 20 minutes when a storm rolls off the Rockies.
• Warmed rocks in the groin and armpits is a real hypothermia treatment.
• Broth, sugar, and ginger are also used to treat hypothermia. (Though the effectiveness of the ginger is somewhat dubious.)