BlueInkAlchemist

Author: BlueInkAlchemist (page 7 of 331)

500 Words on Refocusing

You may notice that things look a little different here. A bit more fantastical. More dragons. Maybe the implication of a dungeon.

It’s not an illusion. I’m refocusing my endeavors outside of the job hunt on D&D.

I’m still carving out time for the novel, as head weasels and real-world obligations allow. I’m still on the hunt for a dayjob to cover my rent and the other expenses of living, and I still want to make a (hopefully) significant mark with my words. In terms of hobbies, however, it’s been a very long time since one has given me the sort of creative impetus and deep satisfaction that Dungeons & Dragons has proven to provide in the last few months.

I think a big part of it is the collaborative storytelling. Everyone coming to the table is there to have fun, to work together to create that environment, and to cheer each other on as the epic story grows, changes, and builds. The DM does not exist above this experience, as some divine or diabolical overseer. They are a part of it, narrating the tissue that connects the players to the world and each other, as well as playing referee when conflict inevitably ensues. And I love filling that role. I do it just about every Friday night, for the Adventurer’s League.

I enjoy playing, too, and I’ll be doing that on Friday nights on occasions as well. And the characters I’ll be playing will be getting stories and profiles here. So, too, will go reviews of the materials I use both as player and DM. Advice for my fellow DMs, thoughts on what’s exhilarating or frustrating as a player, comparisons of the current edition to older ones — it makes for a lot of material, and I’m going tap that vein.

Not only does it make for fun and interesting content, it prompts me to write more. It’s like a warm-up before the big lifts when working out. My hope is that with a few hundred words every day, I’ll be ready to write at least a thousand in the novel. It’ll be the initial incision in carving out more time to write more. A positive feedback loop full of words.

Planning for, running, and playing games of Dungeons & Dragons provides me with a surprising amount of focus. Moreso than most of my other endeavors, from coding to video games. I think a lot about the stories I and my fellow players want to tell, or will tell. I understand the math involved. I dream up new characters, monsters, and dungeons. My mind works at a good clip with good ideas coming thick and fast.

I may never make a ground-breaking video game. I doubt I’ll develop the next killer app. But I’ll tell great stories, as I’ve always dreamed. From a table of a few friends, to readers all over the world, I will be a storyteller. And maybe that’s the way I can, and will, truly make a difference.

On Fridays I write 500 words.

Special thanks to Geek & Sundry, Critical Role, and Matt Mercer for helping to inspire these things.

Honor & Blood, VIII: Victor

October 23, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this tale can and will deviate from series canon.

The Story So Far: Victor Luxon
has completed his task of returning heirloom blades to the great Houses of Westeros. He and his household make for their restored castle at Moat Cailin, but not before visiting his father-in-law, Walder Frey, at the Twins…

“So…” The word was drawn out for a moment longer than most would consider polite. Victor Luxon tore another mouthful of meat from the haunch in his hand. He waited for the speaker to lean closer before he made eye contact.

Walder Frey’s mouth never stopped moving. The largest orifice in the old man’s weasel-like face was even more animated as he entreated his son-in-law. “So! You still have some of those old swords, do you?”

Victor shrugged. “My father has them. They’re locked up, under the Mage’s Tower.”

“The Mage’s Tower.” Walder turned his head to spit. The gelatinous projectile sailed down from their high table and landed in the soup of one of Walder’s sons. The young Frey gave his father a withering look. Walder merely chuckled. “Serve ya right for being so pretty, boy!” The old man turned to Victor. “Too much of his mother in that one. Too pretty.”

“So you said.” Victor took a drink of wine. “Why do you ask about the swords?”

“Freys don’t have ancestral blades. It’d be nice to have one.” He got that leer in his look again. “Just be a matter of putting a different hilt on it, I imagine. Who’d know the difference? A sword’s a sword, right?”

“To the peasants and the dim lower nobles,” Victor replied. “Show it to any of the Great Houses, and —”

“Oh, yes, have them call me a liar! I’m not used to that old sausage, not at all.” Walder Frey sniffed wetly. Victor tried to keep his frown to himself. He’d traded that bastard and his irritable smile for a completely different definition of the word ‘disgusting’. “Or, better yet, would I be ‘dishonoring’ the sword if I put some Frey colors on its hilt? That’s something you Luxons know all about, eh? Honor?”

“It’s in our words.” Victor set down his goblet. “Do you really want a Valyrian sword that badly?”

Walder blinked as if stunned. “Who wouldn’t? Pretty things, those. Look quite fashionable over my hearth.”

“A sword’s meant to be used. It’s a weapon, not a sculpture.”

“And how often does your lord father use his?”

Victor frowned. This conversation was quickly going in uncomfortable directions. “Often enough to make men without sense think twice before opening their fetid mouths.”

Walder’s expression darkened. “Boy, you’d best not take that tone with me.”

Victor met Walder’s gaze. “If we were squatting over the same shithole, father-in-law, you can be damned sure I’d tell you if your shit stank. I’d expect you’d do the same for me.”

For a moment, the mouth of Walder Frey made no sound. Then, like a hole in a sack bursting wide under the pressure of its contents, the Lord of the Crossing’s jaw hinged downward wide, and he laughed loudly.

“You just might be the most worthwhile in-law I ever had the good fortune to put in bed with one of my daughters!” He slapped Victor on the shoulder. Victor barely felt it. “I’ve seen lesser men, even my own blood, piss themselves when I round on ’em.”

“You do remember every insult hurled at you, or so they say. Most of that, I imagine, comes from so-called highborn manners.”

“Too right, you are.” Frey took a large drink of wine. “What is it that you want?”

Victor narrowed his eyes. “That’s a broad question.”

“Well, then, make your answer broad. Come on, speak up.”

“I want what you want.” Victor paused. “I want to make my house great.”

Frey leaned back, a long “ah” sound coming from his mouth. “And how, exactly, are you going to do that?”

“By engaging in actions my sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters after, will speak of in awe and reverence. By taking what is mine. By denying my house’s lands, titles, and holdings to those who’d take them from us.”

“You’re starting to sound like you see yourself as some kind of conqueror.”

“And why not?” Victor gestured broadly. “The North is vast. The Starks will not be able to control all of it forever. There will be opportunities that House Luxon will seize. I would dishonor myself, and all the Luxons past and future, if I settled for less than I’m owed.”

“So the Starks owe you the North, eh?” Frey grinned his skull-like grin. “Come now, boy. Such things should not be shouted from the parapets. They need be whispered, between those of similar ambitions.”

Victor furrowed his brows. He was not used to whispering about such things. He found the very notion uncomfortable. Honorable men did not whisper. Still, he nodded.

“Good. You have some sense, at least.” Walder Frey beckoned him closer. “Come, let us whisper now about our liege-lords, and how we might best serve ourselves, rather than their fat arses…”

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

Next: Jon

Mondays are for making art.

500 Words on Carving

October 20, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

No, we’re not carving you up, little calf. It’ll be okay. Here, have some sprouts.

We cool?

Okay, then.

Last night, I went to see Chuck Wendig. He’s an author I’d had the privilege of meeting once before, way back in 2009, at a tiny game convention in Philadelphia. We played a role-playing game together, jammed about writing, and I tried not to make an ass of myself. No small feat, back in those days. He was excited to see me again, and we talked about Seattle and writing with another man I’m very glad to have finally met, Phil Brucato, mastermind of Mage: the Ascension and a game I’m dying to try out called “Powerchords: Music, Magic & Urban Fantasy“.

All three of us, at one point, talked about carving the time out of the days in order to write.

“In large, bloody chunks,” I recalled Chuck writing at one point.

Both men gave grim nods.

From professional novelists to fanfic enthusiasts, writers cannot merely find the time to write. We have to make the time. That’s just as difficult as the writing itself. The world at large makes all sorts of demands on our time and energy. There’s always another chore, another commitment, another distraction. We want to give ourselves a break, try to get other things done, clear our decks to do nothing but write.

The insidious truth is that such a state of being, where nothing but writing happens, rarely if ever exists.

Writing happens in a particular space, a conflux of physical, mental, and emotional states, and we writers need to assure ourselves that we can, and should, ask for that space. It’s possible to think that you don’t deserve it, because you haven’t been writing anyway, or those dishes have been stacking up, or seriously I need to spend more time with my partner. It’s also possible to feel that you’re somehow entitled to it, and shirk everything else just to write, which is arguably worse than the former possibility.

Bottom line? You have to carve out the right slice of time, and make the most of it before you balance it with something else.

We cannot, and should not, exist in a vacuum. We have our writerly spaces, sure, from libraries we prefer to sheds we build just for writing — and perhaps slugging whiskey and howling and throwing poo at the walls. What happens in the Mystery Box stays in the Mystery Box. Thing is, we can’t always be there. How can we relate our words to the world if we’re not in the world more often than not?

“Carve the time,” Chuck admonished me when he wrote in my writing journal. A reminder that while the world makes its demands, I deserve to make the time to write. I shouldn’t seek to let writing dominate my time, either. I can strike the right balance, with my sharpened metaphorical knives. That’s a skill in and of itself.

He wrote something else, too.

“Finish thine shit.”

On Fridays I write 500 words.

Photo courtesy The Dodo.

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

October 10, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

Previously: The year is 3301. It’s been two weeks since Commander Jason Frimantle committed an act of piracy under Federal law, strong-arming new hires of his father’s shipping company over valuable cargo.

“…and if you look to the starboard side of the spacecraft, you will see what is colloquially known as a ‘hot Jupiter’.”

Jason Frimantle muted his comm and sighed softly. When he’d first seen the astronomical wonder a week ago, he too had been surprised by the vibrancy of color and violence in the storms visible on the gas giant’s surface. Trapped as it was in the competing gravity wells of two nearby stars, the tidal forces in its titanic hydrogen and helium pockets would have torn a planet the size of Earth to shreds. From here, though, the Dolphin-class passenger liner was perfectly safe, and Jason was almost certain that at least a few of his passengers were taking holo-vids, pointing, and making awestruck noises.

All Jason could think of was the paycheck.

The problem with working for a company like Baroness Starsight Tours was that they were tied to one particular place. And at that place, they kept personnel records, bureaucrats… weak points. So far, Jason’s stunt on Abel Prospect had gone unreported, as far as he could find out. And thus far, no bounties had been posted on him at any of the stations near Baroness Starsight’s headquarters and main ports of call.

“Pilot?” The voice crackled from the comm located in the passenger compartment. “Did you bring any food aboard?”

“Refreshments are available in the cabinets located aft. All credit programs accepted.”

“What? We have to pay?”

Jason rolled his eyes. Of course you have to pay, it was in the contract you signed. “Standard Baroness Starsight contracts include the pricing for all refreshments available aboard —”

His comm buzzed. His external comm.

“Jason Frimantle.”

It was a statement. Not a question.

Jason flipped channels. “This is Baroness Starsight civilian vessel ‘Deveraux’, how can I help you?”

“This is gonna look bad on my resume.” Jason looked at the ship sending the signal. It was an F-63 Condor, being flown by a commander ranked as Expert. “Get your passengers into escape pods. They’ll be safe, and I know that ship’s insured. I’ve been told you’re worth more alive, but if you try anything, like holding them hostage, I’ll be a lot less inclined to be gentle.”

“Hostages? What are you talking about?”

“Pirates are known for that sort of thing, Mister Frimantle. Please, I’m asking nice.”

Jason checked the information again. ‘Marcus Corso’. Bounty hunter, more than likely.

Don’t panic. Do not panic. Don’t you dare.

He flipped the comm back over. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Commander speaking. Return to your seats and secure yourselves at all points. I am about to take evasive maneuvers.”

He took a deep breath, then flipped to the external channel. “Commander Corso, I’m not going to hold anyone hostage, and I’m not going to turn myself over to you. I’m plotting a course back to Independent space now. You’re welcome to try and stop me.” He reached under the console, pulled off a particular panel, and tweaked a few of the wires. This ship wasn’t designed for many pilot modifications, and tampering with it could cost him the contract. But this seemed a bit more important.

There was a laugh. “I have to admit, kid, I like your gumption. Your dad said you might be difficult. But you’re in a Dolphin-class space bus. I’m in a cutting-edge Fed fighter. There’s no contest.”

“If I were staying to fight,” Jason said, “I’d agree. But you’re about to eat high wake. I suggest you get clear, this beast can breach pretty big.”

The ship’s computer warned Jason that Corso had deployed his hardpoints. In the next moment, laser blasts spattered against the ship’s shields. Jason banked the ship hard to port, firing the portside reverse engine. As soon as his aft was pointed at Corso, he hit the boost. With a surprisingly dolphin-like whine, the liner leaped forward at maximum velocity. The frame-shift drive charged, and they were yanked across space at super-relativistic speeds.

Jason didn’t hesitate or rest once they dropped back into supercruise. He plotted the course back to the home port and made one jump after another in rapid succession. He barely stopped to scoop extra fuel to make sure they didn’t get stranded. It wasn’t until the ship was in the station and docked that Jason managed to breathe again.

There was no sign of pursuit. Corso hadn’t popped into space outside of the station. In fact, as far Jason could see, there’d been no F-63s at all anywhere near them. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the cabin behind to greet the passengers as they disembarked. He hoped none of them would note that those blonde locks were matted with sweat.

A couple of the passengers — a concerned father, a bureaucrat who barely stopped talking to her personal comm, a little girl with pigtails who kicked him in the shin — gave him grief over the abrupt end of the trip. Still, they’d hit their goals and gotten home safe. Jason would get paid.

And then he’d leave. Somewhere else, somewhere the Wayfarer could take him even further from Federation bounty hunters and system authorities…

“Commander.”

He blinked, coming back to where he was standing. He was looking at a familiar face. Reddish-brown hair, light brown eyes..

“Commissioner Parker?”

She smiled. It was a wide, warm thing, tinged with mischief. Not an expression worn by the shipping magnate bureaucrat back on Lave Station. It was about then that he noticed that while her fashion was similar to the commissioner’s — pencil skirt, business-style blouse and jacket, heels — it had its own spin on the look. The skirt was just a bit shorter, the cut of the jacket a little more daring, the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She wore spectacles, which the other had not, and while she wore her hair in a similar fashion, curling locks of it fell to frame her face, and the chopsticks in the bun were more vibrant and eye-catching.

“I see you’ve met my sister.” Her voice, again almost identical to the other’s, was smoother, more relaxed. “Kind of stuck up, isn’t she?”

Jason swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. “She’s a conservative sort, yeah.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Her smile widened. “Parker’s my name, yes. My twin hasn’t gotten married — can’t imagine why that is — and neither have I. But I don’t commission a thing. You can call me Stephanie.”

He nodded. “And you know my name.”

“I do.” Her lips pursed in an interesting way, at least to Jason’s eyes. “And I’m aware of your skills, and cool head under pressure.”

He thought of the sweat that’d trickled down his cheek. “Thanks.”

“Listen. I represent a… certain organization. We’re always on the lookout for new talent. Especially commanders who can handle themselves in a crisis and aren’t afraid of running afoul of… antagonistic parties. The pay’s fantastic, and we’ll provide your first ship. Interested?”

Jason thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. “Sure. If it gets me out of Federation space, especially.”

She put out her hand. “Shake on it.”

He did. She had a firm grip, and her fingers lingered on his palm for just a moment.

“Good. Be sure to sever your ties with Baroness Starsight. You’ll find your new ship in Landing Bay 24.”

“Twenty-four,” Jason said with a nod. She smiled at him again.

“Looking forward to working with you, Commander.” She turned and walked down the corridor, heels clicking whenever they touched the deck. Unlike her sister’s heels, they were stiletto-style, and the seams of her stockings ran up the back of her legs in clean, straight lines.

Jason really didn’t know how to process what just happened.

He made his way to the Baroness office to collect his pay and hand in his resignation. Then it was to Landing Bay 24. There, he found a small ship that he knew was capable despite its size: a Viper Mk.III fighter. He ran his hand over its hull with a smile. It was already fitted with registry numbers saying it was his. He got in and checked the cockpit. He found a note on the pilot’s seat, shocked to discover it smelled faintly of Stephanie’s perfume. He opened it.

Don’t forget that you owe us. This isn’t a gift; it’s an investment.

A chill ran down Jason’s spine.

What had he just been talked into doing?

To be continued…

Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments.

500 Words on the Mirror

October 6, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

It can be difficult to recognize the face that looks back at me in the mirror. Especially since I’ve grown my hair out and started styling my facial hair in certain ways. But the eyes are still there, the eyes I’ve had since I was a child. They’ve seen a lot, perhaps more than they should have. I see them in the mirror, these mechanisms through which I see the world, and try to process who’s looking back at me.

Is this a person worth fighting for?

Movies with Mikey‘s “Creed” episode draws attention to a mirror moment, where the protagonist is told by his coach (Rocky Balboa, in this case) “that, right there, is your toughest opponent.” A somewhat unspoken agreement — a ‘creed’, if you will — between fighters is discussed. It’s simple: “I fight, you fight.” If you step into the ring, so will I, and we’ll each give our all to prove ourselves to ourselves and to one another.

(Seriously, if you’re not watching Movies with Mikey, do yourself a favor and check it out.)

I’ve started repeating that creed to myself when I see myself in the mirror.

“I fight. You fight.”

Who or what am I fighting, though? Is it that other person, the one in the mirror?

Yes and no.

In the past, that person in the mirror has resembled someone else. Someone I don’t recognize. Someone who had been influenced by other people.

First of all, some of those people are fucking monsters.

Not everybody has your best interest at heart. People will seek to take advantage of you, to exploit your weaknesses. Those sorts of abuses, which can hurt more deeply and thoroughly than any punch or cut, give fuel to the monsters that live in our heads, the voices that say we’re better off dead.

That’s what I’m fighting. Those voices, those monsters, those irritating head weasels.

You can’t see them, though. And it’s very, very hard to fight what you can’t see. Ask anybody who has a chronic pain disorder or a mental illness. Ask about their experiences with doctors, with society. You’ll see how hard it is to fight the unseen.

What we can see, though, is the person in the mirror.

“I fight. You fight.”

The final trap in this is the one in which we fight against ourselves, not with ourselves. The difference is that in the former case, we make ourselves an antagonist, a foe to be conquered. But what good do we do ourselves if we cast ourselves as our own villain?

We can be our greatest ally, instead. Whatever the threat might be is one that both entities fight together. You can see what was, or you can see what could be. When you see the image of yourself in the mirror, it’s yours. The you in the mirror is a you that needs you.

You can fight it, or you can fight for it.

“I fight. You fight.”

On Fridays I write 500 words.

Author: BlueInkAlchemist (page 7 of 331)

500 Words on Refocusing

Honor & Blood, VIII: Victor

500 Words on Carving

Delta-V: Judicious Panic

500 Words on the Mirror

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