Ephemera

Squeezing my brain through academia's narrow halls can be a time-consuming occupation, and these past weeks have certainly been claustrophobic. I am certainly under no shortage of items that need to be taken care of, fixed, attended to and so on. I've noticed that in those times when I am busiest, my creative well starts overflowing and I feel like I've drank too much coffee.

Ideas don't like being confined. When they start to grow, they fill up one's nerves to the exclusion of other things. The mind desires their release. At the moment, I've got a few too many concepts that I'm spinning out into interesting threads, and they are all getting tangled up before I can properly weave them into text. Part of it is lack of time and focus to untangle the thoughts from one another. I've had to dedicate myself to study (particularly of Chinese language).

In brief, I'd like to thank those who chimed in on my rant last post about sexism in RPGs. All perspectives are good to consider, but I want to add that how we portray RPGs in terms of writing, presentation, theme and so on contributes to the creation of a culture. This is similar to the video game industry, though with a somewhat smaller audience. Naturally, I believe that everyone should take responsibility for their own thoughts and feelings and not simply ascribe their love of absurdly proportioned scantily clad women to 'social pressure'. I don't think you should ever excuse someone from being sexist just because they are exposed to sexist material. That said, why promote it?

The average gamer probably doesn't think much beyond gaming being escapism, which is no problem for me. Designers and writers, however, should be wary of viewing gaming as simply that. Gaming can be a powerful experience in which new perspectives and views can be gained. It can be a tool for increasing the vocabulary of the mind and soul. As creators of ideas, writers and designers have to acknowledge the subtle power they wield to shape perceptions in other people. This is particularly true in those sources of information which people use for escapism, because escapism becomes something with a lot of emotional investment.

The presentation of an idea is nearly as important as the idea itself, of course. Pasting a bunch of overly sexualized motifs on a product just to sell it is socially irresponsible, in my opinion. Pasting a bunch of overly sexualized motifs on a product meant to parody the extremes in our society is another matter.

Recently, I got in contact with an artist and musician who has been a source of great inspiration to me over the years (I'll forgo mentioning who, as I don't want to violate his privacy). The fellow lives in Europe, and we found some common ground chatting about RPGs. Something in particular I found interesting was the disparity between a European edition of a game and the American edition of the same game, notably the game Kult.

Kult has a by-turns awkward and brilliant game system that provides a skeleton for stories of personal horror. THe premise of the game is highly gnostic in outlook, in that the world you believe you are in is all a huge lie. I'm not going to go into details about the setting here, but in my experience a good many people run Kult as a kind of gritty gun-fest of a game where you occasionally do awful things to each other and generally get into a lot of combat. I had the blessing of being introduced to Kult by a GM who really liked the deep psychological angle of the game, but a perusal of the books released for the game definitely shows an emphasis for a kind of splatterhouse approach. There was very little horror and a great deal of shock. In discussion with the aforementioned artist, I found out that the original edition of Kult released in Europe had very little emphasis on the shock, gore and guns and leaned much more towards the personal part of the personal horror genre it claimed to be. Specifically, there was mention that the equivalent of demons in Kult were blatant, Clive Barker-esque walking atrocities in the American writing but in the original, they were much more subdued and subtle.

Kult is not a nice game. It is about loss and madness and the horrible things that humanity does to itself. The original edition presumes that those playing it are mature enough to look at these themes and explore them carefully in the context of the RPG. The American edition still has some seeds of the original intent, but it is often blanketed in the sensationalist guns-and-blood portrayal which (I can only assume) was intended to make it more marketable to an audience that probably shouldn't be playing the game anyway. It is like handing a copy of American Psycho by Ellis to your average 13 year old. They may be able to understand it, but they probably don't have the depth of experience or wisdom to dig under the atrocities of the text to find deeper meaning. By marketing RPGs with sexist motifs without regard for the audience, we are inadvertant teachers.

I suspect sometimes that these reasons are why I'm so horrible at selling my own work. More fiction on the way, for my highly limited audience.

Observations

I do understand that despite the leap in popularity of RPGs in general, the vast majority of players are still male. I do understand that there are certain rather unfortunate conventions of gender that seem to have become part and parcel of the RPG world, largely in terms of armor fashion, but I am now officially annoyed at the perceived status of male and female in RPGs. Specifically, I have noticed something in fantasy RPGs of varying flavors, but I have also seen it in RPGs of other genres.

When you read about a monster or NPC that is described in any way as 'seductive' or whose purpose is to subvert others through charm, that creature is depicted as an over-sexualized female, nine times out of ten. What, men can't be seductive? As one of my players put it when I mentioned my observation to him: “On the behalf of fops everywhere, I protest that notion.”

Naturally, the flagship of female seduction in fantasy RPGs is the succubus. From a classical sense, this is fine. Seduction is what succubi were designed for, after all. But the misuse of succubi becomes obvious when a quick look through RPG products reveals a distinct lack of incubi. Granted, from time to time you can find a mention of succubi taking a male form (incubus) which adheres to the mythological standard, but particularly since the release of 3rd edition Dungeons and Dragons, incubi have been treated as distinct creatures. The word 'seductive' is not generally associated with these new incubi, but the word 'coercion' certainly comes up a lot, along with less pleasant words.

So, now the standard is that males rape, females seduce.

Artistically, incubi are usually large and heavily muscled or at best lanky, often with monstrous faces. I have seen one picture of an incubus that did not fit this mold; he appeared to be a kind of satanic musketeer with glowing eyes, a smirk and a goatee, and the artwork certainly didn't make the man look attractive. I have never, in all my ample RPG experience, seen a picture of an incubus that could be described as alluring, seductive or even beautiful.

I probably don't have to explain artwork depicting succubi. Everybody has seen it, particularly with the presence of a succubus in World of Warcraft (which, by the way, seems to generally follow the same sort of gender disparity... notice that every single male in the game is depicted as being ridiculously muscular? Is that really attractive?). However, I want to mention my observations on the stereotypical succubus, which is a tall woman with a Photoshop worthy figure, horns, bat wings and perhaps one or two other signs of being demonic (tail, claws, obvious fangs, red eyes). The stereotypical succubus is of the 'less is best' school of fashion, and sometimes doesn't wear anything at all. It is very common for them to be carrying around or wearing items that hint at bondage, torture and similar pursuits. Whips are hot in succubus fashion these days.

Of course, if there's one thing succubus descriptions agree on, it is their ability to change their shape at will. So why do they all look almost exactly the same? Never mind.

The association of a succubus with tools of dominance leads me to another observation. The most common depictions of powerful female NPCs in fantasy RPGs can be described in one of two ways: the seductress and the ice queen. The seductress is an overt tempter who gains power through manipulation, and often subscribes to principles of succubus fashion. The ice queen is usually powerful in some direct way, such as being a great warrior or magician, but has no interest whatsoever in relationships. Ice queens are often written with some small splinter of loneliness lodged in them, usually blanketed by tragedy.

At my age, I've had the luxury of watching the RPG world develop and change practically from its inception in the Chainmail days. I've watched it grow and evolve, open to new ideas and new worlds of imagination, and I've watched as it became less and less of an isolated hobby. I've also watched as marketers tout their games as accessible, pushing out to expand the sorts of people who play them. You would think that, given the time that has passed, designers and writers (and players, for that matter) would pay more attention to the unpleasant sexual tropes present in the RPG archetype gestalt. With the current expectations laid out for us, it is difficult to think of the game as being as mature as it would like to be. This is a pity, because I had thought RPGs had finally gotten out of adolescence.

Meanwhile: the Shepherds

Though the moon was high, turning the world silver and pale below it, there were some blots of shadow in the woods where the light shivered and danced aside. They moved slowly, strolling through a forest grown dead and silent except for the occasional wail or groan from other shadows, creeping along in the wake of the blots. Once, a keening broke free of one such shadow, shattering itself from tree to tree and filling the brisk night air for just a moment. Then the silence rushed in, sealing the wound that the sound had made. Over the tree-shrouded hills to the south, a small tidy township stirred from sleep because of unsettling dreams. But none would wake, and even if they had, they would have felt compelled to stay in their homes.

The blots slowly convened near a broken stone, mostly covered by moss and vines, and one of the blots drifted to the stone while the others started to form a loose circle around it. The silence began to brim with whispers, soft conversation mimicking the ink splash of shadows and the pale stillness of moonlight. As more blots emerged, the whispering grew until the blot near the stone shrugged off the darkness, letting it boil free like thick smoke from his shoulders and his shrouded head. In one hand he held a crooked staff of something impossibly dark, which he raised slowly, making the air ache, and then brought down on the stone with a sound like ice cracking. In the quiet that followed, he spoke softly in a tongue known only to those present. His voice mimicked the night around him, if the night were breathing.

“Many of us are not here.”

Often the case, in these later centuries, he thought before continuing.

“Some are gone to deceive our enemies, some are waiting and watching over a Flock which cannot be ignored even to meet with brethren, and some few are still standing vigil over our homeland. Since our last meeting, only one of us has perished, and yet we have three now who will be joining us. For the first time in five hundred years, our numbers grow; welcome them as Shepherds, share your wisdom with them, and keep them safe as they begin their own Pilgrimages.”

The speaker paused, indicating three of the once-blots, now also veiled and wrapped figures carrying crooks of darkness. There was a murmur of greeting, and some of the others moved around the circle to offer a gesture of welcome in passing one hand close to the hands of the three. When the circle had reformed again, the speaker waited a moment before continuing.

“Before we begin, I bring you news that another argot coventry has formed, seven strong. I also mention that the crater where our City once stood remains clear of trespassers, and that the structure there grows, though slowly and slowly. By all accounts I have received, we have the initiative against the Ignorant again, but we must continue to be patient; it is not yet time. Follow your Pilgrimages, collect your Flocks, guide them and watch over them. The City will be rebuilt one day.”

Again, he paused, cradling his crook, and the others all did the same as he intoned the Beginning.

“The Name-givers showed us the world beneath the world, showed us dreams and taught us art. They showed us meaning and concept from being and nature, and our ancestors Became that which they did not understand so they might Understand. Our Teacher, like the other Teachers, sought the Meaning beneath the power of a Name-giver's vision, and so the City was built. Sequestered, we learned more about the Name-givers than they knew of themselves, and yet the Work was unfinished when the other Teachers fell upon the City. The City was destroyed, and all those within were destroyed. Much of the Work was lost, and our Teacher was also lost. We are the sons and daughters who remained, and I, the son of our Teacher, am the Teacher now.”

“The Work must continue,” murmured the others. “We are its Shepherds.”

“The Conclave may begin.”

He rapped his staff against the stone again, and the circle closed as the Shepherds drew together to share all that they had learned since the last Conclave. As they began to converse, he stayed where he was, listening and remembering the time, ages and ages past, when he'd stood in a vast hall of black stone and pondered the questions that the Shepherds had been trying to understand before they'd been Shepherds. He had been young then, standing with his mother and learning the convoluted loops of logic, assumption and philosophy inherent to Name-giving races. It had been alien and wonderful, and in those days, the questions were still so new and strange.

What is evil? What is horror? What is corruption? What is hatred? What is temptation? Why do the Name-givers fear all these things and yet always return to them? Why do they themselves fail to consistently explain these things or the reasons why they are? Before the Alfar met the Name-giving races, they did not know good or evil. Things merely were or were not. Why should something need a name when its nature was so apparent by the fact of it being? The power of names had been the first thing the Alfar learned, and the Dana Aelf were born from that attempt to understand. The Dana Aelf were still trying to refine and become that knowledge, just as the Work of the Shepherds had continued for thousands of years.

We did not name evil, he thought. We did not name corruption, and these things did not exist to us until the Name-givers woke our forefathers and showed us that a thing can have Meaning without Being. If a thing is, then it is, and it must be known. That so many hate and fear us means that we must have discovered some truth in these things.

“Teacher?”

He turned to look at three of the Shepherds; he knew two of them. Like him, they were some of the few left from the Beginning. He looked down at the third, smaller one and smiled beneath his veil. “Welcome,” he said.

“He hasn't begun his Pilgrimage yet,” said one of the parents. “But he would like to discuss his formulation with you; we've found it very novel, and I think it only needs some refinement from a new perspective.”

“I'd be honored,” replied the Teacher, and looked down at the young Shepherd. “Did you wish for my advice?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “All that we do must be measured against what has come before. I am still young, and this is my first Conclave.”

The Teacher kept his hidden smile, and then looked at the two parents. “I know you two have much to share with the others, and many old friends to see again. I'll listen to your son, and he will start his Pilgrimage when this Conclave is over.”

They took a half step back in respect, and one drifted a hand over the shoulder of their son in quiet pride before they moved to join the others. The Teacher looked back at the new Shepherd, leaned on his crook, and considered his own sense of pride. The Shepherds, like their elven cousins, did bear children, but children born between two Shepherds were very rare in this age. When he was a child in the days of the City, he had been taught in one of many Conclaves of thirty children, arguing and discussing and examining. But now, here, after so long, a young Shepherd had come to him to present his Pilgrimage.

I do not have to say that I am proud, he thought. I am certain this young one knows it, and I know his parents well; I am certain his Pilgrimage will be a brilliant addition to the Work, and to build a Pilgrimage now means to struggle against being hunted, being isolated and the strain of a world that detests you. But fear us as they will, once the Work progresses, they will come to us again, as so many of them did during the time they call the War. For us, it was Enlightenment, and we know that whatever it is that they call evil is something they cannot leave behind. One day, they will come back to us.

“Walk with me,” he said. “And tell me how you wish others to walk with you.”

At the Blue Shadow

“What's the to-do?” Shar nodded in the direction of the group at the corner table, where a lot of cheering and tankard-hoisting was going on.

Chas, huge arms folded, grinned at the smaller man from behind the polished but pitted stone of the counter. “Not sure. They came in maybe a half-glass ago, probably some band celebrating a small victory or just celebrating to be alive. It's been too busy since for me to ask. What brings you in tonight?”

“Between jobs,” replied Shar, sighing. “Where's the gnome?”

“Eh,” said Chas, but he got delayed by a shouting pair of armor-clad men almost as big as he was. After getting them some beer, he moved back to Shar. “... on a job. Gimble got hired on as a trapcatch for a trip south... don't know where, though. He said it was good pay, a good group.”

“Good for him,” said Shar blithely and then leaned slightly as Tirga the broad-shouldered barmaid pushed into the counter.

“Another round for the mob in the corner, Chas!”

“Do you mind? I'm having a drink here,” drawled Shar, peering at the dwarven woman, who arched her thick eyebrows and grinned without humor back at him.

“I don't mind you drinking long as you don't spit it back out on the floor,” she replied, rapping one hard knuckle on the counter while Chas rapidly filled tankards, mugs, cups and bowls.

“Are all dwarves this rude?”

“Do all humans ask questions they already think they know the answers to?”

Shar scowled at the broad-faced woman, who simply grinned back at him until her tray was full.

“Eh, Tirga, what's going on over there, anyway,” Chas leaned his huge frame on the counter, and the barmaid glanced up at him.

“It's a bunch of Avabrondans,” she sighed. “First time at the Tower, and there's some new fellows on the crew. The way they're drinking, I figure they'll hit the Tower in a couple of days.”

With that, she braced the tray on her shoulder, and sauntered back through the common room.

“That explains that,” said Chas, giving the bar a quick glance to see if anyone was raising their glass.

“Avabrondans are insane,” muttered Shar, draining the last of his beer.

“Nah, just enthusiastic. THE Avabrondan was insane, and he inspired a lot of his countrymen.”

The Avabrondan was well-known as the man who went running into nearly every forbidding ruin, tower, dungeon, abandoned mine or monster lair he could find and somehow came out of every one of them a little wealthier and a little wiser, and not horribly wounded or just plain dead. His career as an adventurer was considered a mingling of incredible luck and (grudgingly admitted) incredible skill. He disappeared not long ago, assumed to have finally run out of luck, but some believed that he finally retired. No one ever seemed to recall his actual name, so he was just named for his home nation.

“Pour me another.”

Chas did. “You'll like this; it's a dwarf-make stout. Tirga's family brews it, so I get it for a good price. Not fond of Avabrondans?”

Shar looked blandly at Chas. “It's not really something I understand. People call us 'adventurers', and that sounds daring and glamorous, but the truth of it all...” He paused, sipping at his new drink. “...say, this is pretty good.... um, the truth of it all is sleeping in cold, damp places, wading through slimy water, jumping at shadows because you've been ambushed a few too many times, and so much pain. It's dirty, terrible work, and all Gods forbid you are doing something like chasing down a corpse-eating necromancer or killing off the local evil cult. Oh yes, fine, wonderful, everybody applauds and you get some rewards, but for the rest of your life you end up wondering whether someone's going to creep up and stab you for revenge. Even enemies have friends. All the Avabrondan proved was that obsession can apparently keep you alive even when you are constantly throwing yourself at death.”

“All good points,” rumbled Chas, folding his arms again. “So why do you do it?”

Taking another long drink, Shar sat back a bit and was still pulling an answer together in his dark eyes when a brooding man approached and sat down next to him.

“Two fingers of the Imblad cognac,” said the brooding man, and Chas pulled a small black glass bottle from the back shelf, pouring into a small glass.

“...wait, don't tell me. Slayer's Brotherhood, second class? Weren't you haring off to Yhelm to get hired by Lady Angharad?”

The man waited until he had his drink, then sampled the scent of the cognac in a cultured way utterly incongruous with his battlefield-brusque exterior. “Yeah. Never there when I come by. I end up talking to some hawk-faced fellow named Sharif, tells me I'll 'get a letter' if she's interested in hiring.”

He had a sip of the cognac and smiled a little. “What's news?”

Shar peered at the man. “Slayer's Brotherhood... how long have you been doing that?”

“Hmm, four years in. Woodsman work before that, usual background. Part time brigand, street sellsword, that kind of thing. Looking for a hire?”

“No, no. We were just discussing why people get into 'adventuring', and far as I can tell, you Brotherhood fellows are paid to die.”

“Paid to kill,” corrected the brooding man blandly, and Chas chuckled as the brooding man continued. “Survive jobs, get promoted. I do it because the perks of membership are great, and because this is what I'm good at.”

“Like the Avabrondan, I suppose,” thought Shar aloud.

“Maniac,” stated the brooding man, sipping cognac. “No, not so much. I don't take risks, I just get rid of them. Pay is good. Feels a lot better than making boots for a living; you get to appreciate life more. You have more reason to.”

“Ah,” said Chas. “Now, that's a good explanation for the Avabrondan and why he did what he did.”

Shar did more thinking and drinking, and then nodded. “All right, I admit, I keep coming back to it because it's just so... fun, after the fact. My hands shake, I can't sleep some nights at all, and I'll be piked if I can keep a decent romantic relationship going. But I keep taking jobs.”

The brooding man grinned, but said nothing.

“That gets better if you retire,” laughed Chas, and then glanced over to the Avabrondans. One of them was standing on a chair, one-legged, while chugging his drink. The others were applauding and cheering him on. “...and they certainly have a good time of it without retirement.”

“We'll see how they are in a week, when the Tower's chewed half of them up,” muttered Shar.

“Feeling bad about your vocation?” The brooding man glanced at Shar. “I'm always up for a Tower run, just say the word. Best way in the world to stop worrying about everything else.”

Shar looked at the fellow with humor and horror. “And you call the Avabrondan insane.”

The brooding man just shrugged. “Nah, just looking for work while I wait for my letter.”

Meanwhile: In the Droog Mire

Two men and one woman sat comfortably in a small, comfortable and dry shelter resting on an lurching hill of dry land coming up from the deep, muddy arms of the Droog Mire. Around them, the swamp was a chorus of insects, frogs, reptiles and other animals all whirring, creaking buzzing rumbling whispering and howling. To their experienced ears, it was a tapestry of languages conveying matters of instinctive importance, but ultimately to them it all meant things were well in the swamp. Nothing was amiss.

The woman was swarthy in complexion with sharp, jade-colored eyes, dark blond hair cut short and a tidy, compact but rounded body testifying to a love of food which kept overwhelming her extensive exercise. She bore some resemblance to her obviously Cerian counterpart, an older man with gray in his black hair and keen brown eyes. His weathered skin marked him as a farmer, but the quality of his clothing hinted at his importance. The third in the group was a small, intensely wiry man with stereotypically Cerian black hair and dusky skin, but his eyes had a hint of almond shape to them and his features were far sharper. His hair was very straight and long, tied into a knot, and his eyes were nearly black.

“It's a blessing to have you with us, Fon,” said Owen, the older man, puffing lightly on an ivory pipe. “I know it's been a lot of work, trying to catch up with everything that's changed.”

The smaller man smiled a bit, looking out at the swamp. Fon seemed able to crouch comfortably in a way the other two couldn't manage for long periods of time. “Even this is different, though not much. There are sounds missing, some sounds new. But the frogs sing the same way.”

“Much was lost to us over the years,” said the woman. “So, we have a lot to learn from you as well.” She paused when one of her hunting pack emerged from the water, crept up the shore and bumped her hand with its gnarled snout. She patted the toothy face fondly.

Fon Apdoroc nodded a little. He was a Voltigeur, a sacred messenger of the enigmatic swamp-god Coboc, and like Coboc's sacred frogs, he was a traveler between two different worlds, leaping through the barrier between to transgress laws of time and space rather than air and water. He had been used to the small gaps between now and now that sometimes resulted from a jump, but his last jump had been of great significance, and it had landed him a thousand years away from the world he knew. In his day, there were no Cerians, and Coboc was called on by many. Now, one branch of his descendants had covered the entire region as the Cerian race, and Coboc was barely even known. Owen was a lay follower, but a man of influence and connections, and the woman, Woana, was the current Bal Tocseh of the Coboclo that remained. She bred the sacred animals and led hunts. They had been his teachers since his leap had been completed.

“It is impossible to grasp it all,” said Fon. “All that has changed. It is all so different that I must simply start anew. I am still Fon Apdoroc and a Voltigeur, but my people are all gone. You are my people now.”

The other two said nothing, likewise being unable to comprehend the age Fon came from, able to witness the yawning chasm of time and thereby sympathizing. But Fon glanced over at them with his bright, wise eyes and smiled. “It is long past the time I began to work again for Coboc. But tell me what I asked of you?”

Woana swatted her pet playfully, sending it hopping back into the water with its clutch mates, and nodded a little. “The tales we collected for you all hold,” she said. “The ones who caught you at the end of your leap, the ones you gave the oracle stones to, they've all done great things and have powerful influence in the city of Yhelm. They have done much to preserve humanity, but it is also true that they are great friends and allies of cyroi, elf and dwarf, and Owen has learned that they do business with the kobolds... well, the city priest does, at least.”

Fon nodded a little, watching a mosquito light on his hand. He whispered quietly to it, and the Handmaiden floated off to seek someone else not devoted to Coboc's service. In his day, the cyroi were alien manipulators. The kobolds were marauding bandits, and it had astonished him that the race was now a mercantile empire. In his day, the dwarves stayed deep beneath the earth, uncaring of humanity, and the elves were the enemy. They would come to hunt humans, killing without mercy because they'd believed humanity responsible for the success and horror of the Shepherds. Fon and his people had fought vigorously to save humanity from the elf pogroms, and to pay the elves back for the misery they'd caused. The Shepherds had been elves, after all.

“Fon,” said Owen quietly. “We did have a question, though. Why did you give them the stones? Those stones would have been so valuable to us.”

“I am a holy messenger,” said Fon, looking back at his friends again. “Where I land after a jump, those who are there must receive the message. The message was in the stones, or the act of giving the stones, or the act of the leap, or any other thing that came of my finished jump. I do not know which, but it doesn't matter if I do. They were there, so I gave them the stones, and they will do Coboc's will whether they know it or not. Even if they are friends to the enemy, I must give what is sacred to them if I am bid to do so. Perhaps one day they will understand and join us. I hope that they will. Their hearts are good, but they don't see the danger in the friends they've chosen.”

“Yes, but...” Owen paused as a small bird lighted on Woana's knee. She listened to it twitter and chirp for a bit, and then nodded, stroking its tiny head with her thumb. As the bird flew away again, she looked at them.

“The priests are calling a meeting. They've received word from Yhelm; the elves want to build an ancestral shrine on Bangir's Hill, just west of the city, and are applying to the Cerian parliament.”

Owen sighed and got up wearily. “We should get to the boat, then. Seems such a small thing, but...”

Squinting a little, Fon otherwise didn't move. “What is Bangir's Hill?”

“Oh, it's a landmark outside of Yhelm,” replied Owen. “A flat-topped hill, flanked by three jags of rock. There are farms all around it. Bangir was a mercenary who saved a lot of the farmers during the Ogre War by collecting them on top there and defending the place until reinforcements arrived.”

Fon's eyes smoldered. “Two great hands of rock on the south, and one to the north? A half a day's ride to the north shore?”

Owen blinked. “Yes, that's it.”

“Take me to Yhelm. I will speak out against this. There is something that has been forgotten about that place.”

Meanwhile: The Doll Maker

What is more potent than a Word is what is unsaid. True secrets rest in silence and blindness, not in the crude matter of word and writing. This was the root of Anthargha's obsession with the void, the yearning in her to reach into the Darkness untouched by light and discover what in her it was. Sitting beneath the vast crystal lens of her observatory, she studied the spaces between stars, looking for those unseen vortices where emptiness sucked in everything around it. As constellations were the ley lines of the sky, she reasoned, then the wells of utter nothing between were another network that influenced the world.

Her origins as Angtaru made others believe her to be cruel, cold and without regard entirely for others, but in truth it was her empathy that eventually drove her away from her home city of Yngoska. It was unusual in her people, who were taught from birth that non-Angtaru were only animals, no better than sheep or cows. She was quite conscious that her work often caused fear and pain in others, and sometimes it bothered her. Neither malicious or hateful, she did not have her people's ironclad disregard for other races. but she was driven beyond compassion by her need to reach out, to understand, to immerse herself in the Between. The suffering it caused became incidental, and the irony was not lost on Anthargha, who realized that her heedless machine rush towards enlightenment was originally spurred by emotion.

When she was only a girl, wide-eyed and careful in her studies, her crèche leaders had taken her to the House of the Doll. It was customary at that age to view the most significant monument in Yngoska; it would be the first time a young Angtaru girl would see her culture acknowledge a thing of importance outside of her own people. In ancient days, the doll-titan Calacbrool had stopped at Yngoska, and the histories tell how it taught Anthargha's predecessors the Cult of Self-Transcendence, taught them the power of science and the weaknesses of the flesh. Then it departed again, and her people eventually created the House of the Doll to commemorate their first and most terrible teacher.

The image of Calacbrool was fifty feet tall, a magnificent and foreboding thing made of polished, gleaming struts of metal, pistons, gears, wheels, and cables. It seemed to hang from nothing, suspended by marionette-like black metal strings as thick as a man's leg, and its face, lolling on the pivot of its metal neck, was covered over by a vast pale mask. The whole of it shifted, twitched and writhed under the demands of its own gears and wheels, and as she'd watched it in wonder, the wide eye holes of its pale mask had aimed themselves down at her, and she'd seen the eyes themselves roll out of the darkness, fixing her for a moment with flat, cold and empty black mirrors.

Anthargha remembered feeling as if her heart was caught between the effigy's tremendous steel fingers. She'd known, rationally, that the idol was just a machine, a facsimile without any driving force but the mechanism that moved it, but she could not escape the feeling that the staring eyes had seen her somehow. Desire was still a new and strange thing beyond the plain satisfaction of ownership, and the Angtaru do not have a word for 'love' in their language. But she would find herself wondering how the expressionless mask would feel under her hands, find herself strangely aching at the geometry of the effigy, find herself hoping, wishing for a single word from it.

There were no dreams for Anthargha. The stone and metal arches of her bedchamber were marked with long, sinuous sigils that bound up the room in silence, and the door would seal when shut, isolating her slumber from the tatters of dreams that floated in the metaphysical air. When she slept, it was a taste of oblivion; black, empty, stillness. But her last thought before she fell into slumber was always the same thing. Whenever she fell asleep, ever after, she would always remember the moment of standing before Calacbrool, caught under the weight of a lifeless gaze and pining for the impossible empty silence there.

Meanwhile...

(Happy holidays to everyone! This, and the next few posts, are fragments written to describe events occurring elsewhere in my campaign world while the adventuring party is off ... adventuring.)



When they brought the man to Taig Banath, he had shed much of his fear, but he was still wary. The goblins around him shoved him along with the crosspieces of their man-catching poles, chattering and grinning at each other. He was a tall, lean man with the kind of sympathetic but coolly intelligent eyes that could easily draw people in. She gaged him to be creeping into middle age, and had no doubt a lively time of it. The goblins had disarmed him, of course, and the signs of struggle were still there. His legs were heavily bruised and moved stiffly, and she could both see and smell the blood spots on his tunic. Judging from the rips, the goblins had torn away his armor.

She nodded at the goblins, who jammed the man towards an empty chair near the side of Taig's fire circle. The fire was mostly coals at the moment, putting off a steady aura of thick heat that kept the abrupt chill of the wasteland night away. Nearby, the hobgoblins were going through their nightly ritual of checking their gear, crafting and repairing and trading riddles. Some of them looked up when the man was driven to sit down, and there was some bleak amusement. The man glanced around, searching, and then settled his eyes on Taig. She knew what he was trying to resolve; her snub nose was set too forward on her face, her eyes were too large, too almond-shaped and caught the fire with shimmering green light. He studied the horn-like peaks of her ears, protruding from under her glossy, sleek black hair and she saw the familiar mix of revulsion and intrigue as he took in her awkwardly beautiful face.

“Yes. My father was human,” she said after a moment, and let an edge of disdain show in the word. “My mother was a goblin.”

To his credit, he did not show any surprise. He also didn't say anything. Taig nodded a little. “Your people have been split up. None of them have been harmed... well, any more than what they got coming in. One of the scouts tells me that you are a musician.”

She paused for a reply, but the man simply kept watching and waiting.

Wary one, and sharp, she thought as she signaled. Two of the hobgoblins stalked over, the fire gleaming over the silk brocade of their robes, and stood on either side of the man. He got the message.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment.

Offers nothing, thought Taig. “I have a bargain for you. I'm a musician as well. What sorts of music do you play?”

“Ballads, epics, histories of heroes,” said the man after another pause. There was a rakish glint in his eyes, and Taig recognized that as well. This one isn't going to pass up on a chance to show his skill.

“Do you sing? What do you play?”

“Lute,” the man replied. “It's with my packs.”

She nodded to one of the goblins, who trundled swiftly away to fetch the man's instrument.
“I'm going to offer you freedom,” Taig said. “You and your companions will go free if you try and match my skill at music. I'll wager your instrument against mine. Whatever the case, you and your companions get to leave, and we won't pursue you if you stay out of the area. What do you say?”

“Match my music against yours? Gladly, though I hope you are not fond of your instrument. But why let us go?”

Taig turned slightly, letting her apprentice Baragi set the intimidating red-lacquered bulk of her drum near her. She waited until he carefully rested the playing rods on the drum's stand, dangling their red tassels, and then looked back at the man. “Do we have an agreement? Your instrument against mine own. My talent for yours. If you win, you get both. If I win, I get both. Do you understand?”

His eyes widened a little, but she knew already that his pride wasn't going to let him walk away, even though he knew the consequences of this competition. Goblins were fey, yes, and bargaining with them was dangerous, yes, but his pride overwhelmed his caution.

“I do, and I accept,” he said, and then there was loud crackle and sputter as the fire blazed blue for a moment, and several shooting stars left greenish trails overhead before meeting oblivion. She watched him flex his fingers, and then carefully checking over and tuning his lute when it arrived. He nodded a little, in his element again, uncaring of the camp of goblinkin all around him and afire with the risk of the competition.

“Would you like to begin, or shall I?” she asked, standing.

“I will start,” he said, and at her nod immediately flew into a soaring triumphant lyric poem of unlikely heroes accomplishing the impossible through wit, strength, trickery and faith. Fingers moving with deceptive grace, he coaxed the lute to match such daunting lyrics, and his voice was sweet, clear and empty of anything but the genuine emotion he kept on slow-burn in his heart. It was a powerful, passionate song, and nearby goblins kept time to it as he played. A pair of goblin whelps even mimed out some of the deeds he mentioned in the singing. Of course there was romance and tragedy alike in the tale, but in the end, those great names wrote themselves into history and song as usual, immortalized as visions beyond what they really were.

Finally, he damped the strings, more confident now especially after the scattered applause from the goblins, and graciously nodded at Taig. She took a short breath through her nose, picked up the rods, shut her eyes and then hit the drum like a roll of thunder.

She opened up the sky with the deep voice of the drum. She coaxed it into a monstrous heartbeat, the surging wave of the earth's blood, if the earth felt enough to bleed. When she let her voice go, it was in pangs, and it ripped at the echoes of the man's poem. She mourned the death of beauty, murdered by humanity. She seethed against humanity's spread, and broke history open to show that the true heroes have been buried by the glory-seekers who followed them, who only lived and rose and became because someone else sacrificed all they were to make the world safe. She brought her voice down like lightning, shattering the world with the indignity and horror of the human plague, and then smote the song to silence.

The fire hissed and spat, and Taig looked over at the man. There was a sudden discordance as his lute strings snapped in a flurry of dusk-colored sparks. His wide eyes suddenly filled with horror, and he tried to sing, but a terrible flat note emerged and he stopped instantly.

Taig nodded at the two hobgoblins, who took hold of the man and led him away. He kept looking back at her, stunned by a nightmare. The night swallowed him up.

“Baragi,” she said to her hobgoblin apprentice. “See that he and his companions are set free. Have scouts trail them, make sure they leave as he agreed.”

“As you will.”

“Also... once they leave, have the scouts pepper a couple of them with poisoned arrows. But not him. He lives, no matter what.”

“...as you will.” Baragi crept away with a toothy smile, and Taig sat back down, looking over at the fire.

Sing the songs of your people now, she thought. I've ruined you, wrecked your talent and won your skill entirely. It's a fit revenge against a vainglorious boaster of humanity's pompous deeds; you've stolen from my lieges again and again, over and over. You've claimed credit for the salvation they wrought and wrecked all the beauty they'd created and for what? For the pride and arrogance of dangerous vermin. One day, one day you and yours will find yourselves exactly where you deserve, and I shall be there to sing of it for years afterwards. But you? Your voices will be silent.