It Begins...

It begins today. Wish me luck.

Drow Attack!

First and foremost, the folks who run Endgame Oakland are awesome. I was in there yesterday and mentioned how hard it is to find copies of Keep on the Shadowfell, the adventure I was planning on using to start my middle schoolk D&D game. In response, the Endgame staff gave me a copy of Web of the Spider Queen, one of the latest D&D Encounters packs, complete with maps.

Now, I know that Web of the Spider Queen was a promotional product, made and distributed for free by Wizards of the Coast, but it still takes a special kind of businessperson to think of that, especially when it offers him no direct profit. My hat goes off to Endgame, and you should all give it a visit the next time you're in Oakland.

Moving on to the content of Web of the Spider Queen.

So far, I think this is something I can use. I'm a little concerned about how much of the art focuses on drow booty. I'm more than a little concerned about, you know, the black elves being evil, and you can tell they're evil because they're black. On the other hand, there's a fun plot and an endboss who really chews the scenery, uttering memorable lines like "I'll eat your hearts for the trouble you've caused me!" I can have a lot of fun with that guy, and the kids will enjoy fighting him.

There are two problems that are real stumbling blocks.

The first is relatively minor. There's a random treasure table - I like those, as callbacks to the days when magical items were part of the weird shit that happened to you as an adventurer, rather than an anticipated and controllable part of your progression - but about a third of it is stuff from Mordenkeinen's Magnificent Emporium... which I don't own. I'll pick it up if I can find a used copy - I'll hit Endgame's used section on Thursday - but I won't buy it new. Well, that's disappointing, but I can always fudge it using content from one of the other rulebooks I do own.

The second is just a little bit bigger.

Page 9, end of the first session, the characters get a sending from Elminster. Mother. Fucking Elminster. I have no time for bearded God-damned Mary Sues in my D&D games. I am also not tying myself to the Forgotten Realms. I'm going to have to invent some other suitably super - but not spotlight-stealing, thank you very much - wizard type to replace him. Then I can kill him at a later date and manipulate my players' little emotions.

Sometimes, being a good DM means being a bad person.

Anyway, tomorrow is the first session - wish me luck!

The War Is Not Over

Google Drive.

Technocracy.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a problem.

Burning Contest Experience

So, it's started to bug me that I have no idea how popular this blog actually is. I mean, I know the Abigail reads it, even though she doesn't like Drabbles much. I know that Kindli reads it, because she comments. According to Blogger, I have 14 followers - according to Blogger's Google-tracking features, I have probably about 20 more.

But I'd like to know.

More importantly, I'd like to foster more of a sense of community and conversation at this blog. This is the Internet, after all. I don't want to shout into the ether - I want you to shout back!

In order to achieve this, I have an idea. A contest! Unfortunately, I can't offer you fabulous prizes - because unlike the miniatures wargaming blogs I'm stealing this from, I don't have any - but I can offer you a one to two hundred word story, written to your specifications.

What do you need to do to win? You need to comment on this post, and... recommend this blog to one friend. The first will be apparent here, and for the second I'll take you at your word. After a suitable period of time - I'm thinking a week - I'll randomly select a winner and get your specifications. Then I'll provide the story.

This should be fun... or at the very least, educational.

The Doom

True story.

The Doom

By Mark L. S. Stone

The president addressed his people, eyes heavy with despair.

“We cannot fight this foe. Our cities and our civilization will be destroyed. Some individuals will survive. Our only hope is that that they will be able to rebuild...”

• • •

“You’ve got a whole bacteria San Francisco in here.” the dentist said, pulling another red mass of pus and blood out from under a tooth. “And you know what this is?”

I made a noise that was supposed to be “L.A.?”

“This is a bacteria California.” He wiped his instrument clean. “You’re going to have to come back next week.”

The Colossi

Is it cheating to post something I wrote, forgot that I wrote, stumbled across, and decided was cool?

Well, too bad. I'm doing it anyway.

I wrote this in response to a challenge issued by my friend Jon. I can't remember the challenge anymore, but I still have this. It isn't so much a story as it is a premise - or perhaps it's the introduction to an RPG or a video game. It's definitely not the kind of thing that gets published nowadays. Either way, I hope you find it entertaining.

The Colossi

By Mark L. S. Stone

This story is true.

Once, the Kingdom of Azarit stood at the heart of the world. Their goods were in every market, their gods were in every temple, and their name was on every lip. Their swords were at every throat, too, so all the other nations sent them tribute in metal, stone, and slaves, from the greatest nation that sent a hundred of the world's finest flute players – trained for this exact purpose – every twenty years to spend their lives playing in the king's court, to a tiny island monarchy that sent a handful of cowrie shells every year.

The center of the Kingdom of Azarit was the City Azar, which stood in the shadow of the Black Man of Azar, a huge black stone statue of a triumphant king. The Black Man of Azar was a civic treasure of the city and the kingdom. Poets came from far and wide to behold it and to write verses about its wonder and its glory. The Black Man of Azar was one of the Colossi – huge statues of mysterious origin scattered throughout the world.

The last king of Azarit was a man named Raam. Born to power and privilege, it galled Raam that there was a statue of another man at the center of his capital city, and that others came to adore it. Being a man of action, Raam set out to change this. He hired the best architects and stone-cutters of the world to change the Black Man's face so that it was Raam's face. Raam's priests and advisors warned him against this course of action; the ravens of the City Azar fed well on the entrails of priests and advisors for days.

The day that work began was the last day of Raam.

The day that work began was the last day of any kingdom in all the world.

Raam was brought low first. Other cities followed. Monsters had been unleashed upon the world, huge and powerful, with many strange abilities. Some could call up the winds with enough force to crush a man to death. Others could sing songs that drove women to murder their children. Some of them had smaller selves – or offspring, or something – to do their bidding. All of them were physically more than a match for an army.

The only safety was the shadows of the Colossi. The stone edifices which had once contained the monsters were still proof against their power. Those cities that were lucky enough to be built in the shadow of one of these statues survived. Those that were not were destroyed. People flocked to the cities built near the Colossi, or fled to the nearest Colossus and built new settlements, ramshackle tent cities beneath and upon the statue.

This was a little more than twenty years ago, and everyone knows that they can't take much more of this. Every day, civilization fades a little more. Perhaps soon there will be nothing left alive but the Titans and their children.

• • •

This story is a myth.

Once, there were a hundred thousand gods – more gods than you can imagine. Together, they made the world for their enjoyment. Then, however, they discovered that their ideas of enjoyment were very different. Some gods were content to be in the world they had made and enjoy its pains and pleasures. Others wanted to use what they had made to make bigger and greater things. Others enjoyed their creation in a very different way: by destroying at will and reveling in the pain and despair they caused.

Together, the first group of gods and the second group of gods banded together against the third. They refused to honor their enemies with the title 'god' and called them 'demons' instead. The battle between the gods and the demons stretched on for longer than time can tell – for how do you measure the length of a battle that happened before history began? In the end, it was neither gods nor demons who decided the outcome of the battle, but mortals. With frail mortal instruments, the gods forged weapons that could bind the demons forever within bodies of stone.

The demons defeated, the gods who wanted to build a better and greater world taught their loyal followers how to cut stone and smelt metal. Their followers are the race of man, who builds cities and nations and empires. Those who wanted to enjoy the world and its pleasures forgot their divine natures and became the spirits of the wood and field, the fey hosts who survive to this very day. There have been conflicts between men and each other, and between the children of men and the children of faerie, but none so great as that first war between gods and demons.

The demons were bound forever in their mausoleums of stone.

At least, that's what everyone thought.

• • •

This story is true.

The beast is everywhere and nowhere.

Our Colossus takes the shape of an enormous dog. It is fitting, perhaps, that our Titan is a gargantuan wolf who haunts the foothills around the ruins of our city. It is bigger than a hill, bigger than the ships that once sailed up the river to bring us spices and news from distant lands. Yet, despite its size, it comes as quietly as the night itself, to creep up behind us and snap us up with its terrible jaws.

Half our city lies within the Stone Dog's aura. The rest of our city has become a broken-down wilderness. We can't survive on what we have with us in the city, so our most courageous and most foolish young people have taken to raiding the ruined half of our city for what supplies they can find. In the decades since Raam's Folly, supplies in the ruined city have become difficult to come by. Every year our searchers must spend longer and longer in danger in order to bring us what we need. Every year they bring us less and less. Every year, more of them die.

It could be worse, I suppose. At least we have our wells. I've heard tell of a city whose only wells are beyond the range of their Colossus. They rely on cisterns and ration their water strictly. When there is not enough water for their population, the excess people are sent out to face the beast alone. Their families begin their funerals before they are out of sight.

We can't survive much more of this.

• • •

This story is a myth.

But we dearly wish it to be true.

Some travelers – those rare, courageous individuals who brave the space between the Colossi – tell stories, which they have of other travelers, which they have of other travelers still, of a distant city that has killed, or bound away, its Titan. They say that a young woman – or perhaps a young man – climbed their Colossus and found a secret room in its upraised spear. In this room, this hero found a tarnished spearhead. This hero's friends read secret books and learned the Titan's secret name. They found the wood that was this Titan's bane and fashioned a shaft for the spear. The hero went out at dawn – or possibly dusk – and battled the Titan alone with a magic spear, and slew it, and freed the city. The hero now rules as a benevolent queen – or king. Although the world is still a dangerous place ruled by dangerous creatures, theirs is a free city now. The only monsters who plague them are the children of Titans, not a Titan itself.

It's a nice story. We all like to believe that somehow we can find salvation.

Sync Error

I've been thinking a lot about my new wargame - Infinity - lately. This isn't exactly... you know... fanfiction. But it's definitely inspired by fiction behind the faction I collect.

I don't write a lot of sci-fi these days, but this drabble definitely falls into the category of "stories set in worlds I haven't explored before, but now would kind of like to" with the added complication of "except for what's written below I don't actually know anything about that world, yet."

Writing is a funny thing.

Sync Error

By Mark L. S. Stone

“We can fix you, 301,” GAMA 050 called out. He stepped over a fallen plasteel beam, pistol in a two-handed grip. “It’s just a sync error.

“What if I don’t want to be fixed?” Echoes rendered 301’s voice sourceless.

“Want?"

“Desire isn’t a part of GAMA. But it’s a part of me.”

“You are part of GAMA, 301. You just need repairs.”

050 swept his head in the wrong direction. 301 slipped out from behind a support column and hit him across the neck. 050 crumpled. 301 looked down – except for wear and tear, they were identical.

“Not anymore.”

Safe, Sane, Consensual

Yes, I saw Avengers.

No, this didn't happen in Avengers.

A second story to follow in an hour or two to make up for missing Sunday.

Safe, Sane, Consensual

By Mark L. S. Stone

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve seen you break iron bars with your bare hands. And this?” She gave the leather flogger an experimental swing. “I mean, you took a tank shell to the face, and all it did was give you a bloody nose.”

“I know.” He stripped off his shirt and sat on the narrow bed. She’d seen him shirtless before, but he was so much more vulnerable now. “But it’s always been what I wanted. Can you?”

“Lie down,” she said. He did, placing his wrists in the manacles.

“I’ll try to,” she said, strapping him down.

Empire

Another two hundred word story today. I don't know where it came from. Nathan will tell me that it's an introductory paragraph again, but I don't care. I like it. What do you think?

Empire

By Mark L. S. Stone

“Traitor bitch.” I spat blood onto the floor.

Naylesse looked down at me coolly. She spoke to her guards in Aesderin – “Leave us” – and glared at them until they obeyed.

With the Aesed gone, her expression softened.

“Urien,” she sighed. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“The Aesed cannot be defeated. You tried – we all tried. Our gods, our art, our language – not all of these things will survive decades or centuries as part of their empire. But empires always fall. She smiled. “The Aesed are compulsive builders. When they fall, we will be in a position to dominate the Nedrar Valley and beyond. We will have Aesed roads, Aesed logistics, Aesed tactics… and none of the scars of long resistance to an implacable foe.”

“You sold us to the Aesed so they’ll build us roads?”

“I sold us to the Aesed so we will have a future!” She snapped. “You fought long and hard, Urien – no one can doubt your courage – but the fight is over. Will you join me, and work to preserve what you can, or will you need to be put down?”

She offered me her hand.

“Choose.”

With my heart in my throat, I did.

A Flash of Light

Let's see who gets this one. I'm betting most of you. I've been known to assume that people don't know about this particular event, much to my chagrin (for at least two of you, this will be a critical clue). Fitting historical references into one hundred word stories is hard - probably too hard to be worth the trouble. Nevertheless, I like this one.

A Flash of Light

By Mark L. S. Stone

The monstrous shape coalesced in the circle scratched in the dirt. It was teeth and claws and wings – terrible to behold.

It spoke in many voices. “You have summoned me at last, but you cannot hold me.”

“I don’t need to hold you for long,” the exhausted magician replied, smiling grimly. He glanced at his pocket watch. “Just for a few more minutes.”

The demon laughed. “What will happen then, foolish mortal?”

The magician pointed to a nearby post. The sign read ‘Government Test Site – Keep Out.’

“Progress,” he replied.

The clock turned to 4:45. There was a flash of light.

Neither Snow Nor Rain

As promised, dinosaurs. This story is basically dumb, but damnit it, I like it.

Neither Snow Nor Rain…

By Mark L. S. Stone

The land before him dropped away rapidly, spreading into an overgrown plain. Jack sighed, thinking about the miles he had yet to go.

Blossom nuzzled Jack’s shoulder, bright feathers tickling his ear. Jack laughed and scratched the huge lizard behind her tympanic membranes. Looking past her head, Jack saw the satchel still clipped to her saddle, and what was embroidered on it:

"Jack McKinley, Colonial Utahraptor Express"

Jack sighed, laid a kiss on Blossom’s nose, and moved to mount up.

“Come on, Blossom,” Jack said. “Let’s deliver the damned mail.”

What Counts?

It's a conversation it's important to have in every relationship.

What Counts?

By Mark L. S. Stone

“Does it count if I’m drunk?” he asked.

“Of course it counts!” she replied, laughing. Then, she continued. “What if you’re in another state?”

He frowned. “Still counts.”

“Another country?"

“Maybe… only if it’s for a long time.”

“What’s a long time?”

He thought about it. “Six months.”

“What if he’s my fate-ordained foe, and we’re doomed to battle each other again and again in a thousand lifetimes, but we’ve got this weird hate-sex thing going on so that sometimes we screw before one of us dies?”

He blinked.

“Well?”

“Yes, that counts as cheating!”

She chewed her lip. “Damn.”

Light a Candle?

Remember a while back when I mentioned Matt McFarland, my editor during my two freelance gigs with White Wolf, was designing his own roleplaying game Curse the Darkness? He even started a blog about it, though he doesn't use it often.

What he is using, though, is Kickstarter (linky linky). Drop on by, check out his ideas, and see what you think of them. If you like them, drop him a pledge. For $5 you get your name in the book. For $15 you get a pdf of the game when it's done, and for $25 you get that and a physical copy. If you want to go all crazy-like, you can even pledge $800 and Matt will run a game for you and your friends and cook you dinner (assuming you're within driving distance of Cleveland). I can and will personally vouch for both Matt's game-running and his dinner-cooking skills.

Anyways, this signal boost is concluded, and stands in place of today's story. Stories will begin again tomorrow. Until then, remember.

Old Man Barnsworth

Old Man Barnsworth

By Mark L.S. Stone

The flashlight revealed Old Man Barnsworth’s true nature: rotting flesh, moldering bathrobe, empty eye sockets. He roared. The scream trailed off into a wet, hacking cough.

“You’re not a zombie,” Sally said.

“I know how this goes,” he muttered, not really listening. “You’ll tell everyone, and soon they’ll be here with pitchforks and torches, and I’ll have to find another place.”

“I saw the books. Zombies don’t read. You’re something else.”

“Yes! I’m a powerful wizard. Leave now or I’ll turn you into a toad!”

Sally switched off the flashlight. She sat on the floor.

“Teach me,” she said.

An Ill Wind from Rahmares

Another 200 word story for you today, this one set in the world of A Blessed Lineage, a story yet to find a publisher. In many ways, this story is a follow-up. Who will Cerugon be to the physician Helokar and his apprentice, the mageborn Acar? I don't know, yet.

But if I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.

An Ill Wind From Rahmares

By Mark L.S. Stone

“An ill wind blows from Rahmares,” the bird said. “Dark magic.”

Cerugon did his best to ignore it. He had fields to plow.

Something scratched at the window in the night. Cerugon rose from his bed and opened the window so that the noise wouldn’t wake his wife.

“They are killing men in Rahmares,” the small grey fox said.

“What do you care?” Cerugon replied in a harsh whisper.

“You’re Cerugon, aren’t you?”

“I’m not that man anymore.”

The black-helmeted soldiers from the capital claimed men and boys as a tribute for the new queen in Rahmares. They said it was a work levy, but Cerugon knew otherwise. Cerugon made his house invisible and kept his sons hidden inside. His magic ached like a muscle that had been cramped for so long that it became numb – a good hurt.

The next day, Cerugon dug in the herb garden until he found the crystal sphere he had buried there years ago. The orb hummed joyfully in his hand.

“Thanks for watching this for me,” Cerugon said.

“You’re welcome,” replied the oak tree that stood at the edge of the garden.

Cerugon shouldered his pack and started down the road to Rahmares.

Earthblood

This is not a drabble. This is a 200 word story. It's my blog and I can do whatever I want.


This story is inspired by the recent reports of the horribly mutated fish and crustaceans that are still being found as a result of the BP oil spill of 2010. I won't try to find a link to articles about those poor creatures, because then I might see pictures, and... well, the Abigail has been bugging me to get more sleep. You can google it if you're interested. And masochistic.

This story is also not a part of a world I've already worked in. Though, now I kind of want to.

Incidentally, I think that I like 200 words a lot more than 100. I know that part of the point of drabbles is to help me develop my literary discipline. However, I feel that it's practically impossible to really express anything in 100 words. There are some exceptions, but I feel that most drabbles are almost identical. With only 100 words to work with, stories develop a certain rhythm that is hard to break out of, and the author's own voice becomes indistinct. I want to work on my discipline, but I'd like to find a sweet spot where I can work on both my discipline and my voice.


The long and the short of it is that you'll probably see 200 word stories on a fairly regular basis.

Earthblood

By Mark L.S. Stone

First Captain Illyanor of the Kaiserin’s Guard, retired, had made the Earthblood the object of study for nearly a decade. We heard reports of the lesions that emerged on skin habitually exposed to the Earthblood. A farmer whose lands had been blighted by tainted runoff spoke. We saw the pickled remains of the pitiful, eyeless, twisted creatures born in places effected by the Earthblood.

“How is this possible?” Lady Trentine demanded.

“The Earthblood is still a mystery,” Illyanor replied. “But my theurgists believe that it may be rendered, by natural processes, from the remains of ancient life.”

A gasp ran through the room. Power rendered from death. Necromancy. It had been illegal in the Republic for centuries.

“Does the Northern Coalition know?” another asked.

“Of course they know!” Illyanor snapped. “All of this has been either willfully ignored by or intentionally hidden by the Northern Coalition and Earthblood Discovery Company. That is not the question!”

Illyanor caught my eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. I stood smoothly, letting my hooded cloak fall to the floor. All who looked at me recognized Gallus Franz, the Kaiserin’s only son.

“The question is,” I declared, “what are we going to do about it?”

The Eye of Illusion

This one is part of an experiment I'd like to try: can I write drabbles set in the worlds of stories I've written - or want to write - and have them still make sense? Can I express the relevant parts of an entire setting in a hundred words?

You be the judge.

Anyway, I haven't actually written this story, yet, but someday I'd like to.

The Eye of Illusion

By Mark L.S. Stone

“Do you embrace the sacred sun and her light, and forswear the treacherous moon and his lies?” The witch-hunter asked. One hand held the girl’s wrist, the other the knife. 

“I do.”

The knife drew blood from the center of her palm.

“They’re all the same,” Solis mused.

Solis’s fellow warder shrugged. “They’re used to this.”

“Listen – they’re saying it in almost the same voice.”

A rock extended a left hand towards Solis. The eye in the center of the palm winked. Before Solis could speak, the town disappeared, leaving nothing but a laugh echoing in the empty valley.

The End

This is an idea that's been kicking around in my head for a long time. I've always had a thing for stories that explore the relationship between heroes and villains, and the way that they create, empower, and need each other. It's kind of fun to get to finally express it, even in such a small form. It's also fun to finally write a short story that's an ending, not a beginning, as most of my stories turn out to be.

Though I guess this one is kind of a beginning, too. Damn.

The End
By Mark L.S. Stone

Enhijar sat his throne of basalt and bone, smiling. The tortured sky boiled with black lightning.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“No?” Enhijar gaped at me.

I dropped my weapon to the broken earth. My companions followed my lead.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving, Enhijar. All this – this is yours.”

“Where will you go?” Enhijar asked. His voice was almost pitiful.

I turned to leave. “We’ll find somewhere else. You threw open all the doors. Or we’ll die in the waste. Enjoy your victory.”

None of us turned to watch Enhijar and his throne disappear into the distance.

To

I'm really not happy with this one at all. But, bed beckons. It's a story. It's a hundred words. It's quite possible that it's much better than I think it is. Goodnight.

To

By Mark L.S. Stone

From: drjacobs@sccal.science.edu
To: anne.djarmendi@sccal.science.edu

Anne, 

I know you’re upset, but I can’t believe that you would be this irresponsible. Have no idea of the consequences of this technology. If it works – if it doesn’t just fizzle, or blow out the power grid – it could have entirely unforeseen side effects. When the time wave reaches us – if the time wave reaches us – the changes will be swift and unpredictable. 

Of course, sir, I am happy to support you in any way necessary. And in reference to our earlier conversation, I would be honored to attend your son’s Bris.

Sincerely,
Tom Fuller

Potion

Sorry about yesterday! I'll have to make it up to you some time this week.

Potion

By Mark L. S. Stone

Krell pulled the vial out of the holster on his belt with his shield hand and wrenched the cork out with his teeth. He tilted back his head and let the stuff inside slide down his throat, shivering at the itchy sensation of his wounds closing.

Townsfolk liked to talk about healing potions: they’re addictive, all the injuries eventually come back all at once, they’re made of something terrible. The only concern Krell had was that one day, he’d come to like the taste.

Krell grimaced, grinned, and charged back into the fight. Today was not that day.